The roaches and the rats. We'll still be here, long after the pampered, complacent peacocks like you are gone.” I reflected on Kir's words, and I know she is correct. What I still fail to grasp is how one achieves this enlightenment, this state of transcended appeasement. How might I remake myself to scrounge from said refuse barrels, without a care or loathing? Kir and I were both
raised as nobles, but there between us lies one fundamental difference. She has risen through her fall.
I do not anticipate a likewise need for my own good self.
- Excerpt from the journal of Guardian Toma Scilio
Scilio guided Vann to his daily seat on the platform, just off the steps of Jolanock Square's Willaforr Public Library. The cloak's hood was beginning to slide back, so Scilio tugged it forward, obscuring Vann's pallid features in shadow. Though Scilio did not expect random strangers to find recognition in the face of their altered Crown Prince, ballads and tragedies were often sung in the aftermath of unfortunate happenstance. They could take no chances.
“Sit, Rel. Slowly... that's it,” Scilio urged, easing Vann down. He made sure to grasp Vann's arms firmly during the descent. The first time Scilio had commanded such, Vann had plopped down without preamble, toppling backward off the wall. He had landed on the cobbles some feet below. His impacting shoulder was still painted with color.
When Vann's back was positioned against the wall and his legs were crossed, Scilio placed a rusty tin cup between them. He dropped a loran into the cup, for the suggestion of any sympathetic passersby.
“Stay,” Scilio ordered with unease, for the commands felt very much like those issued to dogs and unruly toddlers. What dignity might he preserve in Vann's empty vessel, even if Vann was not self-aware enough to appreciate it?
“I'm at yon table. I can see you well, so if you need me, just issue a sign.” Scilio said those same words every day. Vann's eyes never followed Scilio's pointing finger, and he never nodded, smiled or showed any hint of comprehension.
Scilio stared at Vann forlornly, wishing against wish for some trace of acknowledgment. Some hint of a spark. Some arousal from this nightmare into which he had been thrust. This was his own layer of the Hells, and Scilio suddenly began to wonder if perhaps such a place existed solely in the minds and realities of the very people whose lives were hellacious enough to suffer the question. What need had one of fear of death, when the very ground under their walking feet was cobbled in the stones of their own private Hellfloor?
Scilio retreated across the street to his table. It was one of many that lined the fence on Jolanock Square. While the array of vendors reminded Scilio of the Hilian market day, the variables were somewhat different. These were mostly offerings of an artisanal nature, though perhaps not by the same quality of artisan that had always claimed the definition in Scilio's mind. The table to the right belonged to a mediocre portrait artist. Beyond were two mediums, a dumpling vendor, and a bard (a half-sloshed, half-intelligible shadow of the title). To the left were several fortune tellers, divinators, trinket dealers, jewelers and potion stands. A lumachordist was perched at the base of Willaforr's steps, between a painter and a vendor selling paper flowers. Like Scilio, they were all poor souls, attempting to scrounge out their living from the generosity and gullibility of the tourists and the occasional student or academic who had need of souvenir, entertainment or spiritual guidance.
Scilio was Tosh the Marvel to the few interested patrons of Jolanock Square. He could dazzle them with his fortunes and read anything—from palms to eyes to secrets. Some of his clients were eager tourists, wanting for a souvenir reading to commemorate their visit. Some were parents of university students looking for guidance from the Gods to help their wayward student find his or her path. Far and away the most common patrons were those looking for assurance to ease their souls of some burden. Scilio began to realize that his new occupation was much more in line with the job description of a Psychonic Healer, even though he boasted not a shred of Psychonic know-how. The relief that a departed loved one had found peace, or the comfort that one was making a Gods-pleasing decision, or the assurance that one's lifeline was of length and vitality—they were all therapeutic messages of catharsis. They were a means by which Scilio could ease a troubled soul. Even if he entertained disgust at his own false credentials, Scilio's masterful cold reading bought these poor wretches peace, and that fact alone justified the fraud. He reminded himself that he was just as much a poor wretch as they, perhaps much more. They had established lives and lorans enough to pay his fee. He was merely a beggar with a table, disguising his need with the mask of a fabricated product.
