[b][u]With Spencer[/u][/b]

The Adorable Streetrat does not follow you to your table. She looks at you, her face marred with surprise and frustration in equal measure. As you look at her after sitting down, you notice another pair of urchins has materialized, two older boys in a similar state of apparent poverty. Neither looks older than 13. They share the look of irritation and surprise, and begin to walk off with a confident, speedy pace, melting into the crowd without issue.

The girl stays a moment longer. "Yer not gonna las' long 'ere, guv, wiv that friendly lark. Word o' advice, is all, it won't work ou' fer ya most o' the time". Having apparently spoken her part, she leaves at a much faster pace, running through the crowd, sewing back and forth like a needle, and disappearing on a route presumably to a nearby alley leading into the city. A few moments later, a silhouette flashing across one of the buildings abutting the back street.

The piece of paper, once opened, is likely not what was expected either. A crudely drawn face, looking like it was scribbled by a child, covers most of the faded sheet, with the words 'Comizerations from the Lamp-Street Urchins', the misspelling accompanied by terrible handwriting and uneven letter size. Your wallet still sits in your pocket, jostled slightly but otherwise unmolested.

[b][u]With Miles [/u][/b]

The Precocious Peddler's face shifts as you speak, belying his familiarity with the excuse. Regardless, the smile persists, and disengaging from your embrace brushes his attire down and speaks in the same smooth voice he employed before. "You're accent's strange, my sunny friend. We don't get many of whatever type you are down here, that's a fact. Do you even know what an Echo is? I expect not: well, I figure it's my civic duty to give you the tour of pecuniary affairs down here. Echoes're minted by the Bazaar, reputable sorts like myself trade in them. Not everyone's as straight laced, you see, and so there's a fair number of currencies round here. Anarchists'll tell you Echoes are for Bats, and some scoundrels believe them. Glim, purple crystals'll get you places. Rings of Rostygold'll buy dangerous favors, Jade'll get you others. Secrets and pieces of information're as good as real gold down here, 'specially to the right listener. There's Brass too, but I'd never recommend dealing with them red-eyes, last of all to a surfacer. Anystreet, the Mandrake's not too hard to find."

The man details directions quickly and clearly, and you find yourself remembering them easier than you thought you would. You're apparently only a half an hour at most from the Mandrake, if the Peddler is to be believed. He hands you a business card with an address, 'Widow's Tea Parlor, basement, back room, knock five times', and leaves with a wave, making a beeline for a more Neathy-looking couple. While he leaves he turns his head to speak. "Good luck there, new friend: Mandrake's an odd place, full of valued customers. I'd stay away from anyone looking to poetic, and try not to talk to a Bohemian, if you want my advice". He waves, and is gone.