Blade And Saffron

Wine and Whiskey

David hummed, strolling down the street in the pleasant evening air, the sea of stars were luminous above him. "What a beautiful night. Splendid, splendid." David twirled, tapped his feet in fast rhythm on the cobble street, singing a random piece, absorbing the night scents.

He sauntered into his accommodation, smiled charmingly to a fashionable looking female, walked up the stone steps to his room at the top of the building. David unlocked the door, closed it, slid the double lock securely, dropped his overcoat on the coat stand. He ambled to the sitting area, pouring himself a glass of wine. He took an inhale, swirling the content, mind still on the exquisite performance from the local theater he saw tonight. Walking toward his bedroom, taking a sip, he thought about the informations he had successfully acquired from his newly made contacts. He had to canvass the place tomorrow, obtained the blueprint for the next step on his plan.

David was about to switch on the light in the wall near the bed, when a tingle on the back of his neck alarmed him. The room was half-dark, the only illumination was the moonlight from outside through the window, but the presence of someone in the room was tangible to his senses. He had been so distracted with his thoughts, if he was dead, he could only blame his own ass. He put down his glass on the bedside table while moving his other hand to his jacket in a fast, inconspicuous movement.

"Don't bother."

David sighed but the corner of his mouth pulled in a smile, he switched on the lights and turned around. Patrick was lounging casually on his couch across the bed at the other side of the room, one booted foot perched on his thigh, sipping from a glass. David raised his eyebrow.

"Oh, I took the liberty. You got good taste, smokey and sweet, and what is that spice?" Patrick snapped his fingers. "I can't quite grasp it."

"Saffron and nutmeg."

"Yeah. You can't get those stuffs here."

"No, they're not local." He gestured. "Glad to see you're alive, not that I ever doubted your proficiency."

Patrick took a deep sip before putting the glass down on the side table.

"So, aside from sampling my rare, imported whiskey, why are you here? Because you know, normally people go for a nice dinner first, before sneaking into their date's bedroom, went through their underwear closets and all that." He said, looking around the room, at the half-pulled out drawers. "Even for my standard, that's a bit singular."

Patrick slid his long, serrated dagger out from his belt in a slow, fluid motion. David watched him inspecting the light licked and skimmed across the cutting edges.

He rolled his eyes. "You are very flashy for an assassin or whatever."

Patrick turned from his inspection. "You know, the thing about monogrammed attires, it makes one easier to find." He took something out from inside his jacket and threw it on the floor.

David looked at his missing black left glove, the rose woven in gold threads.

"It took me some hours praying around the underground, but a David with rose signature, believe it or not, was easy-peasy. You might want to lose your flashy vanity in our kind of business, you know."

David shrugged. "Can't help it, my aesthetic is incorrect without it."

Patrick stared at him, toying with his dagger. "Turns out David Rose is not a simple, ordinary street thief like he humbly professed. But, an art thief, one of the best known, with high targets, often obscure, elaborate heists, according to my sources." He looked up at him. "And definitely not a local."

David gave a mock-bow. "What can I say? I'm very modest, it's incurable."

"Give me the box, David."

"I didn't—"