"Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am feared in field and town; goblin, lead them up and down." Gwilym murmurs the words to himself as he slips between two buildings, reaching up and pulling himself onto the gabled roof-edge. He is dressed all in black, and his emerald eyes gleam like a cat's. He peers carefully over the slated edge, watching a shadowy figure rush in where moments ago he had been.
     "Stupid, stupid boy," Gwilym croons, watching the thug and would-be mugger slink frustratedly away. "No, of course I didn't go down this alley; it was some other alley altogether. And now you go and you wait for me outside the mouth of this alley, just in case; in the hopes that I or some richer prey will fall into your hands. Not tonight, my child, not tonight; tonight I hold the world on a string. It is not my night to give up so easily, so uselessly my reign upon it."
     Soundlessly, he drops back to his heels, padding on inchoate black soles to the opposite end of the alley and emerging. Blackness of shadows is brushed almost absently, almost arrogantly away from his hair, his face, his shoulders, so that he moves not as a shadow any longer, but as a man. And as a man, he moves from where pinch-pockets and footpads want one identity's wallet, to - where others may well have similar goals.
     "Ah, but that's the spice of life, isn't it?" Gwilym croons, smiling as he slides his hands into the pockets of a pair of jeans, hunching his shoulders in the replica of that much-loved and much-scarred bomber jacket. Someday, some night, perhaps, arrogance will overcome sense and he may steal the original and leave this one in its stead. For now, he plays about with its imitation - and heads through Tours' dirtier little streets towards where he suspects if not knows, all too well, that the footpad's 'employers' may well reside.
     Or not, of course. After all, he hasn't made a study of the place. A booted toe nudges a doorway open - his second stop of the night so far - and Gwilym lifts his head with that too-clever smile burning brightly on his face as he takes in his surroundings. He doesn't speak to draw attention to himself. A stranger, here? Looking as he does? He has attention enough whether he wills it or no. If Iovis is present, whether Gwilym sees him or not, word will be carried to the Italian quickly...
     He lets those present in the place look at him. La Truite Sale. Such a name; and if you scaled the patrons in a different direction, it would be as intimately familiar to me as if this were my mother's kingdom and not some so-called republic. Is it a republic these days? I think so, but who can tell; power still flows in the same ways it always has, after all. Duw, I need a drink. I should talk to Io sometime about these things.
     "Brandy, please," Gwilym says aloud, his smile fierce and friendly as he moves up to the bar, insinuating himself between silent men who look sideways at him without talking to him. He leans forward, folding his elbows down against the wood. "Leave the bottle, oes? I pay cash..."

     You are given a dubious look by the owner (bartender). He hears promises of money every night. As he finds a bottle (it is brandy, though not one of the better vintages) and sets it down, you see he keeps his hand on it. Before you have a glass, before he even goes through the trouble of opening it, he wants to see proof.
     "Son argent n'est aucun bon ici, Auber," the voice (you will know it) issues to your left side. It has a tone about it as if your money literally had no value, a tone one might even be offended by were it not for the smile that followed. "Et ne lui servez pas cela. Non, il est un ami. Retirez au moins la bouteille de neuf euros."
     Iovis Macarelli sits at a small table, one of the few tables in the equally small bar. The chair is tall-backed and ancient. It might have even been fine once. It is not fine now, but it is comfortable, upholstered arms and seat. He is clothed as you have seen him clothed in the past: a leather coat that reaches his hips, a black tee-shirt with some sort of Italian band (it is actually a shirt from the opera Rigoletto performed in Genoa some time ago), and a pair of black leather pants. The boots are rubber-soled, lending to a quieter stride (certainly with as quickly as he moves), and without a doubt there are somewhere packed a handful of stiletti. His black curls, those Medusa-like ringlets turn this way and that, one or two of them even dipping down over his equally black eyes.
     A thief's fine hand waves you over. "E porti due vetri. Ritengo come una bevanda," his Italian flows far more rapidly than his French, the tangle of Gallic consonants and vowels slowing down his typical metre. "Ha... you made it through the alley...how do you know you still have your money?" That seems to elicit several short grunts of laughter from the haggard few that turn their attentions away from you now that you're speaking with The Genoan. Now, you are a Regular...

