one and two (eithne)
What rhymed with 'delicious'?
There was an audience of ten tonight, but only two of them were truly paying attention. He did hate evenings like this. Continuing to play when they were all drunk, gambling in pairs or whispering about sweet nothings and all their variations - it was not the sort of thing that Koe wanted or thought of as the most receptive group for his music. Then again, they at least did not notice when the lyrics did not rhyme. Some folk thought that lyrics should rhyme, or were meant to rhyme. You could sing whatever you felt as long as it was melodic. And even the definition of 'melodic' could change from time to time. Or if you were feeling truly flexible, you could create something anti-melodic. He did not think one of his white noise recitals would be welcome here. Then again, they were never truly welcome, so much as they were simply endured.
He needed an escape route.
One of the problems with pretending to be someone you were not was trying to stay in character. He never would have come so close as he was now, save their belief that he knew not one ounce of magic. If they thought he was capable of holding his own... well, they would have disappeared entirely. Or perhaps slashed his throat while he slept. Who knew? The sorts of things these unsavory types would do, to themselves and to each other, were always difficult to imagine but equally difficult to ignore. It wasn't simply about the magic, any more than it was about the men who were watching him. If he could get closer still, he might learn why they'd killed Urill so suddenly. Not long after the old fellow had left - not alone, Koe noted with annoyance - rumor floated back that he was dead. Many of the patrons departed upon hearing the news. No one wanted to sit in a bar with a White Rider when the news of a Teacher's death reached their ears. Especially not since they were all thieves, and more White Riders were sure to come. But why kill Urill? No one else knew what to do with the damned stuff, and Urill had not been finished, had he? That other fellow who'd walked out with him seemed just the sort to muck things up.
"Whaddya think a bard looks like widdout arms?" one of the big men asked quietly.
"I say let's find out," the second big man said.
There they were. Koe staring two extremely large fellows down and pretending to sweat boiling droplets; his entire face was wretched with the stuff. They were on the other side of the circular table. One of them had a crossbow; the other was trimming his mustache with a knife. And Koe was plucking away some merry tune, fingers stretching and tripping over themselves in the imitation of fear. He was not so very far from afraid. They were cruel fellows, these two. And if a crossbow caught him in the gut before he had the chance to do something about it he'd be as dead as anyone else. The barkeep was one of theirs, too, but that one didn't fight. He only talked. Koe could not make himself hurt a fellow enough to keep him from talking. At least, not if that fellow wasn't in a fight. So he couldn't hurl magic at these ruffians, and he couldn't escape the fiction he'd created for himself without seeing all of his work go to nothing.
A table. Three men. Off, away from the crowd. One played a guitar while the others laughed and sneered. It was not the picture of oddity that one could have hoped for; yet Koe continued to hope that the self-righteous drinker from earlier in the evening would make himself known. How much longer all of this could go on was a matter of much debate, and yet he'd tried his very best - not good enough. If there was justice in this world, if there was hope for anything other than more bloodshed, he needed to settle this. There was the thought of his house. A work in progress. Continually unfinished. It would be that a trip down the river for lumber would turn into endless shrieking and a fight he did not want for himself. The only difference, he supposed, was that Ilyien would not be coming to save him from himself. It should have rankled more than it did, this thought.
A counter-top ran the length of the longer wall, in this rectangular establishment of stone walls and wooden beams. Chairs were arranged any which way, circular cut wood and rickety chairs. There was no place to sit at the counter; it was only for serving and for standing conversation. Oil lanterns were posted at every beam, and there were quite a few of those. Yet it was not the sort of thing which Koe thought made this place better instead of worse. Sparsely populated this close to dawn. Barkeep couldn't keep his eyes to himself. Koe's fingers missed a chord. No one cared; they were all musically illiterate. Enough to make a fellow grind his teeth.
"Have you ever seen a man without arms?" Koe asked under his breath.
"Sure, cut 'em off a fella long time ago," One said.
"Looked damn hideous," Two said.
"Well, I'm a man, in addition to being a bard," Koe said dryly.
"Yer skinnier'n him," One said.
"Probably doesn't eat meat," Two speculated. "All them artsy types are the same."
"I know you're asking yerself if we was born this way," One grimaced at Koe, spat from the corner of his mouth, and continued. "But the truth is-"
"We all are," Koe's smile was faint.
"We all are," One repeated dumbly. "You gotta-"
"You said it earlier," Koe pointed out; now the contempt in his voice was clear. "Before you were drunk."
The doors swung wide open. Koe managed to find his singing voice again, despite the promise of pain and hate in One's eyes. Two shifted the crossbow beneath the table, steadying it with a single hand while the other clutched his flagon. Double doors in a winter city such as this one were not uncommon. Just not something that he was used to. Of all surprises; a White Rider appeared in the doorway, angry hair spilling over shoulders. A female White Rider. He was beginning to think they didn't exist, aside from that pretty blonde thing. This one might have been pretty if she didn't seem so angry. In point of fact, Koe was glad for the anger, if not for the danger. He was wearing a white tunic of his own, with the symbol of the Riders on its front. The mask hung loosely around Koe's neck. And the hood resting against his shoulders spoke of his office. His pretended office. Maybe she wouldn't look twice at a fellow Rider. Or maybe she'd look three times.
"Just remember the plan and we'll all be fine," One said angrily.
"Don't speak outta turn," Two added.
"I'll do my best," Koe mumbled.
Crossbow bolts, he'd been told, burned like fire just before they killed you.