Chapter Text
Belial Jones, owner and head chef of the Tortle Bay Sushi Bar and Soft Play Experience!!! squinted over a rectangle of parchment and put the finishing touches to his restaurant’s first advertising flyer with a flourish of his quill.
He held it up for his wife’s inspection, baring his pointy teeth in a proud grin.
“I think I spelled everything right,” he said.
Lamia squinted. “Fune for all thee Familee. All you can eate 1st day through 3rd day. Live Tortle Dance Showes nightly…”
She paused, and raised an already arched eyebrow at her husband.
“I’m not sure about that bit.”
“But it’s the big draw!,” Bel protested. “That and the ball pit, and the conveyor belt. We built a stage, for fucks’ sake!”
“I know, I know,” she said, staring down at the draft. “But I don’t want Lady Silverhand’s trading standards up our arses if they twig we don’t have any real tortles.”
Belial rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he snapped. “Give it here.”
He added an asterisk, and a disclaimer, which read ‘Noe Realle Torrtles’ in very small writing at the bottom of the page.
When Lamia’s eyebrows continued to rise, he gave the deep sigh of the artistically thwarted, and sketched a set of horns and a pointed tail onto the illustration of a happy tortle which dominated the flyer.
“Satisfied?,” he said sourly. “Want me to add some flames, really drive the point home it’s a tiefling business?”
Lamia tutted.
“Don’t be so pouty,” she said, snatching the piece of paper back from him. “I’ll take it to the printers today. If I get it in early, we should have enough to stick through letterboxes in time for the grand opening. How are we doing for staff?”
Belial sat back in the booth, scratching idly at the base of one of his horns, and watched as a gnomish artificer put the finishing touches to the conveyor belt running an overly elaborate course around the restaurant’s seating.
“We’re still short one waiter and a musician,” he said.
“Oh I daresay we can double up on that job,” said Lamia, standing and pulling on her overcoat.
“I’ll swing by the adventurer’s tavern and put an advert on the ‘Vacancies’ board. There’s bound to be some schmuck there who can follow basic instructions and play the triangle or something.”
***
Belial had high hopes for Tortle Bay. After twenty years in the food service industry, he was finally ready to open a place with class.
It wasn’t that tiefling food didn’t have it’s place. It just didn’t get many bums on seats that didn’t have a pointy tail attached to them; because tiefling cuisine mainly consisted of whatever was left on the floor of the abattoir that hadn’t already been swept up for dog food. And tieflings, generally speaking, were broke.
No, if Bel wanted a truly successful restaurant in a city as fancy as Tanis, it would need mass appeal. Somewhere fun, family friendly. With an exotic, non-threatening theme.
He’d gotten the idea for the tortle schtick when he saw a holiday brochure advertising some far flung island he’d never afford to go to. In front of the azure sea and sandy beaches were a group of smiling tortles, wearing grass skirts and holding huge platters heaving with fruit and raw fish sitting on top of these weird little rice patties.
Lamia had been skeptical of course, she didn’t want to sink every penny of their savings on such a risky venture, when their food wagon was doing a good enough trade in felblood street-meat to keep the rent paid and the kids in school.
But she’d come around, and now, finally, after months of graft to see Bel’s vision come to fruition, they were almost ready to open.
All they needed was one musician.
Preferably one who could play the ukulele.
***
The next morning, a few streets away from Tortle Bay, in a decidedly less pleasant neighborhood, the door to the 9th room on the 6th floor of Hotel Pandemonia opened with a soft creak. Cringing at the noise, it’s occupant, a tall, thin tiefling with a pasty face, cautiously poked his head out into the corridor, and seeing the coast was clear, closed it behind him, and crept on his tip-toes along the threadbare carpet to the stairs.
When he got to the lobby, he peered around the corner at the front desk. The manager, Mister Agares, was in animated conversation with Indolence, the concierge; and Kevyn had a sinking feeling he knew what it was about: the words “pale-tailed wanker” were being used, at volume.
He managed to sneak most of the way across the lobby thanks to sheer luck (and judicious use of a large pot-plant for cover) before Agares spotted him.
