Traditionally, Quintly reflected, one was held up in a dark alley by a thief, and after a suitable bout of fear one went away with a receipt and a slightly reassuring promise that one's thefts per quarter were already behind them. Perhaps an Assassin might lurk out of the shadows in that way they seemed to, scuttling theatrically up a drainpipe and cloaked in the shared understanding that everyone would politely act as if they didn't notice, but to be accosted by a gang of roving Seamstresses and having a bag put over one's head before being dragged off was a bit much.

The phrase "an offer one can't refuse" was often bandied about, with the unspoken understanding that refusal was not only entirely possible, but likely welcomed by any number of large, leering men loitering conveniently nearby, or in Quintly Splutt's case, a number of heavily-rouged ladies with knives and the vague suggestion that others would be paying them for this sort of treatment.

It was explained to him - or, Quintly noted, very pointedly at him - that the demand, such as it was, was rapidly outstripping supply with the expansion of certain steam-powered contraptions chugging about, and the seamstresses had come to induce an Understanding in the palace of the merits of their negotiable affections being somewhat more selectively sought. And Quintly, with his habit of producing inconvenient iconographs of notable figures and accepting reasonable sums for them never existing in the first place, had been hit upon as the ideal solution to a delicate problem.

Which, to Quintly's mind, went some distance to explain his current disposition, deposited in a disconcertingly quiet studio¹ in the Shades around midnight with an ornate onyx couch somehow smelling of wizards, and presently faced with a disconcertingly alert young woman who was looking at him with the sort of suspicious eagerness a less polite man might consider commercially minded. Still, Quintly had quickly noticed the scrap of black ribbon neatly pinned to her lapel, and had rapidly made up his mind to practice a very appropriate sort of nonchalance.

It was a curious affectation of the Society that the names its members stalked, sidled up to, and pounced on often seemed to suggest they'd do the same to other people. Ministrella de Workshafte could just as easily have had some sturdy lowland name like Agnes or Ortha, but no, once the incisors and the habit of flapping about in a cloud of flying mice came up, it had to be Ministrella.

Still, as a gentleman who had spent some time in the company of those whose names were frantically pasted over a bulging container of things best not associated with another, more exciting name, Quintly had decided quickly to gloss over the visible pondering before Ministrella had announced her name and the distressingly respectful glances the usual sort outside in the alley had thrown her way before finding more opportune places to loiter. He had gamely commenced to a delicate description of the sort of iconography reference work the intention was to undertake, punctuated with pirouetting digressions about discretion and it's really more artistic, really, like those paintings everyone gawks at, but a grounded sort of functionalist piece, in several interesting positions and with more attention to, er, audience appreciation of the portrayed individuals.

He continued, unable to shake off the impression that Ministrella had a considerable amount of experience examining people.

"Now, no one's saying there's not a commercial aspect to this, mind you, but what I intend to do is produce, er, art for the masses. Such that any fine, upstanding citizen might retrieve from his pocket and ponder at length until length isn't an issue anymore, as it were. Of course, tasteful care will be paid to the interests of those for whom length is never an issue and their, er, appreciatory indulgences. Er. If you follow."

Quintly could hear the usually lazy snoring from his iconograph quiet, and resolved himself to ensure another cutting of lettuce and an unspoken thanks for the silence found its way to the imp.

Ministrella nodded. "Oh, quite."

Quintly felt sweat trickle down his back. "Now, there's a certain degree of exposure inherent in the job, and as it is, I've only got enough to pay one, er, artistic assistant at a time; the troll market might be big one, two years from now, let's say, and management positions are always on the offer for then, but for now..."

"Oh, for now? I've got another job. Shifts might need to be worked around. But you can't put a price on exposure."

Quintly nodded, gamely trying to keep up. "Of course. Now, I've always said that it's the year of the Weasel; one's got to acknowledge the valuable contributions of the differently a- er, all sorts, and if there's one thing that gets a man in a charitably accepting frame of mind, it's being distracted from his mind. By art, of course."

Ministrella smirked. "And his nethers, you mean? Some might say there's a civic-minded streak in you yet, Mr. Splutt. Doing your part to deter crime and public vice."

Now it was Quintly's turn to nod, thoughts of scriptwriting beginning to percolate and being almost immediately replaced by eminently advertisable titles. Wet Nights, that sounded suitable. Unquenchable Thirst sounded a bit much, and The Ride too reminiscent of the sort of thing high-society stage types would load down to bursting with bland metaphor until it burst into a shower of gold-esque statuettes.

"Crime and public vice? Yes, that's the idea. Give people a safe, at-home alternative to loitering about and such."

Quintly hazarded a grin; wheels churning along, he couldn't help adding in a neatly-measured portion of what he hoped others in general, and Ministrella in particular, might term roguish charm.

Ministrella matched him, a laugh simmering around the corners as she glanced at the box beside him. "Oh, I bet Comm- everyone in favor of law and order will be pleased. Is that on?"

Quintly leaned over to his iconograph, rapping gently on the side and sliding a stack of neatly-pressed papers and packaged paints into the slot before shifting forward, conspiracy evident on his features.

"It's on."

My deep apologies and sincere appreciation to the author who inspired this, and a good chunk of my love of words.

Just a good-natured comic fantasy here, featuring a suspiciously familiar member of a very well-behaved group and a shifty character earnestly doing his best to perform a public service, in a manner of speaking, in the interests of private activity. Of course, there's a long way to go from an initial meeting to a burgeoning, er, artistic empire featuring all manner of upstanding exploits, artistic assistants, and perhaps clashes with the Watch over what counts as obscenity and what's merely Educational Material for Interested Patrons of Culture. There's lots of room to explore through twisting alleys and perhaps even near cozy fireplaces in private spaces, here.

As usual, I tend to pleasantly wild romps; no beatings, bruisings, or other than cheerily consensual pairings for me. Please feel free to drop me a line; I don't bite!

^{1 A term said to have been invented somewhere in the far East, combining the term stüd, meaning cramped and expensive, and io, a particle indicating things being called by somewhat less honest but much more commerce-minded names than decency might require.}