by Stephen Wolf
Using one of his daggers, Dariak made a small slit at the chest pouch and pulled from within the slightly brown-hued jade he had been given as a token of remembrance. He absent-mindedly brushed off some dirt that was on it, shaking his head as he did so, for more dirt immediately appeared in its place. It was an odd property of the crystal that constantly generated grime. Yet, though it was a constant supply, it wasn’t endless. So if the dirt was left in place on the jade, none other would appear. It was one of the main reasons he had sewn it tightly into the robe in the first place. Without room to move about, it couldn’t produce any more dirt. Loose in his pocket, it had kept regenerating the filth every time the cloth rubbed against it.
He actually needed some dirt, as per Kitalla’s orders, and so he used it to smudge up and darken his face, neck, and arms, reaching down and covering his ankles just in case his pants went up when he sat. Once he was satisfied, he shoved the brown jade into one of the tight pockets, pleased that he would be able to feel it at all times but also concerned that he could break it.
With one piece in place, he took up the other one. This newer addition had called to him in a moment of desperation and had given him the activating spell to give his body the consistency of water, thus he wasn’t surprised to find it was perpetually damp. It had been soaking a small puddle into the robe pocket, but he hoped that when he placed it in the trousers, the confined space would keep it from regenerating water. He wrapped it in parchment first and then stuffed it into the pocket opposite the first piece. He layered the spell components in next and then set his daggers in place before heading downstairs for inspection.
Kitalla approved of the ensemble, merely tugging at the neck and wrists of the shirt to make the ensemble look a little more worn in. “Will that suffice?” she asked, pointing to a small table off toward one corner of the stage.
Dariak paused for a moment, then did a double take. “When did that stage get there?”
“You have your preparations, I have mine,” she replied airily. “Will you be able to do your work from there?”
He walked over and sat in one of the chairs at his designated table. It did have a clear view of the stage, but he wanted a partial view of the crowd as well, so he pivoted it around until it suited him. “It’s good, but some people might see my hands. Anyone paying any attention will know what I’m up to. I can’t pass it off as trying to follow your rhythm.”
She sighed lightly. “It isn’t like anyone will be focusing on you, but that’s a small detail anyway. We’ll put a flower vase or a steaming tankard at your table to help block the view. Keep that chair there, and that covers the rest, I think.”
“You’re very good at all this,” he commented.
She eyed him grimly. “Don’t try to lead me to explain things. It won’t work.” Then she eased up her focus. “Besides, if this goes well, you’ll have a chance to help me grow. Won’t you?”
Those last two words carried a threat, and he knew it. Whether this event went well or not, he needed to find a means of increasing her powers through dance.
She didn’t wait for an answer as she swept away across the room, turning some tables this way and others that. He couldn’t imagine it would matter once people were filtering in; they’d easily bump tables aside, but he certainly wasn’t going to point that out. She really didn’t come across as a woman who needed any more power or ability than she already had. Yet on a similar note, neither did he, except for his own personal quest. He could take one of several jobs in one of the mage towers if the Council wouldn’t take him back or perhaps seek the king’s direct employ as mage chancellor, but his motivation was deep enough to cast aside those possibilities and take the larger risk. He just wasn’t entirely sure what Kitalla’s goal was.
He let his eyes wander around the room, and he was impressed by other subtle details she had surely demanded. Each table had a candle centerpiece, which served as good counterpoints to the few candles that Dariak had told her he needed for his spells. The fresh scent of lilacs was also present, which would help him hone in on the energies in the room by following their fragrance. The actual type of flower hadn’t mattered, so long as it had a strong enough scent, so he wondered if there was a particular choice behind the lilac or if it had just been the easiest to find.
Gazing up, he saw that a few bedsheets had been repurposed to accent the ceiling, creating a tent effect over the impromptu stage. They were held in place by thin rope that wouldn’t last the test of time but had a kind of elegance about it. Along the back edge of the stage was a row of square wood panels, but Dariak had no idea what those were for, except perhaps to give depth to the stage itself.
