The Punt Den
Deep in SouthBridge lies a small, but locally well-known pub. Shabby where Ranley Tavern is considered clean, unsafe where Ranley Tavern is considered safe, hostile to newcomers where Ranley Tavern is considered welcoming, and shady where Ranley Tavern is considered honest.
A crude, wooden sign swaying and creaking in the wind hung above the entrance. Once it had depicted a pretty barmaid and a stack of cards, now those were barely recognizable, and the crude lettering was not easily read: 'Punt Den'.
Strategically situated between the Promenade Theatre and Madame Panicci's brothel, Punt Den holds open only from eveningtide third mark, but its doors remain welcoming until morningtide. Spectators of the later and more dubious shows of the Promenade Theatre often spends the marks after in the Punt Den, discussing the night's performances, and indeed some of the girls of the Theatre comes here looking for an extra coin after having advertised their looks on the stage. But these are the lesser stars, many the crowd's favourites usually head straight for Madame Panicci's or take their leave with clients when the show is over.
It is the less attractive and less professional of Madame Panicci's girls who attend the Punt Den, and the connection between the brothel and the pub is a silent one. Where Madame Panicci houses guests from both the upper and lower classes and emphasizes privacy and discretion, it is the latter classes who frequents the Punt Bar where whores and their clients finds themselves a corner rather than a private room. Even so, relaxing with a beer in the Den is popular sport either before or after a visit to Madame Panicci's.
A wooden door opened into the main room of Punt Den with its long bar and crowded tables. Barmaids hurried between the guests, successfully and unsuccessfully evading pinches and grabs from the male customers, who were the definite majority in the establishment. A few daringly dressed girls scanned the guests for potential customers, and indeed a few already had clinched with clients in corners or behind tables. There was a stench of sweat, beer, smoke and even congealed blood in the air, mixed with raucous laughter, the clink of glass and loud conversation.
A stairway led down to the basement where the gambling took place. Stakes varied from a mark at Madam Panicci's to crown upon crown in games of all varieties.
This was not the place Darjan wanted to be he reflected, as he pushed open the grimy door and quietly slipped through it into The Punt Den. Alas, there was nothing else for it. He would much rather have been relaxing in The Ranley Tavern, a far more pleasant place and the clientele was certainly several cuts above the dross that flowed through The Punt Den's doors. That, however, was just the reason Darjan found himself slithering through the drunken crowds that stood within the tavern. These damned Oneists required that he have an Exemption Licence or he risked being ejected from the city. Certainly he could find his way back in, and make whoever had dared question his loyalty to World's Mouth pay in whatever manner he could, but it was far more convenient to secure a licence. Except they required more money than he had. He was certainly not entertaining the thought of working to make the money, or at least not the honest and toiling work that was so poorly paid. No, he intended to secure an Exemption Licence through far less legitimate means, or at least begin to make the money for it in such a manner.
That, then, was how the achadhiel found himself amongst the plebeians he so detested. His eyes naturally strayed around the room, taking in those who looked like plausible marks to have their purses lifted, mainly the more drunken customers, but such petty activity was not his prime reason for being here - he wanted to establish who it was that could set him on the right track to getting an Exemption Licence, and to discover who it was that gave out the less than legal jobs in this part of town.
Naturally one did not simply waltz in and ask the first person one found. Even if that was the done thing, it was not Darjan's way. Instead he fought his way to the a table, managing to keep a disdainful sneer from his face, and waited for someone to take his order. The smell was terrible, and he suspected there would be no palatable wine. Even if there was, it was unlikely that such an order would endear him to the people present - that was also why he had chosen to wear the dark and common clothes he owned, rather than the finely made and expensive fabrics his father had so mocked him over. But then his father was a drunken sot whose opinion counted for less than nothing. Darjan wore a knife at his belt, though it was further round than usual so that his cloak obscured it from easy view. A stiletto was housed quite comfortably within the bracers on his arm. He wore his white shirt over the bracers, but the cuffs were cut in such a fashion that he could reach the knife if needs be.
