"No doubt."

She goes to reply - and then her expression sharpens, turns wary, at the sudden feeling that they're not alone -

And a shadow, person shaped, darkens the alleymouth in front of them. There's no foot traffic here, no street lamps, just the subdued quiet of small boats bumping against the wall in the canal that splits the little side alley they'd cut through. 

Trouble.

Kaz tightens her grip on her walking stick, ready to snap it up and swing.

And Inej slips a knife into her palm, stepping sideways into the shadows - 

- And then the figure lunges at them -

Cane snaps up, jabbing at the face-

- And it sails through empty space, and her attacker is right there in front of her - a fist connects with her face -

Agh, fuck- Hop back for distance, switch grip on cane to guard-

Inej darts behind her opponent, blades flashing -

- And the man dissolves into shadow - 

Something incredibly fucky is going on. With Inej in the mix, Kaz takes a chance on turning her attention away briefly to scan the rest of the area.

- And the wall beside her wavers, and someone strikes through it - 

She parries, too late-

- And a needle sinks into her neck -

And the last thing she hears before falling unconscious is Inej's enraged scream. 

Nice to know... she... cares...

She wakes up bound to a chair, wuftsalts being waved under her nose. 

Eugh. She jerks back.

"Get that shit away from me, I'm awake."

There's an old man wearing the robes of a university medik in front of her. He caps the bottle and tucks it back into its leather pouch, his eyes uncaring as he steps back from Kaz. The room beyond him is revealed when he does - a room that screams genuine wealth, and not a place Kaz recognizes. There's carved mahogany panels on the walls, roiling seas framing built in bookcases full of leather-bound books with gilt spines, openings for a real DeKappel - a placid bay with the farms of Novyi Zem spilling behind it, the long-defunct ships of Old Zem drifting on the gentle waves - and a heavy leaded window. And, behind a large antique desk, there's a man watching her, one with the look of a mercher - a pale man, in fine clothes, his lightly wrinkled but soft skin suggesting he'd already arrived gently in his forties, silver-streaked hair withdrawing from his forehead. His vest is dark and well-cut - but his tie pin is a massive ruby, and the gold fob of his pocket watch is made up of heavy laurel links. 

She doesn't recognize the room, but she recognizes him - Van Eck, a member of the Merchant Council. 

"There are easier ways to ask for a meeting. Even in the Barrel."

He raises an eyebrow. "I wanted to ensure you'd be here in a timely fashion, Miss Brekker, with no chance of... Gossip beforehand, nor your little friends interrupting us. I hope you're not feeling too poorly?"

"I get the feeling you don't actually care, mercher," she says, with a withering glance at the ropes tying her to the chair.

He turns and dismisses the meddik, then says: "I care that you are in sufficient health to complete a certain job. I - the Merchant Council - have a proposition for you."

"A proposition, huh. Is it dangerous, underpaid, or both?"

"Dangerous," he says. "You will be well compensated for your trouble."