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

The three rotund gentlemen look up with universal annoyance, though after a brief whispered consultation motion to an empty edge of the table, to which a chair could be pulled up to. The center man, his colorful clothes up close evidently stained with spots of paint and moisture, his facial hair matching his clothing, poor quality material worn to its absolute best, is the first to speak in an audible register, disgust mingling with surprise in his voice.

"We play cat and spire; a neathy game of skilled luck; perhaps watch one game"

Another of the gentlemen speaks, this one sitting to the left of his companion and equipped with an uncharacteristically high voice, breaking slightly as though he were a pubescent lad as opposed to a middle aged bar-goer. "We card for money; an echo needed to play; do you have such  funds?"

You notice they speak in a familiar scheme, and if you can remember your more esoteric scholastic learning you will place it as a haiku, some Japanese nonesense that has evidently found its way down into London. Provided you show your funds, they allow you to sit down and hand you a stack of multi-colored chips.

The game is immediately obvious after one watch. Hold 'em Poker, though with odd suits and more aggressive betting. Bats, Squids, Dragons and Flukes, though all with the same 13 card layout. They deal you in, and the game plays smoothly and without much conversation [though what little there is still is presented in rather poor haiku], the gentlemen, no longer united in their disgust of you, show themselves to not be particularly fond of present company. The bets are aggressive, the play retaliatory, and the gloating full of scorn and satisfied malice.

Their play, however, is not superb. Certainly, they might be fair card players, but with an observant eye and a mind for basic probability they are not difficult to overcome. You play their vendettas and coax them into rash behavior, and capitalize when lady luck decides to grace you [which is more often then you are used to]. Already on the path to defeat, the downfall of the three gentlemen is speeded when they start to sample a viscous yellow fluid, consumed on tiny spoons more suited to a laboratory than a public house. The liquid evidently starts to effect their mental sate, and not four hands after the gentlemen are in its dimming grasp nearly all the money sits in front of you, in several denominations the Peddler mentioned and several he did not. A few more hands and they are cleared out, their angry gazes softened by their intoxication and listlessness.

Emerging from the focus of play, you notice the music has stopped and the volume of the place has decreased considerably. Most of the regulars, and the suited gentlemen, have evidently left, and with their exit and the passing time the Mandrake is occupied by only a few customers, though these dregs the very lowest in manner and evident wealth, most slumped or asleep, no doubt in the hands of the same or similar intoxicants to your former card-mates. You do not see the Pianist anywhere, though before this realization cannot morph into any action or worry, the Taverner speaks to you clearly.

"Ah, you're done! She wanted me to tell you when you were done, to meet her in the private room. Down the hall, third door on the right." He gestures, and returns to his duties, humming a song you recognize from earlier in the evening. If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.

The Pianist sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. She does not rise, but her attention turns to you and she speaks, her voice like ringing bells.

"Ah, welcome Mr. Hardy. I take it the game went well? Please, have a seat."

[i][u] With Spencer [/u][/i]
The barman is happy to answer your question, and much more happy when he sees money, evidently more than happy to accept surface currency. With a smile he tells you what he knows.

“It’s the heart of Veilgarden, one of the worst places in the city. It’s no Flit or Spite, but it’s still full of low types and disreputable characters, poets and prostitutes more than cutthroats and turnkeys. It’s where the aspirant artistic masses go, and heaves with the sort, a tangled fight between the talentless many cursed with high aspirations. Every once in a while some good sort comes out of it, like this Pianist, or the Snapping Composer, but they’re the exception, not the rule. It’s not too far from here, out past Mahogany hall and near the House of Chimes”

He draws a map on a piece of paper, clearly listing directions in untidy handwriting. “If you’re going there, ignore what anyone says, don’t sleep with anything that spends more than a day in there, and whatever you do, do nothing with honey – it’s an awful substance, and it is a one way ticket to the Royal Beth if you’re unlucky. That’s most of what you need to know; the Taverner’s a good sort, he’ll do you right. Obviously, sir, this matter is entirely confidential. Oh, and you may want some spending money, though I wouldn’t let on you have it to any of the patrons”

He peels several pounds worth of notes off the stack, and hands deposits it in the cash box, handing you coins which claim to add up to seventy echo-pence. “Echoes are decimals down here, not like your surface coin, one hundred of them make an Echo. Good luck, and all that.” He turns away, evidently excited to be done with whatever business is so profitable.

If you indeed go to the Mandrake, the way is much less crowded than it was when you entered the eatery. Clocks read 2pm, past the lunch rush and before reputable businesses close. The empty streets are easy to navigate, and you reach the Mandrake by a direct route in good time. The place is nearly empty, those few who inhabit it are dressed in gaudy attire that was no doubt fine once, but has seen much better days. It is colorful and offensively different, even the few people still in the tavern clashing like vomitus cymbals. The Taverner is dressed much more soberly, and looks with interest at you, then down to a sheet of paper, then back to you with a smile on his face, his voice piercing the nearly-silent room.

“Ah, she’s waiting for you in the back: third door on your left down this hall.” If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.
An incredibly beautiful woman who you presume to be the Debonair Pianist, sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. Another chair is occupied by a poor looking man, starved and gaunt and plebian, but you find it difficult to pay much attention to him given the other occupant.

The Pianist speaks, her voice like the springtime winds. “Ah, just in time, Mr. Cole. I had hoped you would arrive, what I have to say applies to both of you. Please, take a seat. Mr. Miles Hardy, meet Mr. Spencer Cole.”

She waits patiently for you to be seated, not speaking or making any move until you are ready.