     There is no sign of offense allowed to cross his features, the very British-seeming joviality of him inherent in the smile, the eyes. So much so that some might think him stupid, an oaf; without value, easily tricked, gulled, duped, slain. But there is a dangerous undercurrent; the lion's smile even if it is the stag's pride.
     But you speak before he has time to decide whether or not to be insulted, and he turns to you, features mobile as he smile. He balances a hip against the counter, then nudges himself away and towards you, palming a packet of money from somewhere in his sleeve to his hand as he offers it out to you - to all but the closest-watching eyes, he is offering to shake your hand, whereas in fact, he is offering you a thousand euros and a packet of papers. Taken from the bully-boy with whom he played cat and mouse. His voice is low, quiet as he answers you.
     "Someone's pride's likely to be wounded. Up to you how you get it back to him; you know who he is better than I, I'm sure."
     Aloud, he answers you differently, his smile ample and good-natured. "Buon vederli, anche. Sempre piacevole per conoscerli possono essere contati sopra per condurlo fuori strada, il mio amico anziano. Cos stasera i gioielli di offerta di giri sull'aria di notte?"
     He has been making an effort. The Italian is accented - how could it be otherwise - but it is there. Fluid. Fluent, to a degree. And behind the emerald gaze, Gwilym grins at you, then lets one eye drop closed in a wink.

     Now you see it. Now you don't. He is a veritable illusionist in the exchange, the sleight of hand and redirection covering the slide of the envelope into the inside of his coat. He sits back in the chair, a kind of throne for a thief of the docks -- off-balance and thread-bare as it is, a likely throne as he'll ever see -- and he laughs. It is a hearty thing, jovial, musical, immediate, and when he smiles he could fool a priest into thinking he's an angel walking this earth.
     "Listen to this," he rattles out in your English (it's more yours than his), heavily accented -- far more so than your own Italian is. "You are learning quick, si?" He props the sole of a boot upon the table's foot as he motions you to pour the brandy you've brought. It will be bad but it will be to the point.
     "So far, you've seen just the gutters, yes?" Iovis tips his head with his own amusement. "Tours has jewels, it has wealth, si. Not nearby mind you," he croons to the general amusement of the room at-large. The owner/bartender is no longer eyeing you funny. You are an associate of the man who keeps him in business. You're as good as family at this point.
     "Una bevanda in primo luogo... forse alcune," he gestures with his hands as he speaks, those hands that could pluck the jewel from God's own eye. "...ed allora li mostrero. Benche, forse non dovrei -- che cosa sara lasciato per me!" Iovis chuckles, sitting forward to take a glass of the brandy. "Do not smell it," he quietly suggests. "It smells of nothing, just alcohol and fire." It is cheap, though not altogether unpalatable. There is little of natural flavor in it. It is all fire... all potency.
     "How have you been, amice," he calls you now by that familiar name: friend. You are as old adversaries, worthy opponents, amicable rivals, now friends.

     "I try," Gwilym murmurs. "I try." He is watching you, as if he could do otherwise. Paying close attention, as if ignorant of the other dangers the room possesses - but no, he is not ignorant. He simply knows that you are the most dangerous creature in these close quarters, with the assessment of one male animal sizing up another. It is perhaps unfortunate, but it is instinctual.
     "I've kept all but one foot out of the gutter so far," he drawls, drawing out the cork of the new bottle and pouring with a careful, even meticulous hand. God forbid one drop should be spilled, oes? "Enjoy," the bottle is drawn away from the glasses, and he takes his own glass up. "I won't, though I am trusting you, oes?"
     Gwilym smiles all the way up to his eyes as he salutes you with the glass. He does not smell it. But he sips it. Sips, not gulps - but swallows nonetheless, even though he knows all too well there could have been some signal, prearranged between you and the bartender. He is trusting you. Putting himself out on a ledge deliberately, as wary as any cat...
     "I have been ... myself." Gwilym smiles faintly. The question seems odd to him. What can he tell you which would make any sense? "I do not know of any other way of being. If I discover of another way, maybe I should try it - but so far, this is my way. And you?"