Scilio had always been gifted at cold reading. He could determine so much about a person by such simple clues as the unconscious mannerisms that they had never registered in themselves. By asking questions in a certain way, Scilio was adept at painting a detailed picture that was almost always correct. On this field, distraction and diversion were his allies. Presentation and confidence were his soulmates.
Scilio's legs folded under him as he took his table-seat. He arranged the four large traivini nut shells that Dailan had found and felt a slight tickle in the lining of his temperament at the prospect of a new addition to his repertoire. He had not been able to display his masterful sleight-of-hand skills at this table until now. Gambling could certainly bring in considerable wealth, much more than his readings could, especially with so much proximal competition.
“Follow the pebble, train your eye! How fast can a single pebble fly?” he called to passing tourists as his fingers expertly shuffled the nut shells in figure-eights. Passersby studied him curiously as they drifted along.
A demonstration of the game's ease lured in a few subsequent marks. Within a few hours, Scilio's purse had doubled in weight. He added another betting game, predicting the outcome of the chooser's guess by simple mathematical means, and saw another spike in income. Games of chance were certainly proving more fruitful than readings and fortunes. Dice would be a worthy investment. There were several means by which to ensure outcomes with those handy little devices. What he wouldn't give for a deck of cards!
Bedorior, one of the twin moons, was suspended in the daylight sky just above the library's roof, peeking through wispy clouds to watch Scilio's mastery. He stared down with steady disapproval. Scilio was tempted to cast a rude gesture at the admonishment. How would a moon know what it was to feed a hungry dependent? Scilio recognized his own poetical nature, transferring his feelings onto the inanimate body, seeing a judgment where none existed. He cleared his throat and turned attention to the pedestrians, where it was better spent.
Vann stayed seated in the same slouched posture all day, just as he did every day. Scilio could see him clearly in a direct line-of-sight, and there had been no incidents of concern. Most people drifted right by, oblivious to the pitiful cloaked creature that made no effort to shift or even beg. At sunspire hour, Scilio sat beside Vann on the step for their shared lunch of a stale rice ball that was leftover from the prior evening meal. He returned to his table, finding conversation painfully lacking. His legs had newly crossed when a delicate jade voice painted Scilio's stage name in audible ribbons against the vulgar silence.
“Master Tosh? My name is Kinney. I seek a reading, if you are available.”
The chiming vocals belonged to a young woman of Scilio's age. Her hair was drawn up in a simple plait, tidy but lopsided, most likely devised by her own hand rather than a servie's. Boots of imitation leather. Jewelry of modest and inexpensive design. Her given name was relatively common to both genders, most especially in Draback Flatte. She was garbed in scholarly robes of chestnut trimmed in moss green and crimson, the standard colors of the Agriculture House. White Tower University's own shield crest was embroidered on the breast, and the two collar pins marked the young woman a student of Naturals and Elementals. The streets of White Tower were laden with just such scholarly fashion. To proclaim oneself a student at one of the most
prestigious universities in all Havenlen, indeed in all of Septauria, was a source of pride.
“Available is the whole of me,” Scilio assured the student suavely, gesturing to the cushion before his table. “A reading you seek, and so shall you receive.”
The young woman descended to the cushion's comfort. Two lorans, clutched tightly in her palm, found their way to the table in payment. Scilio swept them away without ceremony.
A quick flourish produced a paper flower from Scilio's sleeve, which he offered over suavely. As always, his masterful sleight-of-hand coaxed an ease to his subject's cheeks and the tender creases of her troubled eyes. For the cost of a mere quarter centinar a piece, the minor tokens were well worth their wooing weight. Scilio had always dazzled his ladies with such displays, never dreaming that he would someday come to rely on them for his survival.