As he explored the alterations to the surroundings, Gabrion came in and was ushered upstairs quickly by Kitalla, who spoke fast but quietly in his ear. She came down a few minutes later, swung past the bar, and returned to Dariak’s table with a full, frothy pitcher. “This one isn’t for drinking. Just leave it here.” She then placed a smaller mug on the table. “But this one you can have. It’s the pungent kind, so at least swish some around and spit it, if you won’t drink it. You need to smell like you belong here. Outside of that, you really shouldn’t move from this spot.” She took one last glance around the tavern, then went to her room to make her final preparations.
He took the hint, meaning he was locked at that seat from that moment forward, even though the performance was over an hour away. He sipped the ale and grimaced at its flavor, but it helped him set a gloomy expression on his face, and he felt that would help keep others from trying to join him at his table. Because it was evening already, some patrons were filing in for meals and libations, so Kitalla was right in that he couldn’t move from his seat; he’d likely lose it to someone else.
As the crowd settled in, Dariak noticed that it represented perhaps every type of lifestyle in the town. He could see a group of three men, dark beards unshaven for days, hands kept on their weapons at all times. They looked like poor competition for Kitalla’s thieving skills, even adding up all their best parts. A father and mother brought two of their children, who seemed so excited by the prospect of a show that their eyes might fall out at any moment. A pack of middle-aged women filtered in, chattering about their day and adding a pleasant, lilting laugh to the growing din. Couples of various ages entered, some with both members interested in the festivities, and others with one there to support the other who wanted to come, which was obvious based on the speed at which tankards were emptied. In one corner a strange blond man with a potbelly sat in green and purple silks, complete with a thimble-shaped hat that sported a gold tassel. Dariak was vaguely reminded of Randler, but it clearly wasn’t him.
Then a group of young men entered, and Dariak felt truly stressed for the first time all day. They had sharp eyes that scanned the crowd, and they wore swords, shields, and armor, marking them as members of the king’s guard. Their ever-moving glances told Dariak that their mission was to find the fugitives from Kaison, himself included.
The man in the out-of-place silks rose up when they entered. He spun once and approached them, bowing his head deeply and flourishing his hands as he brought them to a table in the center of the room. Two of them refused, opting to stand along the back wall, but the other three accepted the table. The overweight blond man bowed again and spun once more before returning to his place near the bar.
As Dariak followed the man’s trail, he almost tipped over his table, for he suddenly recognized his traveling companion under all that silk. Gabrion was doing a fantastic job playing the jovial host as he shimmied this way and that, tending to the guards’ needs and flirting with the barmaids who were already filling orders. Each time he swept past the guards, he would nod his head respectfully, which cleverly hid his face from full view. And each time, the guards would usher him away without a second thought.
It was a struggle stripping the smile from Dariak’s face and maintaining
a sullen expression, but he managed it with a few extra sips of the pungent ale. His own simple disguise had left him unremarkable. Though the guards looked all around the room at different intervals, not one stared in his direction for more than a moment. He blended right in, simply marveling at Kitalla’s wit.
Thinking of her, he reminded himself that he had preparations to undertake. He leaned off to one side to pull a few herbs from one pocket, along with a handful of pebbles. He also poured a few drops of the ale on the table and pulled his table’s candle closer after spilling out some of the wax. The growing chatter in the tavern covered his chanting as he ground the bits of herbs and placed them into the puddle, securing them in place with the stones. He made a decorative motif with the simple items, taking care to construct with perfect symmetry. Once the rest was in place, he glanced around the room before lifting the candle onto the stones, taking care not to drop any wax.
“Fathirassilur griena munillia forthren kye limonte kwerosh.” He moved his hands and fingers with the rhythm of the words, bending one finger, then another, overlapping two others, and so on, in what appeared to be a random fidget but was just as carefully constructed as the motif. When he finished, he checked the room again, adjusted the large, foaming tankard that Kitalla had told him not to drink, then focused his gaze on the candlewick.
