[center][b]8:30pm, Last Seed 21
Dibella's House of Common Pleasures[/b][/center][hr]
[I]'Too attached to things, indeed; except for maybe the wine glass.'[/i] Finch thought to himself.

The young man made a concerted effort in hiding the down payment underneath a wrapping of fabric. Bed sheets were re-purposed into being tied around a dragon scale shield before he re-fixed the sash bound across his chest, so that it would be run through the artifact's grip. He thought of it as a rather lousy down payment; valuable, sure, but it wasn't conspicuous at all and he didn't exactly know how to use a shield efficiently. It's use essentially boiled down to being sold or given to some no-good mercenaries that he didn't even know yet and doubted he'd particularly care for. He cared neither for carrying copious amounts of septims on his person nor for working with others, unless it was on a ship. In this case, working with others meant sneaking and thieving, and his experience made it very clear to him that more didn't make merrier. 

A rueful sigh escaped his lips. Since he somehow got dragged into doing a job for a lord likely as corrupt as the next, it likely wouldn't bode well for him to ignore his wishes, or to run off with his expensive down payment. He was certainly right about one thing: this job of his was unexpected. Find the man who stole his golden blade and preferably kill him in the process. Well, that meant Everard set himself up for disappointment at least once. The lord didn't know about Finch's feelings surrounding murder. Or even death for that matter, but that was on him for dismissing his “nobody” hireling so quickly. If Finch was any more spiteful than he already was, he might just walk far away with the dragonhide shield and golden sword, robbing him of both, and go where they'd never find him... but honestly, Everard just dragged him into a no-win scenario: if Finch doesn't go through with this, the lord would likely kill him. If he does, Mathieu might kill him. Explains why the bastard would go through the trouble of picking out a “nobody” like him.

What was even the point of a golden sword? It was far too soft a metal, the man probably just liked carrying it around as a status symbol. Maybe he was overcompensating for the small one in his trousers.

In any case, he appraised the sketch of Mathieu the Whisper. The man was a spymaster, which meant he had a network of people working for him. If he truly did steal the blade, then it's possible he's covering his trail, left a false one, or already knows that Everard hired him to steal it back. Hiring a group would honestly just create more opportunities for leaks, but if Finch was caught unawares, nobody would notice or bat an eye. All he really needed was protection, the rest was just deceiving the deceiver and covering his own trail. Reading about him probably wasn't likely if he was any good at his job, and asking around would be dangerous if any one of them were one of his agents.

He really didn't want to sub-contract mercenaries. This job was already bigger and hotter than he wanted. If someone wanted some dumb ring or key, that'd be fine, but he was being sent after a spymaster's stolen gold sword. Ugh.

The young man strided down the stairs and looked at the keeper of this business behind his counter, counting his coin. Then, next to the stairs, spotted a man taking a deep drink from his ale. On his way over, Finch deliberately bumped into him, causing the man to spill his drink all over himself. Before the man had a chance to be angry with him, Finch leaped into action.

“Oh Gods, I'm so sorry!” Finch gasped, immediately crouching down and trying to pat him dry using his own sleeves. “Sincerely, I didn't notice you. My heads must have been up in the clouds!”

“Ugh,” the man groaned, muttering something under his breath about just getting his shirt tailored, “y'know what, it's just a fucking drink. But would it kill ya to watch where yer goin' next time?”

“You're right. Again, I'm really sorry!” In the midst of patting him down, he broke the drawstring of his coin purse hanging from his belt and glided it towards his pocket. “Next time I get payed and see you here, your drink will be on me.”

The man bitterly waved him away with the thief's head hanging low. He poured the pouch's coins out from inside his pocket and set the empty pouch down on one of the tables too busy with conversation to notice.

“Sir,” Finch said to the manager, who was met with only a finger as he continued to count his coin.

[i]“Sir.”[/i] He repeated.

“What? What is it, kid?” The man finally spat.

“I understand some mercenaries are renting a room here.”

“I can't tell you if anyone has rented a room here for confidentiality's sake.”

“If there are mercenaries, then they likely wouldn't mind. They're for hire. I'm looking to hire.”

“I still cannot confirm or deny--”

Finch took the fistful of coins in his pocket and set it on the counter. “This is all I have. Please.”

The keeper looked at the coins and raised an eyebrow at Finch. “Not that it's my business, but don't you need money to hire a mercenary?”

“I have other assets to provide as down payment.”

The man sighed and slid the coins toward his side of the counter before counting them out. “Upstairs. Premium room.”

“Thank you.”

Finch's pace quickened across the ground floor, making a beeline towards the staircase. He heard behind him some sudden shouting, “Hey, you thieving bastard!” Finch whipped around to see the man who Finch had bumped into earlier marching towards the table where he left the empty coin purse and grabbing that man by his shirt. With a relieved sigh, Finch jogged up the next few flights of stairs to where the premium rooms were. He passed the guards stationed outside Everard's moaning chambers and rapped his knuckles against the door beside it.

As soon as the door opened, Finch's dirty face fell grim and serious.

“Are you looking for work?”