Ascend the dumbwaiter.

Dumbwaiter it is. Talking to the girl and explaining why you want to go upstairs would be almost as incriminating as climbing up the dumbwaiter and explaining to anyone at the top anyway. At least with the dumbwaiter there may not be anyone to explain to. Mind made up, you walk back the way you came; following the corridor all the way back to the kitchen. The dumbwaiter and its vertical shaft sit in the wall as before and a quick inspection shows it to be in good working order. You gingerly climb inside the shaft, kneeling on the tray while using the wall to gradually ease your full weight onto the suspended platform. The old ropes and pulleys support you with ease, with little more than a light stretching sound as the rope above is pulled taught. You’re still weary though. It’s probably designed to carry heavier loads than your own merger weight, but old age can make a fool of everyone, especially delicate machines and women who don’t want to suddenly plummet down dumbwaiter shafts. You shuffle around and face the hole you climbed in though. Two ropes hang down, connected to the mechanism above, and you pull the left rope, hearing the clink of gears as you suddenly lower by about a hand span. Rolling your eyes, you pull the right rope instead and start to rise.

The gears clink smoothly as you pull the rope down, gently ascending with ease. If there is someone above then they definitely know that something’s coming, yet no questions sound and no face blocks the light above to look down. Feeling confident that you’re alone, both above and below, you pull yourself up through the dusty shaft with a little more speed. A sweet smell seems to hang in the air, warring with the dust your movement disturbs. You can almost taste the meals that passed through here in the houses heyday; sugary treats made for whatever spoiled sensibility that could afford a house such as this and abandon it on a whim. You ignore it, continuing to climb smoothly, pulling the rope one hand over the other. By the time the light of the room above hits your eyes you’re sweating slightly and more than eager to escape the cramped passage.

You look into a room lit by a single candle on a shelf ahead of you. It’s small, plain, and crowded with misshapen white sheets that cover furniture, waiting for the day they might see use again. The middle of the room looks ordered, a square pile of staked flat shapes, like tables or boxes, while the outer edge holds the less identifiable shapes. While there is only one candle, the walls are plastered white and reflect well, likely providing more light at this hour than if it had a window, which it does not. You haul the rope a bit more until the tray you rode up on is level with the hole, climbing out while favouring your legs first, slithering your light frame into the rooms light. Why is there light? It’s just a store room and you see no people. It’s the kind used by servants so they don’t have to be seen while they wait for their master’s foot to rise. The answer comes from behind you.

“My lucky day.”

You jump at the voice and its sudden closeness, spinning so fast it takes a moment to overcome your dizziness and look for its source. “Reckon it’s been years since something so tasty came up that hole.”

A man stands leaning against the outside of the dumbwaiter shaft, which juts out into the room far more than you thought, like a chimney breast. He must have been hiding around the corner!

He wears some brown and grey cloths that almost look like those of a servant, though far shabbier and stained in many places. Not a pirate uniform, but the red bandanna somehow gives it a criminal edge all the same. His eyes travel down your mostly exposed body, pausing on your breasts and midsection. You turn slightly as his eyes reach your hips, hiding where the tip of your knife sticks out the bottom of your very short shorts. He’s older than you by many years, with a short grey beard and creased features, yet something about him stops you from thinking him an old man. Maybe it’s the way he leans against the wall with the cocky arrogance of youth, or his sneering appreciative half smile as he looks at your exposed legs. Either way, the effect is that of a young man, aged by some kind of storybook spell, oozing confidence and arrogance in equal measure.

You lick your lips nervously.

“Er, I, er...I’m here for Benji. I, er, don’t suppose-”

“Benji’s already with a woman.” He cuts you off airily. “He don’t need you. Me however...” He takes a few lazy steps towards you, licking his lips hungrily. Each step he makes is matched by one of your own in the opposite direction. “You know, I get real lonely up here.”

Should you stab him?

“T-that’s not my problem,” you say, your bum bumping into a shrouded dresser of some kind, rattling it under its white dust sheet.

What if he screams or makes a noise?

He closes the distance, filling your vision and looming over you. “I know what your problem is...”

The door is right there, if you could just get away.