His spell was already working, for the lit wick pulled down into the candle, wax filling in atop it, but the flame did not extinguish. It traversed the height of the candle, which was about the length of his hand fully extended, and then the wick and flame poked out the bottom, hovering just over the ale, herbs, and stones. The fire spread out and licked toward the edges of the candle for a few moments, until it melted a domed cavern over itself, after which it remained contained.
The spell was a balance of essence, and he needed its power to help him analyze the energies that Kitalla would be pulling in around her. The ale and stones were the water and earth, while the hovering fire and air represented themselves. The herbs were a medium that would allow him to use his sense of smell in addition to his sight, and as he sent out a few other connection spells, soon he could feel the energies wafting around the lilacs and the other candles that were scattered around the tavern. It wouldn’t help him determine anything until Kitalla pulled the energies into focus, and then he would sense the shifts.
Not long later, a few wolf whistles sounded through the tavern, and a veritable princess hovered into the room from the stairwell. Dariak’s gaping jaw was mirrored throughout the tavern. Kitalla was ensconced from head to toe in such fine silk it was as if she were draped in a cloud. Her arms fluttered regally out to her sides, and her steps were small but precise. Dariak could already feel the pull of energies in the room, and he shifted his focus to study them carefully.
Kitalla took several measured steps toward the stage, then pirouetted three times, one arm bent tenderly overhead, then strode forth again. It took several repetitions for her to travel across the stage, then around its perimeter, finally coming to a rest at the very center. She bowed her head to the crowd, and they applauded her deeply. She had barely even done anything, and they already loved her.
The first thing Dariak noticed about the energies she used was that they were not flowing the same way that other energies flowed at all. While a mage drew power from the world around him and the spell components he used, Kitalla’s forces were all supplied from within and spread outward. It was completely backward.
Gabrion wasn’t idle either. He left his position at the bar and swept his way through the crowd, bending and twisting in comedic fashion, his fake belly bumping into the patrons and adding to the humor. He addled his way to the stage and took one of Kitalla’s hands, holding it up high over her head. The thief—who looked absolutely nothing like a thief—spun on her heel, lifting one leg out to the side to help the dress flow wide. At the end of each spin, she bent her knee and did it again, slightly faster. Gabrion needed to quickly release and recapture her hand with each turn, and he did so perfectly, even as her dress billowed out and revealed an underlying flash of colors from the skirt. The crowd cheered.
Kitalla spent a while jumping and leaping around the stage while Gabrion assisted with lifts at times or by simply flourishing his arm toward her at others. They ended up at opposite corners of the stage, and she starting spinning elegantly toward the center while Gabrion slid forward one step at a time, arms outreached as if intending to take her in his arms. Yet, when they met in the center, his hands snagged on her waistline, and as she spun away, a good portion of her dress came undone, leaving her in a much tighter outfit, still highlighted in silk but now of every color. Gabrion affected terror at the action, and comically looked from the garment in his hand to the woman, and then he ran screaming off the stage, which was followed by riotous laughter.
Dariak was really struggling to follow the energy patterns now, because part of him just wanted to watch the show. But he knew that if he didn’t find some way of helping her to channel her abilities more offensively, then his quest couldn’t continue. A surge of force called back his focus as Kitalla now strutted across the stage, sinuous and dangerous. Dariak’s fingers bent and weaved, trying to match the new flow in the room so that he could remember the patterns later. It was a form of mage script, writing effects into his muscles and mind rather than on parchment.
The crowd quieted down as Kitalla sashayed her hips, pulling her arms sharply left, then right to counter each step. Her eyes smoldered, highlighted by careful makeup that covered her features with creative designs. She looked like a rainbow-colored bird of prey enticing its intended kill, catching it off guard and preparing to strike. She was drawing powerful energies with her movements, and the people were completely enthralled with whatever they were seeing. The moment ended when she stamped one foot forward and threw her arms out to her sides, elbows bent sharply to the floor, head snapped toward the stairs. She held the pose while the applause and whistles resounded.
