Skullduggery and Rapscallioneering

"A tenday off, paid," Blaine muttered to himself. The apple in his hand was kind to the eyes, but the merchant wasn't to be trusted. The word on the street was his fruit appealed to one sense in exchange for a paltry showing in the others. He tossed the apple back to the vendor and narrowed his eyes at the simply dressed man behind the vendor.

The apple-cart was a front--the showy merchant with delicious looking fruit even drew a mild amount of suspicion from the crowd, but just the right tone, just the right amount. Blaine wasn't impressed. It was a simple con, but it was executed well enough to allay derision. He passed a sign from within his sleeves as he adjusted his cloak, arguing with the vendor but maintaining contact with the amicable fellow behind him. The vendor kept with his part, the man in the back departed for a tavern.

A few minutes of shopping later, Blaine found himself seated at a table in a spurious establishment, sharing a bowl of dates and a pitcher of ale with a man who preferred to be called Curry. Curry wasn't overly talkative, another good sign, and he withheld his answers just longer than decorum dictated--a matter of stylistic embellishment, but all in all acceptable. They departed with easy smiles and the proper tipping practices, ensuring the discretion of the proprietor's staff.

An hour's work, a quick meal, and a few coins across the necessary palms--everything said was never said. Everyone met was never there. The story remains the same, all the world over.

What's more, the map that would lead Blaine to the local cult of Mask was now etched into Blaine's memory.