Kinney fingered the paper flower gently, with some distraction.
“The petals of your prize now know your touch,” Scilio began, indicating the flower. “Folds of the blossom are watered by your layered troubles. We will peel them back and find the answers you seek. The truth of the self is only achieved by truth of the heart. You must be willing to open your soul to the flower, for it to know you fully. Can you surrender yourself?”
The young woman's eyes widened and she stared at the thin petals. “Yes. I'm ready.”
Scilio grasped Kinney's hands and closed his eyes, playing on the dramatic effect, as though he were in commune with the Gods. Her inner fingers were not smooth like those to which Scilio was accustomed in noblewomen. They were the hands of a farmer's daughter. The induction rolled off Scilio's awareness with ease. The young woman's background was as clear as a winter morning. Farm maidens were not typical of the White Tower student body. Most of the students and scholars were of the higher classes due to their superior magical ability and their loaded family coffers.
Those born of magics did not come into mastery instantly. To truly harness their skills and magics, and be granted the title of Master Such-and-Such, one must attend university (or be blessed as a prodigy in their respective field, such as Scilio, himself). To attain the coveted admittance, one must either be born of class and status, or one have a significant level of magics to warrant a patron as benefactor.
Clearly, this young student was of the latter crowd.
“The flower tells me you have a connection to the Terra magics. You are a maiden of the earth...” Scilio began, to feel her out. Her eyes confirmed, so he continued. “It's a farm I see before me. A farm with... animals...hooves... are these goats I see?”
“Sheep,” Kinney corrected.
“Ah, yes! I see them clearly now. Your hands know the plush coarseness of wool from the shear. And they know the softness of the book and scroll. You are a student of the earthen gifts. White Tower has been generous in its academic fare. But I see a problem here. Something taints your studies. You've had an issue. With a professor...”
Her eyes creased in the negative.
“No, not a master. It's someone younger I see...”
That was the ticket.
“Another student...”
She nodded without nodding. It was the right track.
“I see a young man...”
Kinney gasped. “You can see Sturgis?”
Naturally. It was always a young man.
“Sturgis... Yes. Noble. Handsome. He's very close to you.”
Kinney leaned in expectantly. Another hit.
“He doesn't want you to do something, does he?”
The creases at her eyes narrowed again. That wasn't right.
“No, I thought not. It's not he. I'm seeing another person... One that seeks to divide...”
“Yes! Sturgis' father!” Kinney urged.
“A relationship... a rift... I see lorans,” Scilio tried. Finances were another issue common to almost every reading.
Kinney's eyes glazed and she began to spill out her confession, making Scilio's job that much easier. “Yes! You truly are a master, sir! You saw it all! Sturgis' father is my benefactor. He's given Sturgis and me an ultimatum. If we don't end our engagement, he will withdraw as my patron and disown Sturgis. He wants his son with someone more worthy of their status.”
“He's making you choose between your love and your education,” Scilio summarized.
“White Tower was my chance,” Kinney explained desperately. “My one opportunity to be something more than my birth allows. I have the strongest magics of anyone ever born into our small community. Must I sacrifice my heart for my future? Sturgis is ready to give up his nobility for me, but how can I do that to him? It would break his heart if I leave him now. It will break his future if I don't. Please, tell me what to do! Which path is the right one?”
This was the most difficult part of Scilio's ruse. He could barely even make decisions for himself anymore, let alone advise others. The course of these lives may rest in the tender suggestions of his fraud.
“The flower is layered. Like your dilemma. Like the many paths laid out before you. The Gods err on the side of love, but which love is stronger for you: scholastics, or affianced? Whichever way you answer, that is the correct path.”
“I love Sturgis. I love him enough to let him go, for the sake of his future,” Kinney whispered. Her cheeks were drizzled with her answer. “Is that what the Gods bade me do?”