Gabrion reappeared, clapping his hands, bowing awkwardly to her, and going around behind her until he reached the back of the stage where the wood panels were. He stumbled into one and kicked it over with a loud bang. When he tried to bend over to pick it up, he knocked down the next one, and because the others overlapped one another, they all fell down in a resounding crash.
Kitalla didn’t budge, but the audience shouted in anger and dismay at this interruption. Gabrion waved his hands in the air apologetically, bending over and lifting one of the wood planks. Kitalla then clapped her hands, and Gabrion’s back snapped up straight. She curled her arms into lurid waves, and with each undulation, Gabrion moved in response, walking to a specific location on the stage. She tapped her foot on the ground, and the silk-laden warrior bent over and placed the wood plank. A clap of the hands brought him back up, more arm movements guided him, and so forth until all the planks were arranged across the stage. The scene ended when she simultaneously clapped her hands and tapped her foot, which were competing signals, and he dropped to the floor with a thud and rolled off toward the stairs.
Dariak was grateful that the skit had not drawn energies to speak of, because he was hard-pressed to keep track of all her other moves. But he was indeed learning a lot from this exercise. He looked down at the candle and saw that the top of the wax was starting to pull inward. Once it reached the bottom, the flame would snuff and his connection to the energies would be over for the night. Yet, there was still some time.
With the wood planks set across the stage, Kitalla grinned and began her next number. She tapped her foot on the ground, which made a modest sound, and then she stepped back, kicking her other leg down to the same effect. But when her foot came down on the wood plank, the sound became a sharp whipcrack with each kick of her foot. She built up a slow rhythm, tapping her feet carefully, and as she increased tempo, she pulled one length of silk from her outfit. Her arms moved in time with the beat she was establishing w
ith her heels, and when she landed on both feet for a powerful crack, she launched the silk outward to the crowd. It had a small rock anchored at one end so it would sail easily, and as it fluttered over the audience, they oohed and aahed as if she were tossing out pieces of rainbow. Onward the staccato steps went, ever increasing in speed, with sashes sent flying at the end of each set, until all of them were gone and half the crowd was in tears with the beauty of all the flying light they could see passing overhead.
Dariak could tell that this was one of her strongest glamours, if not the strongest. The energy in the entire room pulsated with her steps, increasing more and more, and as he looked around, he could see that some people were breathing faster and faster, in time with the beat, while others’ faces grew redder and redder as if from exertion, and he didn’t doubt their hearts were racing. The silk sheaths became real rays of light to the observers, eye-catchingly beautiful and elegant, and something they could only experience in dreams. Dariak couldn’t see the imagery itself, but the energies told him much. A hissing sound distracted him, and he looked down, surprised that the candle had already burned through. Apparently, the excessive energy she was drawing for this dance affected even the candles. He didn’t have a way of signaling her that his spell was about to run out, but it didn’t matter. He knew some things he could show her, and she would be pleased.
It took some time for the crowd to recover and for the applause to begin. Kitalla was moving slightly back and forth, as if rocking impatiently, but Dariak could tell it was something else. The way the audience members were shifting, it seemed like they feared they were being ensorcelled, and even though the effects were astounding, they were rebelling against it. But Kitalla’s little side sway drew them in and calmed those fears, and they focused on her, awaiting her next routine.
Gabrion was back, with a bit less bounce in his step. That morning, Kitalla had asked Gabrion how well he could stand still. It seemed time to find out. The warrior entered the stage and dramatically pulled up one of the wooden floor tiles, showing it to the audience as if to prove it couldn’t possibly be anything else. He then took a place across the stage from Kitalla and held out the wood plank vertically at chest height. Kitalla, now wearing only leathers, withdrew a handful of daggers, showing them to the audience, who silenced quickly, realizing what was coming. Two daggers flew across the stage, hitting the wood plank near the center, and the audience cheered.