Zember was midway through his typical routine, the basic pins discarded behind him, five spheres weaving about his shoulders and head like the nimbus of Alziman the Star Seer or Tankel Nel of the Braided Robe or another of the Ten Thousand as they oft times appear in the illustrations of proselytizing charlatans. With his good left foot, he scooped up a third quartz sphere, a clear pale blue, to join the pattern of light and sound; with the sixth sphere, the new rhythm, the melody of the three whistlers changed, as he had practiced. It was a shame he could not afford spheres of harp wood, he was thinking, as he saw a seventh sphere sail unexpectedly towards his face.

He caught it, fluidly adding it to his routine, quickly adjusting for its size and weight. It took more of his concentration to track the rogue of a spectator who had thrown it at him. The give-away was the second sphere she tossed at him, overhand and faster than the first. He had time to throw two of the quartz spheres at her before he caught her offering. The small crowd around him on the street corner cheered loudly as she began a routine of her own with no more than a sharp laugh and a wide grin.

A Thaecian woman, perhaps a few years older than himself, with deep blue hair suspended in a wave cresting above her brows. Quite striking, he noticed, almost as he realized that the spheres she had tossed him were Thaecian orbs. If he dropped one, he would be a debt slave for certain.

She had worked her way to the pile of props behind him and began to add a stream of objects to the mix: wooden pins, knives, metal discs, the three small singing axes. Zember passed the less dangerous and fragile items back to her, until they had more than two nightskies between them. His mind raced to find a way to end the game before he lost something and set his reputation back several months. He need not have worried. The woman wound down the act with a flourish, piling the spheres and pins at his feet, until he had passed even the knives to her skilled hands.

All that remained in his nimbus were the singing axes, with which he typically ended a performance, and the two orbs, images shifting within. "My dear young man, my orbs, if you will." Her voice was rich, her tone merely playful, not mocking. He obliged her, carefully, and quickly finished with the axes. But by the time he had collected his possessions and the contributions from his audience, the woman had gone.

He looked to Johar, leaning as usual on the scintilla pole at the opposite side of Marketway. The Serparian nodded towards Cart Street, giving Zember a wry smile. The performer threw his pack over a shoulder and hobbled as quickly as his cane would allow down that street towards the docks, shrugging off the compliments of the lingering crowd. "Zembermari will return tomorrow, good people," he heard Johar announce, and made a mental note to thank his friend later.

It was late, and the Great Sun was almost touching the top of the toll gates, the shadows deep in the alleys around Cart Street, these alleys of his youth. In this sector of Zanth, so near to Beggar's District and the Sarista Ghetto, dusk was a dangerous time, yet his thoughts were of the Thaecian. He slowly fumed at her abrupt departure, without so much as her giving her name. Yet how could he expect more of one obviously well above his status? She had just been enjoying herself at his small expense, and, in truth, her games had done nothing but add to his name.

A small noise brought him away from his thoughts, the sound of boots hitting cobblestone, as if someone had jumped to the street from a window above. Several hundred lengths down the street, a figure stood peering down Thornwood; Zember could barely make out the blue hair. He quickened his pace, heard voices, saw her take a step into the alley, drew a knife, quickened his pace further. When he finally turned the corner, she was facing an arc of six men, all brandishing weapons.

He let out a sigh; he knew two of them, had played drop-the-stick with them as kids. "Telli, Mep, let the woman be. She just helped me out with my show. She's a friend."

"Fancy friends, Zember," answered Tellinattan Mir. "Getting too good for us now?" The man leaned with a practiced, deceptive casualness. Zember had seen him practice long hours at throwing his dagger from the hip.

"Never, Telli. Just returning a favor is all. You know I've done the same for you." Mep looked at Zember, then Telli, then back to Zember. His right hand twitched, and Zember knew he wanted to toss a knife his way, or at the woman. Mep was always vicious with the stick, breaking other kids' fingers when they were too slow. The odd thing was, the woman's hand was twitching as well. After several breaths, Telli nodded to Zember, to the woman, and over his shoulder into the alley for his men. "Favors run dry," he said before he faded into the shadows.

Zember took the woman's arm to lead her back onto Cart Street, but she shrugged him off. "I could have handled that myself, young man." "Lady, this 'young man' just faced down six men for you. I thought Thaecians had more manners than that," he said, a growl building at the back of his throat. She simply could not be past twenty-five. She stopped and studied him for a moment. He was suddenly aware that his trousers were worn thin at the knees, his right sleeve ripped and showing copper skin, sun-darkened, beneath. He ran a hand through unkempt black hair. Her silvered face reflected the blood and gold of setting suns. She slipped her arm under his, began again her walk towards the docks at a pace comfortable for his cane. A stunning smile: "My name is Korinne Pfar, and I thank you."

"Zembermari Alom, and I owed you a debt, as I said to Tellinattan. Word of our performance will spread, and I will live better for some time." He wished to rid himself of the ironwood in his left hand.

Korinne nodded. "You are a fine juggler, Zembermari. You should go far, if you are as clever with your image as you are with spheres and knives." Zember grunted softly. He had never been as good with words as with his hands. "Truly, Zember. You have the looks for it as well. The handsome rogue, scarred from a violent youth."

He laughed at that. "I suppose being trampled by an ogront may be considered a 'violent youth' in some circles." "Ah, luck as well, if you survived such an experience." She placed her other hand on his forearm, squeezed it gently. Her voice was mock-serious. "As you should know well, it seems

. Are all Thaecians as adverse to risk as yourself?" said Zember, deadpan. He felt her laugh silently at that, then look across him to the shipping houses by the northernmost pier. "I have appointments to keep, I'm afraid. Perhaps we will speak again some time." She released his arm, kissed him briefly upon the lips, and walked away without another word. "If I truly have that luck," said Zember to himself.

_____________________________

That's Zember's first chapter there. I'm just scratching the surface folks; I haven't even introduced my other set of characters (soon, soon). Of the characters introduced so far, Zembermari Alom and Korinne Pfar are PCs. The rest are fair game. For reference sake, Zember's performance took place at the corner of Marketway and Cart Street. Marketway runs NW/SE between the Institute of Paradoxy and the west side of the marketplace. Cart Street runs SW/NE between Marketway (a bit north of the marketplace) and the beggar's district/the docks (tangentally to the road circling the Sarista ghetto). Thornwood is an alley to the north of Cart Street. A "nightsky" is a counting unit (seven, naturally, for the seven moons of the night sky). Sorry, there's not much plot-wise to draw from here; you'll have to wait for the next chapters. The second batch includes a Phantasian dream merchant climbing the Zandu social ladder...
--Adam

Chapter Two: Shalisa's Tale
Chapter Three: Introductions
Chapter Four: Such a Friendly Host
Chapter Five: Gala Finale

Next: Half A Life

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