His sudden lean leaves his lips hitting yours. Your eyes go wide, and a half second later you feel his fingers slide up over your ribs and under your jacket top, grabbing a breast in each of his hands. Your cry muffled before you turn your head, breaking contact.

“No!”

You grab his wrists and try to pull. He starts to squeeze and kneed your chest like balls of dough, his mouth chasing yours around your turned face. You feel his tongue slide across your tightly pursed lips, seeking entrance. His half closed eyes stare into yours as his breath breaks on your face. His grip is immovable, his hands persistent as they squeeze and pull and probe, and you feel the sweat upon them, from them or from you and your tiring climb, you don’t know. It causes his palms to glide across your skin. Causes you feel all four of his fingers bump across your right nipple, strumming it’s tough central peak. His tongue beats against you, writhing against your top lip and sealed mouth before briefly withdrawing.

“Oh the things we’re gonna do, whore” His whisper is breathy and full of wretched promise. His right hand lets go and drops slowly, sliding back over your ribs on its way down.

Your left knee rises fast.

The impact on his groin isn’t as hard as you would have liked, but it gets the message across. He legs go with a grunt and steps back protectively, and you decide to drive the lesson home by reeling your arm back and giving him a full on slap to the face, hard enough to turn his head, loud enough to make the following silence deafening.

“I’m no whore! I’m here to see Benji.”

He looks hurt; more emotionally than physically. The petulance only adds to his strangely youthful demeanour.

“Oh come on, look at you! You’re practically begging for it, who cares where you get it from right?”

You practically splutter with indignation. “I care! You...old...disgusting...creep! Benji is twice the man you are.... which is why he needs twice the women.”

You consider that what you said makes no sense to you, but you’re too angry to change excuse now. How dare he touch you so!

He looks at you with shock. “Wait, what? You’re not- You can’t- Both of you?“

Maybe you should slap him again. You remember that you still have your Stiletto. You wipe his saliva of your lips with your forearm before tugging down your lifted top to make sure it covers your breasts once more. The bastard would deserve it.

“We can and we do.” You can’t stop the blush from creeping on to your face. Do people even do that? How would two women even share a man? The imagined mechanics of such an act make your blush creep further. “Why do you think I’m up here? To lie with some...some wrinkled old man? Please.”

He seems flabbergasted. Perhaps this isn’t the best lie; you could have said you’re this ‘Benji’s’ long lost sister, or drop the other name you heard should be up here, Maxaine, and relate yourself to her in some way. Still, in to deep to turn back now.

“So...So you’re actually part of Rolands crew?”

You look him in the eye and give a resolute “Yes.”

His eyes go over your poorly clad body again, lingering in familiar places. “Not a whore?”

You just glare at him as angrily as you can. He looks away first, eyes widening in wonder, muttering to himself. “That boy. Needs to learn to share...”

You press the advantage while you have it. “Where is he? And where’s my captain?” ‘Roland’, he said. He’s likely with Captain Washkin if he’s in the building. Captain Roland is one of her subordinate captains, true, but you thought he was far to the south. Wasn’t his colours green and purple as well? It wouldn’t be the first time a captain changed his colours, but from his reputation, Roland shouldn’t have the guile to be where people don’t expect.

The sly, confident smile creeps back onto the strange face before you. “I’ll tell you...for a kiss.”

Your hand balls into a fist at the suggestion. “You already kissed me!” Should you just punch him? From the way he recovered from the knee and the slap, you’re guessing he’s tougher than he looks, or calloused to a woman’s rejections. Stab him then? What if he makes noise? Has he seen your weapon? Better to use it only if-

He takes a step towards you. “Then what’s one more? A real kiss this time.” He starts to loom over you again, a full head height taller. The dresser is still behind you and he between you and the door. You hold out a warning hand, hoping to keep him at bay.

“Just tell me...”

He walks right into it, your palm crumpling against his loose brown top and the firm layer of muscle beneath it. His hands reach towards your waist as he smiles down at you, expectant. This is getting you nowhere. You swat his hands away in one motion. “...No. That’s it, I’ll find them myself. Out of my way.”

