[u][i]With Spencer[/i][/u]

The barman is happy to have some more respectable, polite company, and talks between tasks about affairs in the Neath. According to him, the Neddy Men [the strong arm of the Masters of the Bazaar] have had more than a few run-ins with the Constabulary, a mostly over fugitives of justice wanted by both factions. A brawl between the two enforcement groups started a day ago just down the road, over some small-time anarchist, who, during the confusion, managed to not only escape but to seriously wound several people with homemade bombs. He continues to regale you with stories and news, pinning you as a surfacer almost immediately. He talks about some love affair in the Shuttered Palace, informs you about the insane and jovial Jack-of-Smiles, whose murder-spree has gone unchecked for months. He offhandedly mentions some new sensation in Veilgarden, a pianist who has the whole bohemian lot singing high praises. Apparently, in their excitement at their new celebrity the unwashed lot of them have been spreading out, and he's had more poets and sculptors in his establishment than he'd like.

Other than the Bar-Keeping Raconteur's ministrations, little happens as Time passes. People come and go, mood shifts and money changes hands, as though these people were not living dozens of miles beneath the surface. What was evidently the lunch rush departs, and you are eventually left almost alone at the eatery, the staff retreating to the kitchen to prepare for the next surge of people. A few stalwarts remain, joined by those whose schedules preclude normal eating hours, but otherwise quiet drifts through the fashionable, if drab, room.

[u][i]With Miles[/i][/u]

The Amiable Taverner is quick to respond, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag as he does so. His voice is soft, yet cuts through the commotion with a practiced ease, a skill one must pick up when surrounded by such cacophony every "day". 

"Aye, that's her. Rare beauty, she is. Spends a good deal of time here, and I've no idea why. Those carding gentlemen likely wouldn't mind. The stakes are low here, not like Mahogany Hall or Doubt street. I figure you're a surfacer, aye? Something to remember: besides those two right there" he points to the suited men "and our pianist, the clientele by and large don't have two pennies to rub together. They may look fine enough, but no-one comes to the Mandrake who already has status or patrons. If you're looking to join those gentlemen though, you will need [i]some[/i] money. Here, take this." he reaches into a gratuities jar and removes a crumpled sheet of paper, 'One Echo' written finely on it in flowing caligraphy, surrounded by notes and legal matters in much smaller print. "Pay me back when you can. I figure since London gives a poor welcome, I might as well give a good one".

He shifts away, taking an order, his gaze shooting back to the Pianist every minute or so like awed clockwork. The music continues to play, and though the recital lowers in abrasive volume slightly, it continues ever-present, flowing like marble-laced tar.