     He smiles just short of downing the brandy in a single swallow. "The same. I am always the same." Iovis watches you as you drink, his dark eyes flicking for a moment to the side. He looks back to you, a look to get your attention. You are being watched. "You are being watched," he says it, he announces it, he sits back. "But you are sitting with me, so they will do nothing. They will wonder, as they should wonder: what is Macarelli up to?" The cherubic face of his (beautiful when he is not purposely making himself rougher than the roughest sort of coal) holds a splendid smile. "You are so bright, they think, I can hear them thinking," Iovis notes, his hands motioning to his ear, his temple. "What business has he with Macarelli? How did you get from the docks to the bar without losing half of what you are wearing."
     He starts chuckling, then he wags his finger -- at you, at the air, at anyone watching. "They do not know what I know. And I will not be telling them a goddamned thing. Ha! I will enjoy making money watching it. You will be the source of many new bets, I can sense this, amice." Dark eyes glitter with humor.
     Leaning forward, he rests his arms against the surface of the small, black table, and he whispers to you: "They do not know, and what they do not know, you will no doubt teach them, yes?" His eyes lift, locking upon your own as he smiles a ribald smile. Let them lose their shirts. "They will have to be better than that..." There is a sudden motion -- a blur of black -- and then a thud sounds against the sheet-rock of the wall. A stiletto gleams where it is stuck, embedded in the wall beside a man's head. The man is wide-eyed, surprised -- in a word, caught.
     "Go home, Emile," Iovis remarks, "... he would steal you blind, and then dance on your head in jubilation. Idiot. You will have to pardon them, amice, they see new blood, a young face, and they think they can get away with murder." He likely means that quite literally. The stiletto is left where it is, shimmering in a pointed message to those few who remain in the bar -- seen and unseen.

     He smiles sidelong at you, listening to you talk. His smile goes wider by degrees, and in his face there is the brilliance of pagan flames. It is his gift and it is his curse. He walks into a room, and if he is not hiding himself, then he is Seen. Noticed. His is the personality which fills rooms and fans fires.
     "If they do not learn to look up," Gwilym remarks to you quietly, "they will have short lives. Of course, so much the better for me." His head tips back, and he laughs, bright, wild thing that he is, every minim of him a Puck tonight, in this moment.
     The brandy is lifted, swallowed down, the glass set down again. An indolent hand slips into his pocket, and from his pocket he takes a handful of slim wallets, tossing them one at a time onto the table in front of you. Leather. Lambskin. Notes. Papers. Cash. Credit cards. Watches. None of them his, and all gained en route to this tavern - en route to this table. "Don't let them think I'm a mean-spirited sort," Gwilym says loudly. "If they recognize what's theirs, they can claim it of me. I might even accept a challenge."
     There is a gleam to his eyes as he says it - but he is looking at you with that smile, as if unafraid of the others in the room.