Scilio had seen this story before. It played ballads on his heartstrings to be reminded of Kir's valiant decision to give up her own heart for Vann's future. This young student and Kir would understand each other. The romantic in Scilio was too tempted by the promises of bardsong to allow another love to be uprooted by the chains of the hierarchy.
“The Gods bade you be happy. If such happiness is found in the arms of Sturgis, and you are both united in conviction, there can be no wrong in such a path. For some men without a strong card to play, the art of the bluff is the winning tactic. If the father truly loves Sturgis, he will not be content to sever him. And if he should, perhaps Sturgis is better off without the weight of that rigid anchor in his life. True family is found not in the blood, but in the heart. As for benefactors, there be more than one noble house in the kingdom. When the flower is cut off from its source of light, it seeks the sun up a different path. Be like the flower, and blossom.”
There was a well of hope renewed in Kinney's eyes. The advice had resonated with her, and she was envisioning the sinuous pathway to her own sunlight. Her two lorans had been well spent.
Kinney opened her mouth to speak her gratitude, when a commotion interrupted from behind. A piercing squawk, followed by shouts and fleeing people, disrupted the lazy calm of the otherwise ordinary day.
A third-class kaiyo, some wingless variation of toothy, feathered lizard, barreled down the avenue and into the square. It was trailed by a line of greenie troops and local law-arms. The men were frantically trying to corner the beast, waving arms and swords. It immediately struck Scilio as odd that they weren't using said swords for their intended purposes.
The student was still rooted to the cushion before Scilio's table, fixed in her shock. Scilio hustled her up. “Go now, quickly.”
Kinney, along with several of the nearby vendors, fled down the nearest avenue, away from the square and its chaos. Scilio made quick step to Vann's side, prepared to flee into Willaforr for safety, should the battle draw too near.
The kaiyo lashed out against the troops, but suddenly, a greenie officer appeared from a side alley. He flicked his hands in a series of foreign gestures and the kaiyo calmed instantly. Its defensive stance evaporated as it lowered into what Scilio assumed could only be a bow of submission. The man barked a command and gestured again, then turned on his heel to march away from the square. The kaiyo hissed at the other troops as it skirted their ring. It trailed the commander and disappeared down the street. The men fell in behind, keeping a healthy distance, lest the kaiyo have a change of heart and turn its male
volent gaze back upon them.
Scilio stared at the deserted side of the square, wondering what he had just witnessed. The soldiers had been attempting to corral the kaiyo rather than slay it, and the creature appeared to be trained. It was an oddity to be filed away for future pondering.
The vendors trickled back to their stations within minutes, once they were certain the kaiyo menace had been addressed. The rest of the day was uneventful on the kaiyo front, much to Scilio's appreciation. He normally loved to indulge wild tales for his masterpieces, but his tolerance for excitement was lacking of late. There was too much to lose should something go awry.
The square saw an upturn in patronage when rumor began to spread of the rogue kaiyo. Several curious eyes came to gawk and seek, disappointed in the lack of anything to gawk at or see. It did mean more patronage for Scilio, as the gambling games drew the attention of the newcomers. Scilio's table quickly became the highlight of the square.
When the air took on the chilled degree of early evening, Dailan made his presence known, plopping himself upon the patron's cushion, which was finally unoccupied.
“Ripe day?” Dailan asked, stacking the nutshells in a tower. He toppled them and cackled gaily.
Scilio wondered why most young men were so intrigued by destruction. He was a being of creation, never inclined to destroy where one might instead build.
“Ripe, indeed!” Scilio proclaimed. He jingled the heavy purse proudly for Dailan's appreciation. “We have a new avenue to explore, methinks. Our coffer grows ever larger by the exploitation of unsuspecting gudgeons!”
Dailan's hand sped forward and slapped the purse back into the shadow of Scilio's lap. He muttered a Dimishuan curse and scolded, “Batten it down! This ain't the stage for braggin' and waggin'. Keep a cork on it 'til we got good walls twixt us and them that might care. And talk normal—you're spewing your uppity-speak again.”
Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace Page 6