You turn and walk for the door, barely making a step before his hands grab your hips and return you to the dresser. His rough course correction sets the dresser rattling with the impact. The stiletto is in your hand in a moment yet to your shock, your hand is in his hand! He grabs the hand holding the blade, engulfing your small fingers with his own calloused digits before lifting it and the blade it carries into the space besides your head. He doesn’t even look at it.

“Come on, what are you afraid of? One little kiss.”

He gets very close, pressing his body against yours. You tug at his arm, trying to get your weapon free, and he smiles down at you; a single is tooth missing out of his browning top set. His other hand snakes across your belly and waist. You look him in the eye.

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.” He smiles as he slips it down the back of your shorts to grab a handful of your rump.

“Just warming you up for the boy is all.” Again, your free hand tries to push him away and again his grip is immovably insistent. He’s leaning over you now, looking down onto your face with that expectant grin. To close to knee his as his hips press against your own. What to do? Crying for help isn’t an option, and starting a fight wouldn’t be wise. You’re definitely not going to kiss-

His hand releases your buttock and slips around your front.

You gasp in shock at the unexpected fingers entering you, and he uses it, leaning down and planting an open mouthed kiss on your **** lips.

It’s an odd moment. Definitely not what you though such a kiss would be like. You attention is split between the insistent tongue forcing its way into your mouth, seemingly just to lick its contents, and the fingers that slide over your short hairs as they start to move in and out. Both of them are firsts for you and to your shame they fill you with paralyzing shock. Your body takes action; clamping your knees and much of your thighs together, trying to bare his way. It does little good. Even your writhing hips don’t shake his fingers as they try to rub you as deeply inside as possible. You look up at him, his thin skinned, creased and lined face pressed against your own as he devours your mouth, ever leaning in as you ever lean back. His eyes are half shut as he tastes your tongue with his own, and when you have nowhere to lean to, he starts to press you against the dresser, slipping more hand down the front of your shorts. You feel another finger push you apart as it works its way in. It’s enough to snap you out of your shock.

You bite. His tongue slips out but you get a lip, holding it between your teeth without biting through.

“Ow, ow, ow.” His sudden attention to his lip lets you pull his fingers out of your womanhood and shorts. They feel like they take a long time to leave you fully, your own timidity stopping you from ripping them out like a splinter; you handle the three foreign objects gingerly, afraid of them doing any further damage, pulling them out and away carefully but firmly. His eyes are wide and evidently they see something in your own that makes them go wider. He tries to move back. It’s a bad move, exposing his crotch to the kneeing of the century.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

You let go of his lip, eager to be rid of him. At the same time, he lets go of your other hand, staggering back and doubling over, bleeding from the lip. He holds out a hand and watches both you and the stiletto nervously.

“Easy girl. Ain’t gonna fight you for it.”

You’re breathing heavily. You want to get out. Should you kill him? You want to kill him. You stare down at him, looking at the fear creeping behind his eyes. Disgust beats rage. You walk to the door and stop, hand resting on the latch, before you turn to look at him. As much as you want to kill him -this wretched man, who stole your first real kiss and touched you where he’s not allowed- the mission must come first.

“You got your damn kiss, now where are they!”

He looks up at you with his hatefully smug smile. “I wasn’t talking about kissing my lips...” Useless. You pull the door open and walk out, his laughing words chasing you. “Love watchin you go. You hit like a girl but I recon you fuck like a woman.”

The door clicks closed behind you. Leaving you with an empty corridor that stretches off to your left and right. To the right there is darkness. Doorways come off both sides and the corridor ends in a window which shows some distant trees and a thin sliver of stars above them. To your left, the corridor is far longer, cut by a landing, the flickering lights of what must be the foyer being split by the banister and the beams supporting it. The large stairway stands in the middle, ending in the double doors in the centre of the landing, while beyond that, the corridor continues into a similar darkness to the one you stand in, with a similar window at the end of it. This corridor must run from one end of the mansion to the other. As you look, the window in the distance becomes obfuscated as something moves in front of it. A door opening, followed by people walking towards you.