“Oi, you!”
Nothing got Kevyn moving faster than an ‘Oi you!’ yelled by someone furious. He bolted for the doors like a rat out of a sewer, and almost escaped before he was yanked back by his tail.
Ink wells and an entirely falsified guest book fell to the floor, as the manager shoved him onto the reception desk.
“Where’s my bloody money?,” Agares snarled, inches from his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Kevyn could see Indolence filing his claws, clearly bored.
He gulped.
“It’s just a bit tied up at the moment, Mister A. Not really got much in the way of liquid assets. But I swear I’ll get it to you,” he wheedled, eyes wide in a performance of utmost sincerity. “I just need a couple more days.”
The money being tied up was true. He and his companions managed to steal an absolute fortune, enough to buy the entire hotel with plenty to spare, but it was all in some kind of ephemeral state of being: just words on paper, not spendable currency.
Kevyn wasn’t entirely sure how to turn one into the other. He’d asked Pip, the harengon he’d travelled through the grasslands with, if there was a way to turn the paper into gold, and the little creature had talked at length about ‘white collar crime’ and ‘identity theft’ and ‘money laundering’, none of which made a lick of sense, so Kevyn eventually zoned out.
Kevyn attempted a friendly grin. It went down like a cup of cold sick with Agares, a gigantic red tiefling who delighted in telling everyone his old man was a big-name cambion down in Avernus.
“That’s what you said the last time, you bastard. This ain’t a charity, so pay up or fuck off!”
“I haven’t got enough!,” Kevyn croaked, truthfully. He thought not frittering away his coin on endless vices would’ve meant he’d have money to spare, but it was difficult to find work when he’d burned nearly all his bridges with the people making the bookings during his decades-long bender.
Agares snarled, and Kevyn felt a clawed hand delving into the pocket of his trousers, looking for anything worth taking.
The manager pulled out a tarnished room key with the number ‘69’ embossed on the fob.
“Then it looks like you’re out on your arse, mate.”
Fuck fuck fuck!
“At least give me time to clear my stuff out,” Kevyn begged, thinking of the few objects of value he had stashed. His guitar, for a start.
“Oh no, pal, those are getting pawned to help cover your bills.”
“Wait, wait! I’ll get your money by tonight! I swear on my mother’s life!”
An easy thing to swear on, he figured.
“You owe me twenty gilders you junkie twat!”
“Then I’ll get it for you, Agares! Give me til midnight and I promise it’ll be yours.”
Agares jangled the key at him. “I’m keeping this in case you decide to do a flit. Twenty gilders by midnight. After that, everything’s going down the pawn shop, and you’ll be barred from the Pandemonia.”
He let go of Kevyn’s jacket, and made a show of wiping his hands on his trousers as the bard pushed himself off the desk with as much dignity as he was able.
“I know there’s a reason you keep slinking in and out of here hoping no-one’ll notice. You’ve upset someone serious, haven’t you? Well, if you still owe me that money after the clock strikes twelve, lets just say your description’ll be circulating in some of the spicier bits of the Hells. Ya get me?”
“Crystal clear.”
“Right. Best go find some money quick-smart.”
Kevyn straightened up, and noticed something strange behind the desk. In the cubbyhole marked with his room number was an envelope.
Who in the hells knows I’m living here?
“Can I at least pick up my post?,” he ventured.
“Yeah,” said Indolence. “At midnight.”
The concierge and the manager watched him leave.
“Is it just me,” said Indolence, “Or does he seem even clammier and shadier than usual?”
***
Just after lunchtime, Kevyn sat on a stool at the Rogue’s Return, chain smoking, nursing a tomato juice; and trying not to make eye contact with the bottles of whiskey nestled in rows behind the bar.
He’d been clean and sober for nine moons. There’d been plenty of occasions where he’d been tempted to backslide, but none quite as strong as this.
In the hours since he’d left the Pandemonia, he’d managed to scrape together the equivalent of eight gilders in small change: seven pennies he’d found in the gutter, and the rest from pickpocketing unsuspecting tourists in the Pleasure District before the guards started looking at him funny.
