In the forlorn room she found a package addressed to her: Militiawoman Laarke, by the alley. Fortunately, the postman knew who she was despite the vagueness of the address and had tossed it through the open window.
Unfortunately, she lived all the way on the second floor, and he had had to hurl it. Such a trajectory had left it battered to the eye. She hoped that whatever was inside had fared better.
As she reached for the note affixed to the thing, she wondered who might have sent it to her. The only friendly option she could think of was Qais, but he didn’t need the Post to get a package to her; they shared haunts in common well enough.
The letter provided no answers. Militiawoman Laarke, it began, I did not want to leave so clearly valuable a package outside, given the environs. I hope that this mode of delivery is satisfactory. – Postman Quib
Laarke stared at the note, shifted her gaze to the battered package, shook her head with bemusement. He tried, she thought wryly, before bending her attention back to the question at hand: who? She wracked her brains for possibilities.
Briefly she considered the night tavernkeep in Combe who was always at least polite, but she was certain he knew not where she lived, and she saw no reason he would send her anything. The dwarf, Frekial, had shared little more than a drink with her – and though sharing a drink with another was rare for her, she doubted it was so special an event for him. He hadn’t seemed particularly thankful for her assistance either, so while she wouldn’t have put it past him to determine her residence… it couldn’t be him.
Which left her under the assumption that this was not a package that she wanted to receive, and she gingerly pulled it toward her, turning it upright upon the ground, her mind meanwhile leaping to the thugs recently released from custody. How likely was it that they had returned to whomever had sent them? They had remained tight-lipped against her questions, and she still knew nothing about their loyalties or intentions, other than that they’d wanted to take the dwarf alive. She felt her brow furrow as she heard Frekial’s warning again: Be careful, lass.
They may have wanted the dwarf alive, but they’d had no qualms with killing her to get to him.
She cast about for other options but found herself coming up short. There were many that might wish her ill or view her with vindication, but only one of those did she think might actually try to find her… And he wouldn’t send a package.
Which left her with a best guess of Frekial’s enemy – whoever that was – and no clue what might be inside. Laarke pulled her dagger out with a tense sigh. Only one way to find out, she admitted, using its edge to pry at the lid. Tentatively she cracked it open, and immediately an incredibly sweet smell wafted out of the box, causing her nose to scrunch. But nothing untoward happened, so she opened the package the rest of the way and peered inside.
A mushy mess of sponge and glue awaited her, bits of it sticking to the walls and lid.
Odd, came the confused thought, and she cautiously reached in to nick a bit of it with her dagger, pulled it out to take a closer look. Her brow furrowed with surprise, and she raised the mixture to her nose to take a verifying sniff. The tension left her all in a rush and she rocked back on her heels with an uncharacteristic giggle that turned into full-throated laughter. She’d never had one before, but she knew what this was, and to know was such a relief.
This, she thought, gazing at the sticky mess, is a cake! The “sponge” was sweet bread, and the “glue” creamy icing. If it wasn’t poisoned, it was a princely gift. Quieting her laughter, she closed the package up tight and leapt to her feet, bounding down the stair and out the door into the late afternoon.
There were only a few people she could think of that might have made such a delicacy, and – for better or worse – she was going to go ask some questions.
