(1310-06-26) Spend Your Time Well
Summary: The pretender to the throne of Milazza hires an intrepid captain for an important mission.
RL Date: 06/25/2018
Related: None

The Harbor of Marsilikos


Given that Tybalt owns a ship and has something of a reputation, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that a missive arrives by courier to the noble. It bears a seal that he might recognize as pertaining to the ruling House in Milazza, but it also speaks of meeting the sender in a dingy bar by the harbors of Marsilikos.

Once Tybalt arrives, the Milazzan stands out like a sore thumb. He's there, surrounded by a retinue of men who look like they are professionals at shedding blood, and appears to be going over some ledgers with his seneschal.

What a coincidence: Tybalt is accompanied by a small retinue of men who look like they are professional bloodshedders as well. A ragtag group, among which he is the token d'Angeline, and not even fully d'Angeline at that. In that respect none of them stand out a great deal, but it does clue the captain in to whom he's supposed to be addressing, and approaching. "Hell of a meeting place you picked."

"Might as well meet a sailor in a sailor's venue," the Milazzan states, gesturing to the seat across from his, which is quietly and expediently vacated by a retainer. "I'm looking to hire people for a military campaign. Care to join me for drinks, or would you rather hear the business pitch beforehand?"

One should note: the Milazzan is blond and grey-eyed; there's a sharpness to that gaze that betrays the cool, analytical personality behind them.

"If you're buying, I suppose we're drinking." We being they; Tybalt settles in the chair opposite and leans in it with easy grace, like he'd rather be tipping it back and putting his boots on the table, rude as that might be. His retainers fan out a little, apparently now persuaded there isn't any mortal danger pending and also livened by the promise of alcohol. "A military campaign, huh." He tilts his head, looking right to left, left to right, around the whole dingy bar, with thinly veiled amusement. "But you can talk while we drink, I reckon."

"You might say I am trying to reclaim my birthright from a pretender." That is to say, his brother. The Milazzan inclines his head to Tybalt, nevertheless. "I'd enlist your men in a mission to take Genoa. You would be in charge of smuggling a number of people to infiltrate the fortifications' garrisons and open the gates for my army. Ale is poured for the both of them. It's expensive, premium stuff, as far as ale goes. And likely not the establishment's private reserve. "Since there would be some considerable danger getting them there, payment will be around three thousand ducats."

"Aren't we all," says Tybalt dryly. He's content to listen though, and to drink, when the ale arrives. That glass is picked up and a healthy swallow taken. The impression might be given that he's pondering it, not the Milazzan's little story and the sum of coin attached. "How many individuals are we smuggling? The Wind Harrowed has a full crew compliment and we aren't used to having many passengers board. At the end of the day it might cost you nearer to four thousand, especially if I have to appropriate another ship for the task." Who knows how that math works out. He's casual about the price jump though, as if negotiating the price tag is going to be the hardest part.

"Three and five hundred," the Milazzan can bargain, but he's going for the halfway point right away. "As for how many people… possibly three or four. It depends on whether you want to participate in the takeover or not." Gesturing to the man, then, he does concede the following point, "If you have to appropriate another ship, then whatever is in the hold is yours, but that goes without saying. Having said so, however, I am prepared to pay you half now and half at Genoa."

Tybalt's mouth twitches into something like a smile, but with teeth. "My men are not soldiers, and most are not particularly skilled at land-based operations. Better questions would be what assets do you already have in place in Genoa? Are they expecting us?"

"They're expecting us in a siege. They aren't expecting us to march in with the gates opening from the inside." The Milazzan states. "I have an army two thousand strong, at present, but I am working on acquiring more. Hence my little stint in Terre d'Ange."

"So, none." That answers his first question. And the second, after a fashion. Tybalt does lean back a little; the chair creaks under him rather precariously but he doesn't tilt it, so it doesn't collapse. He has another swallow of the ale in the meantime and then appears to consider it. "We'll have to work out the specifics. Where; when; who. You can bring my retainer out to the Wind Harrowed later and we can discuss it further." He tilts the glass slightly in the Milazzan's direction. "You can bring another bottle of this stuff, too."

"Alright." The Milazzan states, gesturing to the seneschal, who takes note and nods. The money will be delivered. "We can go over those in our next meeting, with the assembled group in question." Rising to his feet, he inclines his head to Tybalt. "I must go for now, but expect a visit and then an invitation in short notice."

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