I need my guitar!, he thought in frustration, his grip tightening on the tumbler.
The Panty Waster was an ugly thing, with an ugly name he’d given it when he was at his absolute worst. Nothing like the one he’d been forced to replace with it, thanks to his dreadful ex-girlfriend and her horrible little… whatever it was she kept under her hat. But it was his, it was part of him, and his ability to make the dosh he owed Agares in time without it was severely limited: he couldn’t cast his glamours without an instrument.
He looked around the pub, wondering if there was anyone who might front him the money, but all the faces were unfamiliar, and anyway, who in the hells would lend gold to him?
A loan shark, he thought, but then I’m no better off. I may as well tie some bricks to my feet and chuck myself in the river now, save everyone some time.
His eye wandered to the corkboard just to the right of the pool table.
I suppose it’s worth a look…
The Rogue’s Return was one of Tanis’ many adventurer’s taverns, albeit one of the less prestigious ones. The taverns acted as rest stop and informal labour exchange for the assorted sellsword companies, treasure hunters and adventuring bands that roamed the Principality of Ebonn. Almost all of them had a jobs board, and the Double R was no exception.
Kevyn read the notices as he sucked the tomato juice through his soggy paper straw.
“BARBARIAN SEEKS SIMILAR 4 RAMPAGE.”
Well that’s me out, he thought, moving on.
“’Donate your body to the necromantic arts today’… nope… ’Join The Dice Queen’s Favourites for an expedition to the hells… gold and glory await’… there’s easier ways to commit suicide than that… ‘ang on… is that a tortle?”
Pinned to the side of an advert for Honest Henry’s Potions Emporium was a green flyer, illustrated with what appeared to be a smiling tortle, albeit one with horns and a tail.
I think Snorkel said he had a place in Tanis, remembered Kevyn. He’s a nice bloke when he isn’t cock-blocking me, maybe he’d lend me the money if I asked…
He quickly realised there were a few glaring problems with that plan. For one, Kevyn didn’t have his address, and the old tortle might not even be home right now. By the time Kevyn found him, he’d be too late, his guitar would be gone, and Agares would be calling up his dad in a summoning circle to tell him all about the dodgy bard he’d just evicted.
And then there’s Mabel.
That was the major problem. Snorkel’s housemate and colleague was Kevyn’s ex, who had the morals of an alley cat and the personality of a funnelweb spider. Their relationship had been like the contents of an alchemist’s cabinet: fun, explosive, and with an extremely short half-life before it went rotten. It ended badly, of course, and Kevyn didn’t fancy running into her again when he wasn’t armed.
He took the flyer back to the bar and studied it, lighting another cigarette and stirring the dregs of his drink with a celery stick.
“New restaurant requires entertainers… hmm… must be clean… blah blah blah… full uniform and instruments provided… five gilders per night with potential for triple in tips… phwoar… immediate start!”
Kevyn sat up straight, and took a triumphant chomp of his celery. This was perfect.
Like all jobbing musicians, he wasn’t a stranger to a spell in the food service industry, and this was a new business, they wouldn’t know his reputation as a complete scumbag.
Plus instrument provided…
Kevyn knew he’d be able to milk far more than fifteen gilders in tips out of an audience.
Once I’ve enthralled them, of course.
***
“So tell me, Mister…”
Belial glanced down at the business card he’d been handed.
“Meriah… why do you want to come and work at the Tortle Bay Sushi Bar and Soft Play Experience!!!?”
Bel was careful to pronounce all three exclamation marks in his restaurant’s name. It made the subject of the interview; and his wife, jump.
In the booth opposite him and Lamia, one of the strangest tieflings he’d ever seen gave them a broad, easy smile.
Too broad. Too easy.
He was male and middle aged, tall and thin, with jet black hair, from which poked a set of curly horns that Bel thought were a little undersized. The felblood’s skin was ghostly white, and his shifty, human-like blue eyes were messily outlined with kohl. His arms and neck were scrawled with tattoos, his ears and nose bore several piercings, and he was wearing a flouncy silk shirt and an obscenely tight pair of leather trousers.