You duck, still in darkness and not wanting to be similarly silhouetted by the window on your right. Darkness won’t help if they walk right into you though, so you move down the corridor, away from the landing, and open one of the doors just enough to slip inside. The room is dark and obviously unoccupied and the door opens inward in such a way that you can push it to and still look down much of the corridor to the landing from the safety of the room. The shapes moving from the far end of the mansion cross into the light of the landing, revealing themselves to be the forms of both Captain Washkin and Captain Roland. You’ve never seen either of them before but there can be no doubt. They both walk with the assured step of authority, the knowledge that there word is law and obedience assured, except from each other of course. Indeed, they look like they’re in the middle of quiet a debate, though you can’t make out any of it thanks to the distance. She looks to be carrying something, a roll of paper, perhaps a map of some kind? Before you can tell, they open the double doors at the top of the stairs and disappear into the room beyond.

The sight of your target made your heart flutter. The woman you’re here to kill. There’s such a significance to that arraignment; right now, you’re both the most important person in each other’s lives, and yet she doesn’t even know you exist. You can think of several poems and ballads that share a similar theme, yet they’re all about love and romance rather than bloody ****. Come to think of it, many of them have their fair share of bloody **** as well.

As the door in the distance closes, you ready to leave and get closer. Maybe you could try to listen and see what they’re up to; try and figure out your next move. Before you open your door and step out, another door opens; the door you previously stormed out of. The bastard who...touched you, looks out left and right. He doesn’t see you in the dark and seeing no one else in the corridor, he withdraws back into the room with the dumbwaiter. You don’t know what he’s up to but you’ll have to be quiet when you sneak past that door to the landing.

You move out into the corridor, your feet falling gently on the fraying carpet as you creep along to the light of the landing. As you near the door of the dumbwaiter room, you pause and hear a strange sound. It’s a very faint rhythmic thumping noise, interspersed with breathy gasps and the occasional moan. You have a sudden need to wash yourself; get the stink of him off you and out of you. Once again, you put aside the desire to walk in there and finish him off, opting instead to leave him to his moans and strange lonesome activities as you continue to the landing and the double doors in its centre.

Peaking around the corner and just over the top of the banister, you look at the foyer below. The merchants still talk at the bottom of the stairs, their suspicious eyes on each other as they wheel and deal and wait for their turn with the captain. It shouldn’t be too difficult to sneak out to the double doors without them noticing, so long as you stay low. You move over from the banister to the other wall and listen against it for the sound of voices. They hum through the walls, angry sounding buzzes muffled by thick wood and plaster.

“...I’m right about the navy!” you hear Captain Roland say.

“No you’re not, because...”

They get fainter before you suddenly feel a clunk reverberate through the wall. The voices are almost cut off, as if sealed behind something, probably an inner door. It’s likely that through the double doors lead to the house’s master bedroom. That room is likely to be split into several rooms, the outermost acting as an antechamber or sitting room or something. You don’t have much experience with mansions like this but there are clearly more rooms past the double doors.

Is this your moment? If they have gone through another door inside that room then surely you can go through the double doors now? If you follow them in then you could prepare an ambush in a room where no one else can see you. They’re unlikely to be disturbed by anyone else, and one or more of them is bound to walk back into the antechamber, either during negotiations or after. It would be two on one, but you would have the element of surprise and, come to think of it, a poison coated blade as well. Two quick slashes and it’s all over. It would be a risk, but this whole plan was a risk from the start.

You look at the previous door to your left, back down the corridor you came from. It would lead into the room next door to the room your target occupies and may let you listen through the walls further inside. You would get a better idea of what’s going on inside and give you more time to plan but you may lose this opportunity for an ambush. You’ll have to attack sooner or later. You also don’t know where Benji and Maxain are thanks to the unhelpfully handsy bastard you left in the dumbwaiter room. If they are both inside then they could raise the alarm. Then again, there a lots of rooms up here so you would have to have some very bad luck to walk in on them.

So, door number one: poison your dagger and move in, try to ambush them, but risk getting caught.

Or door number two: delay the inevitable by taking a lesser risk, trying to get more information.

You feel your heart rate increase and your hands twitch with energy. You want this to be over and done with but is such eagerness a risk? Looking between the two options,