     He watches wallet after wallet tumble onto the table's surface, sprung from your enterprising fingers, and he laughs in building degrees until it crescendos with the laying down of the watch. "Is there a man left in Tours with his own wallet tonight? Auber, you should check your pocket. My amice here has nimble fingers." Iovis sits back with a clap of a laugh, hand to his stomach. He waves at you -- keep them, keep them -- as he is teary-eyed in the hilarity of it.
     "What good is a thief if he does not boast, si? If he does not say to the world, here I am, even as he is kissing the rings from your woman's hand?" Iovis brings his hands together in an applause, pouring himself another shot of brandy (and it is a shot and should be swallowed as one). "I want a cut of your challenges," he pipes up, "... and a finder's fee. It is my due, amice," he grins, feline in his satisfaction.
     Waving at you again, this time to put away the bounty, Iovis leans in and pours you another drink. "I think you have slapped gloves against every cheek tonight, si? That is what they will say. Oh, look at him there, sitting in plain sight with all of our things! Ha! I say to them: why do you walk around naked? Put on some clothes!"
     Though he laughs and taunts, he is vigilant. The stiletto there gleams in defiance, shining with authority. You will not be bothered tonight. Though, next time you visit...
     "Auber, une meilleure bouteille. Cet homme merite une eau-de-vie fine decente. Sans compter que... nous pouvons employer la carte du degre de solvabilite de Pierre!" Iovis grins to you, black eyes bright and pitch dark all at once. They are the expression of both the presence and the absolute absence of light. His hand comes and pats your arm. Tonight you have earned the nickname and endearment of amice.

     It is a calculated risk, what he does. Every action, every challenge, every defiance. He smiles at you quietly as he settles back in his chair, not looking around. Eye contact now would make it for some, he is sure, almost unbearable. So he does not seek out gazes, keeping his own steady instead on you.
     "I learned to be a thief from the best," Gwilym murmurs. "It is in the blood, oes? I did not get born so much as from my mother's womb I made my escape." His grin is sudden and uproarious. "Of course, she might tell it a little differently."
     He is more than happy to have better brandy, though. He finishes off the last dregs from his glass. "One glass more," Gwilym murmurs, "but then I must go. I should not keep you from your work forever," one eye again drops into a wink, "and less from your women." He is pleased with your reaction; and dissatisfied with his own. He is restless. To sit too long in one place...

     "One glass more," the Italian announces. Perhaps that is in and of itself the starter gun for your next challenge. He smiles and caps the current bad brandy in favor of the better bottle that the owner now carries to him. Along with the stiletto. "Mes murs ne sont pas faits pour etre fromage Suisse," Auber grumbles, his voice made rough by a rough life.
     "Si, si," Iovis waves him away, Enough of your bitching. He pours a glass for you, a glass for himself, and the stiletto disappears back from whence it flew. He chimes his glass to yours and still finishes his brandy in a swallow, despite it being very fine.
     He does not speak of his work and to the mention of women Iovis merely smiles. He wears a look of pure innocence. For about two seconds, then that Italianate mouth of his spreads in a wide grin. "How well you know me already," he lilts. "Ha! Escape from the womb. Your first prison break? Salut," he says, raising his glass even though it's empty. The toast remains the same.
     "I will not keep you. I hope you make it out of the alley, si?" He chuckles, and knows you will, stolen wallets, watches and all. The son of shadows goes where he wills. "It was good seeing you. Say, do not be a stranger, si? We meet next time ... a place of your choosing... it is only fair I should have to pass through a gauntlet of your own."

     The glass is lifted to his lips; the scent inhaled, then exhaled, and he sips. He breathes out, then begins pragmatically returning possessions to his pockets. Why not? He 'won' them, fair and square.
     I will have to go somewhere that I can get my blood up. Deal with fighting, maybe almost losing, or pay a visit somewhere more painful than this. It is rising in me again, this blackness - not quite despair, but I do not know what it is. I am restless. I will need to find an escape, or make it for myself...
     "London," Gwilym murmurs to you, his smile as clever as if nothing went on behind his eyes. He glances to you, then rises, draining the glass. "A round on the house," he announces, dropping some notes onto the table. "As consolation for my alien presence. And to you, my friend, oes," his smile slants as he looks down to you, "find me if you will, if you can. London is large and broad and filled with shadows, oes? I'll drop you a note sometime soon."
     One foot nudges his chair back into place as he sets his glass down, and you receive from him a courteous little bow. Curious and archaic, in its way, but gallant and almost flamboyant; and he turns, and paces to the door with an air of inviting the world to have its shot at him.
     "Ding dong dell, pussy's in the well..."

Posted by rowan at November 08, 2006 07:24 PM