(123-02-11) A Little Word from Braavos
A Little Word from Braavos
Summary: Malcolm has a visitor.
Date: Date of play (11/02/123)
Related: None.
Players:
Malcolm..Ronio Malti..

There is someone at the door. Knocking. Patiently.

Malcolm is checking over the food before it goes up to the starks. It is a guard that opens the door, even as Malcolm comes to see what is going on. He's in practice leathers and smelling of the sea, beard and hair fresh died the day before.

There's a man out there. A great, big man, tall and fat and generally enormous in every direction. He is dressed in the Braavosi fashion, all colourful silks and scarves. He wears a neat beard and long curly black hair, oiled to a shine, and has a ring or two on every finger, sparkling bright.

Malcolm steps up behind the guard, studying this stranger with some curiosity. Given the clothes, he opts for Braavosi, «May we help you in some way?»

"Ser Malcolm Snow," says the man, amiably. He smiles a friendly smile. He smells pleasantly clean, lime and balsam.

Malcolm gives a little half bow in case the man is noble, tone puzzled, "That is me, Ser Malcolm Storm, the Bastard of Kellington."

"Ronio Malti," says the man, "Of the Iron Bank. To see you, if I may." He smiles. He's got a leather satchel, a rather plain but well-made thing, under his arm. "So! Will you let me in, mm?"

Malcolm says, "Yes, come in. We're just about to serve dinner, but My starks are taking theirs in there rooms. You might eat with us if you like." His brow furrows, "I don't owe any debts to the Iron Bank that I know of….""

"No, no, of course not," says the man. "If you owed us, you would know." He seems quite jolly about it, and steps inside. He's light on his feet, really, graceful in that way that some very fat people achieve. "What's supper?" Curious.

Malcolm says, "Chicken mostly, creamed beans. Bread and cheese. Cider or ale whichever pleases you. We keep a fairly simple table most nights…. What might this be about, Master Malti?""

"Ah," says Malti, "If I tell you, will I get chicken and beans and cider?" He laughs. "I have for you, ser Malcolm Storm, a deleevery. I hope not bad news."

Malcolm is still looking curious, but willing to go along with it, smiling readily, "You are welcome to the chicken and beans and cider as long as you do no harm to those of the house.

The big man laughs, and says, "Oh, dear fellow, do not take my designs on your chicken too seriously. But let me sit down a bit, at least."

Malcolm insists on leading him to the table, where food and drink are being set out for those privileged to eat there. He has a trencher and mug brought for the guest, and sits beside him, offering bread and salt, still with a quizzical expression, 'Let it not be said that the starks do not feed guests."

Ronio Malti smiles, and seats himself neatly at the table. He sets the leather satchel to one side of his trencher and starts to undo its clasp when the bread and salt comes around. He looks a bit bemused for a moment, then remembers, "Ah! Begging your pardon," he says, meaning his hesitation, as he takes a piece and dips it in the salt before eating it.

Malcolm eats his own measure of the bread and salt, then starts serving up portions for each of them to make clear that Ronio should be comfortable eating as much as he likes. His movements have the save efficient grace as his walk, no wasted movements, all precise. "Please be welcome at our table."

"Why thank you," says the man. He has a swallow from his tankard and continues to open the satchel. From it he produces a package, wrapped in sack-cloth and tied shut with coarse, strong string, the knot sealed with a blob of black wax. He offers this to Malcolm. It's about palm-sized, and perhaps two inches thick.

Malcolm waits patiently for the package to be produced, despite his obvious curiosity. he says his thanks in Braavosi and sets about opening it, careful of paper and string, nit being of a wasteful temperament.

It's just coarse fabric, reused, covering it. The wax seal is the one of the Iron Bank, with a second small seal on the same wax underneath, some code perhaps. It's not hard to open. Inside there's a wooden box, simple.

Ronio Malti samples the supper, neat and polite in hi movements.

Malcolm is too curious to see what is in the box to notice how similar the guest's table manners are to his own. He opens it carefully, lid turned to shield the contents in case they are not for general perusal.

Inside is a large cloak pin. It's a big oval piece of polished labradorite, its iridescent colours rippling. It's carved with a relief, a heraldic sea-lion, not the Braavosi style at all. The setting is pale gold, near white.

