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Riz would never admit it, but one of his favorite things about being a secret agent is the clothes. There’s an elderly Bugbear at the office who puts together all his outfits for him and somehow manages to make everything perfectly fit both the mission and Riz. Whatever part he has to play, he looks it, and he never has to worry about being comfortable or picking out the wrong thing. Sometimes, he even gets to look good.
This mission is one of those times. It’s just a quick recon pass, observing targets and planting a few bugs, but the cover is a black-tie party, so Riz is dressed in a beautifully tailored tuxedo. He sees himself in the mirror behind the bar, cocktail in hand with an easy smile, and is once again struck by how much he looks like his dad. Every glimpse he catches of his reflection feels like a reminder that his personal guardian angel is there looking out for him. He knows his dad isn’t actually watching, right now, but it still helps steady his focus and make him feel a little less like throwing up.
When he calls his mom tomorrow, he’ll tell her that he was thinking about dad. He can’t share any details of the mission, or even that he had one, but she’ll understand.
A voice in his head speaks up, “Eyes up. Secondary target is headed your way.”
“Copy that,” he replies. Outwardly, all he does is sip his drink and brush a piece of lint off his shoulder.
A handsome elven man approaches the bar and asks for a glass of brandy, which he knocks back like a shot, then taps the glass for more. Riz doesn’t think it’s meant to be drunk that way, and he knows that a bottle of it costs more than the average house.
“That bad, huh?” Riz asks casually.
The man startles and looks at Riz like he didn’t even notice someone was there. Fair, since Riz is about a foot below his eye line, even standing on a riser.
“What?”
His name is Luthais Oricaryn, a minor dignitary with investments in a shipping company based out of Sunpeak. Most of the party guests are strolling about with expressions that range from mild boredom to polite enthusiasm, but this guy looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. He has the anxiety of a man who’s being kept away from something important and is one inconvenience away from slapping someone’s face.
“A person doesn’t drink Gravalvian brandy like it’s water if they’re having a good time,” Riz observes.
“Oh. Yes.” Oricaryn relaxes slightly, picking up his refilled glass. “I suppose I don’t care for frivolous parties.”
“It’s all kind of vapid, isn’t it?” Riz takes a sip of his own drink, a vodka tonic with the alcohol magically removed. “I’ve just been people watching all night. It’s pretty entertaining.”
Oricaryn huffs amusement and glances over his shoulder at the crowd. “Better than talking to them, certainly.”
“For instance, see the lady over there in the hat?” Riz points to a Dwarven woman across the room, a business rival of Oricaryn, in towering heels and a foot-tall fascinator in the shape of a climbing vine. “No idea who she is, but I’ve got a bet going with myself on whether she trips before someone knocks over that stupid hat.”
That gets him a startled laugh, which Oricaryn quickly stifles. He gives the woman a surreptitious glare, then asks Riz, “What’s the more likely outcome, do you think?”
“I’ve seen a couple of people stop themselves from smacking the hat already, so probably that,” Riz tells him. “Honestly, if I could do any kind of magic, I’d just...”
He makes a flicking gesture to suggest either knocking it down or dispelling whatever enchantment is keeping the vine upright. His companion hums thoughtfully, then glances quickly around. Apparently satisfied that no one is watching, Oricaryn mutters a quick word in Elvish and subtly waves his fingers toward the woman. Instantly, the base of the vine sways and snaps, making the whole structure fall into her face. She shrieks and stumbles backward into another guest, causing a cascade of chaos and spilled drinks.
Riz and Oricaryn snicker to each other, and Riz taps the rim of Oricaryn’s drink with his own. “Nicely done.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oricaryn says loftily, the corner of his mouth curled in mischief. “Though I may take advantage of the moment to speak with some people she’s been monopolizing.”
“Ruthless. I like it.”
“One does what one must.” He offers his hand and Riz takes it, surprised at the firmness of his grip. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, mister...?”
“Ball,” Riz replies. “Fabian Ball. Sorry. I’m sure I should know who you are, but...”
Oricaryn shakes his head and hands over a business card. “Not at all. Luthais Oricaryn. I hope to see you again the next time I have to attend one of these dreadful fêtes.”
“Likewise.” Riz glances politely at the card and notes that the contact information has a crystal number in Highcourt. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Oricaryn.”
He rolls his eyes and meanders away into the crowd. Riz waits a beat, sipping at his vodka-less drink, then glances at a nearby server to send a message in his mind, “Contact. Package delivered. Confirm.”
The server, a half-elven woman with deep tan skin and her hair scraped into a poof of curls on top of her head, taps the side of her thick glasses and casts her eyes casually toward Oricaryn. “Confirmed. Tracking potion is in effect. Good job.”
Riz touches the rim of his glass to apply another dose of the potion. He doubts he’ll be lucky enough that any of the other targets come strolling up for a chat, but he’s ready. In the meantime, he continues watching the ebb and flow of the party guests, wheeling and dealing around the room, and watches his partner maneuver deftly around them, planting a little magic of her own. They’ve already gotten good intel and should be making their exits soon, but it’s worth holding out for just a little bit more. Another server passes by, and he snatches an h’orsdeuvre off their tray, some kind of raw meat thing that tastes amazing.
It’s not an easy job. There are plenty of days he wonders if he should have stuck with PI work or taken the offer from the Society of Shadows. Sometimes, though, the job involves people watching at a fancy party, wearing an immaculate tux, eating good food, and doing the things that he’s good at. The information they get here will help stop a system of exploitation and abuse that’s been going on for much too long and bring the people responsible to justice.
Nights like this, there’s nothing else he’d rather do.