He looked like a total degenerate, and stank of tobacco. Definitely not the kind of image Belial wanted for the Tortle Bay Sushi Bar and Soft Play Experience!!!.
“I actually know a tortle,” said Meriah. “He told me about his culture and their delicious food on our travels. ‘Elping to bring that to the people of Tanis for the first time is a very exciting prospect.”
He addressed his answer to Lamia, Bel noticed, who was playing with one of her earrings in the way she always did when she got a bit flustered.
“Also,” he said, leaning over the table, and slipping smoothly into Infernal, “I think it’s high time our people got the respect we deserve as decent members of society. Ventures like this will help change the way we are seen by the unhorned, n’est ce pas?”
That surprised Bel. He’d pegged Meriah for a changeling, thanks to his weird colouring, and their sort didn’t normally go in for tiefling solidarity.
Maybe he isn’t so bad, after all. Just unlucky, like most of us.
“Mister Meriah… d’ya have any experience of working in a busy restaurant?,” asked Lamia.
She sounds a little breathy, thought Bel, frowning. Maybe it’s all the dust from the construction work.
The man nodded.
“Oh, extensive.”
“And your card says you’re a musician?,” she asked.
“By profession.”
“Well, that’s great!,” she cried, adjusting her glasses and leaning over the table. “Part of the authentic Tortle Bay experience for our customers is a song and dance routine, just like the tortles on their islands. We’re looking for performing experience, someone who can pick things up fast.”
“That won’t be a problem,” said Meriah.
“And what is it you play?,” asked Bel, narrowing his eyes. Meriah hadn’t brought an instrument with him to the interview.
The alleged musician sat back and ran a hand through his hair.
“Thaumaturgic guitar. I sing, too.”
“So where’s your guitar?”
“It’s, umm, in for repairs. But it said on the flyer you provided instruments so…”
“Can you play anything else?”
Meriah nodded again.
“If it’s got strings, and you can strum it, I can play it.”
“Fabulous. We’ve got the perfect thing for you, Mister Meriah,” said Lamia.
“Call me Kevyn, ma’am, please,” the musician purred.
“Well… Kevyn, as you can see, the food’s gonna be on this here conveyor system,” Belial gestured proudly to the belt, wriggling through the dining room like a giant mechanical anaconda. “People just need to pick up the plates they want, and we’ll bill them at the end. The table service’ll be mainly drinks orders.”
At that, Mister Meriah — Kevyn — looked uncomfortable for the first time.
“You aren’t a drinker are you?,” asked Bel, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
Kevyn shook his head. “No, no, never touch the stuff.”
Belial made a quick note on his pad.
“And just to be clear, you aren’t a warlock or otherwise in the service of any dark powers?”
“No,” Meriah answered slowly, after what Bel thought was a rather lengthy bit of thinking time. “No I’m not.”
Bel made another note.
“And when were you last dipped for tail mites?,” he asked casually, not looking up.
At that, Kevyn Meriah spluttered indignantly.
“That’s a bit of a personal question!,” he cried.
“Isn’t it just?,” said Bel. “Mister Meriah, I’ve got three children. D’ya know how much turpentine you need to treat five tieflings for tail mites every time one of us gets them? Besides, I want to run a high class establishment, and I can’t do that if we’re all constantly scratching our arses.”
“Six weeks ago, I’m clean, okay!”, Meriah snapped, folding his arms huffily.
Belial gave their prospective employee a smile which didn’t reach his orange eyes. “Well, Mister Meriah, thank you for your time, we’ll discuss your application for the posi-“
“Oh come on, Bel!,” snapped Lamia. “Stop jerking him around. It’s opening night and we need the help.”
She turned to Kevyn. “We’ll give you a trial shift.”
Kevyn slumped in relief.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Mrs Jones,” he said, smiling with all of his pointed teeth.
“Lamia. Call me Lamia. Now you’ll have to wear the uniform.”
He shrugged.
“I can do that.”
“Actually,” said Bel, with a nasty grin, “It’s more like a costume.”