Malcolm is clearly startled and impressed all at once, turning the pin out to better examine it by lamp light. he spots the trick of it and tries to open it.

Ronio Malti observes this, dabs at his lips with a silken handkerchief, and says, "Well, it seems it is not bad news at all." He smiles.

Malcolm flashes him a mischievous smile, "We won't know until I get a better look. It's lovely, certainly. Do you know who has sent it me?"

There's a trick to it. You have to use a fingernail to push in on a slender part of the casing, a spot well-hidden in the setting. The thing inside is wrapped in sunrise-red silk, a tiny something.

Malti smiles, "I did not receive it from the man who sent it, alas," he says. "It came along with the other messages from Braavos that come from time to time. You do not know it?"

Malcolm shakes his head no, "I've many acquaintance in Braavos though from my time studying there. I just can't imagine any sending me a thing as fine as this." he pops it with a fingernail and pulls out the thing in silk, unwrapping it in the box again, in case it is noit for general viewing.

The bit of silk contains a key. It was clearly wrapped to protect the inside of the locket — there's a tiny painting in there, a girl with wavy black hair and brown eyes, a somewhat wide and expressive mouth. It's flawless, not faded or stained or chipped.

Malcolm's eyes go wide when he sees it. He is a little chocked up, as he has a guess now, "I wish I could know who has sent this, though I expect the giver would not want to be known." He runs a finger over the face gently, over the design of the jewel.

Ronio Malti eats, delicately and neatly. He looks away when he sees that Malcolm is choked up, and instead commences to chat with the other household servants. He's charming, remarkably able to win over smallfolk, consider that he's someone both seemingly wealthy and definitely foreign and associated with something so very sinister as the Iron Bank.

She's young, the girl. A child, or a maiden newly flowered.

It's so hard to tell with these often idealized portraits. Is it a familiar face or isn't it? He studies it, doing his best to remember.

Is it? She's pretty, at least. Dressed in a gown of the Braavosi style, a rich one but not so rich as to be black; it's a shade between wine and mahogany. Alert dark eyes, a faint smile on her lips, she does look /familiar/ but there's no name or place to go with the face.

Malcolm's voice is under control again as he asks his guest, switching back to Braasvosi in case he has anything confidential to impart. «Is there nothing you might tell me?»

The big man cleans his plate, and washes it down with cider and a smile. He replies, in the same language, «What would I know?»

Malcolm studies him, «Who might have sent it? Who the picture is of? What sigyl is this on the pin? Anything? Was this intended as a birthday gift?»

Malti looks at the thing. He looks at the portrait, then at Malcolm, then at the portrait again, and chuckles. "You don't know her?" he says.

Malcolm sighs, «She could almost be someone I knew once, but she could just as easily be someone else.»

The big man raises his eyebrows. "So, write to the one you knew once?" he suggests, "And find out?"

Malcolm shakes his head, "It's not possible. Thank you for bringing it. Would you like more to eat?" He puts everything back carefully and sets it out of the way to puzzle over later and sets to eating before his food chills, "How was your sailing? I had a raven that there have been a few storms."

"I came over a month ago," says Malti. "It was not a bad trip. I am afraid I make them often, and am used to the sea. And thank you, I'll not take more of your dinner, I am well satisfied."

Malcolm offers the pitcher, "More cider then? I don't suppose you know or have word of Cosimo Deliberi? Or his Master and his salle? I admit not much word of Braavos reaches us here."

Malti smiles. "No great news," he says. "The dancing master prospers. Perhaps it is he you wish to write to?"

Malcolm opens his mouth to say no, but then thinks it over, "Perhaps it is at that after all. I would… like to know my benefactor. To thank him, understand? I bear no ill will to my friends even if I do not know their names.

"Would they be your friends if they thought you bore them ill?" says Malti, smiling. "You know where to find me, no?"

You say, "You said the Iron Bank. I can find it if I need to. People often think ill of bastards. They want me to speak ill of people to whom I owe gratitude and I inevitable disappoint them my speaking well of my kin.'"

Ronio Malti raises his eyebrows. "Well, continue to disappoint them with grace," he suggests after a moment, smiling. "I bid you good night, Ser Malcolm. Thank you."

Malcolm stands so he might show the visitor out with a respectful head bob. "May your winds be excellent."

The Braavosi man bows, gracefully, and then makes his way out.

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