Korinne Pfar stood at his side, watching attentively to the boy’s first act. Her gloved arm was loose in his own, as if she had mostly forgotten his very presence. Leshemando Ummaro was not used to being forgotten or ignored.

The woman was complex, an enigma that would likely take some time to analyze in full. For her body alone, she was worth the effort; the indigo gown scribed an impressive silhouette, contrasted by the silver sheen of bare shoulders and the occasionally glimpsed run of her leg. He willed himself to patience and renewed his observation of the audience.

A diverse group, truly. The Sultan had been magnanimous this year, decreeing that all of the fighters could attend, along with up to fifteen guests. He had been intoxicated at the time. To the best of Ummaro’s knowledge, the Sultan could not yet remember why he had chosen that particular number. The end result, of course, was a mob of many thousands, the vast majority of the least reputable sort. Ummaro had spent days arranging for the gala, delegating assorted areas of responsibility, ensuring that the genteel tier of society was afforded more than a modicum of privacy and peace. He had achieved an adequate degree of success on the latter issue. Most of the revelers were massed in the expansive grounds to the north of the Harem’s palace; here, on the southern grounds of the Sultan’s palace, the celebration was more restrained.

Yet those of the nobility were certainly outnumbered. To his left, around the ring of spectators, stood a pair of Kasmirans, flanked by three Thrall guards. Their purple robes were adorned with simple, silver pendants for the occasion, their version of extravagance; possibly, they were a married couple, though their manner of dress obscured the matter. From their muted comments, they seemed to be impressed with his manual dexterity, an admired trait among those obsessed with locks.

Further clockwise stood a Sarista family, or a portion of one at the least. The younger children were no doubt running free among the northern grounds, staining their best clothing with assorted pollen. The two adolescents, in front of their parents and grandmother, fidgeted slightly in their starched linen, but all appeared entranced by the weave of props. Perhaps this Alom had talent for Sarista to be so impressed.

Ummaro’s trained eyes picked out others of interest among the hundreds gathered: a statuesque Dracartan woman in thaumaturge’s white robes; an elderly Mandalan man he recognized as an archivist from the nearby Causidian’s Guild; a portly man of crystal-white skin and hair – Milatan, an alchemist long expatriated from L’Haan; a young Phantasian girl, sitting cross-legged and entirely enthralled; Zandir twins from the harem, quite attractive, but long out of favor with the Sultan and, consequently, with those seeking to gain his favor. He observed only one among the crowd who seemed entirely uninterested, a certain food-monger whose name would not reach the tongue; the man’s eyes darted continually, evidently in search of someone.

Alom was completing his routine with a flourish of what seemed to be miniature Yrmanian weapons. The brass axes created a more pleasant sound than the stone originals; in fact, each was apparently tuned to a different set of pitches, and the boy was adept at forging a harmony from the sum. An unusual effect, and not one likely to have been learned on the street. The vital question that fact posed was not the source of the performer’s education; rather, it was Korinne’s own knowledge and intentions. Ummaro was certain that she deceived him in regards to a variety of matters; if this was yet another, Alom may have to be watched closely.

In the midst of his bows, the boy was practically tackled by the Phantasian child – apparently an acquaintance of some note. Ummaro failed to hear any of their brief conversation, but the content was transparent; she followed his gaze, giggled as he left her to approach Korinne.

"That was spendid, Zember. When did you find time to add so much to your routine?" Her voice was sincerely appreciative, not in the slightest condescending.

"Actually, I’ve been practicing most of that for a few months. Wasn’t sure it was all ready, but – well, I wanted to have something new for the occasion." The boy’s eyes studiously focused on her face. They were obviously not lovers, as she had insisted they were not. That would not prevent most Zandir from admiring Korinne’s figure, however; he was certainly an odd one.

It was an appropriate time to add his own congratulations: "Obviously, lad, you were amply prepared. I doubt another of the entertainers tonight will receive such an ovation." A dependable prediction in his estimation.

Alom nodded at him politely, apparently uncertain of how to address a man of Ummaro’s stature. His smile indicated that he was pleased by the compliment. His stance indicated that he felt threatened, most likely out of jealously over Korinne.

They exchanged assorted pleasantries over the next seventh. He learned nothing from the overt conversation, as he had expected. Yet he detected nothing else beneath the surface, either. Most puzzling: either they were extremely caution in his presence, or the two were actually no more than the casual associates that Korinne claimed them to be. A distraction, perhaps, to draw his attention away from the woman’s true plans, whatever they may be.

Abruptly, she broke them off, in the midst of some triviality by the boy: "You both must forgive me. I have an appointment for which I simply cannot be tardy." She turned to leave; he grasped her arm, gently.

He kept his voice prim: "My dear lady, I am dismayed that you perceived no reason to inform me of this in advance. I would have had an escort prepared for you." She may have been wishing to avoid that very eventuality. Yet she had encountered no difficulties prior in losing the personnel he had assigned to follow her movements.

Alom was clearly flustered: "Korinne, you know that it’s dangerous to travel this late in the evening unaccompanied. Especially now, with the bane loose."

"Leshemando, Zembermari – you are both so very sweet. My appointment is with a Causidian, regarding a small legal matter, a business matter. The guild is directly outside of the eastern palace gates. The sentinels will have me in their watch for the entire distance of the walk." She offered them both a patronizing smile and slipped from his hand.

Ummaro suppressed a grimace, signed surreptitiously to one of his personal guard to follow her. He noticed that Alom’s gaze was fixedly upon the woman’s departing form; he decided to play with the poor boy.

"An intriguing woman, indeed, lad. Difficult to control, as you must have surmised. Yet the... perquisites are well worth the trouble." Just the right amount of lechery in the voice.

The juggler swallowed his first reaction, stared down at his freshly polished boots, looked Ummaro directly in the eyes, and stated with seeming deference: "Perhaps she will grace one of us in such a manner one day."

He left quickly, pushing through the crowd, perhaps to find the child. Ummaro stood for a moment in thought. An intelligent young man, it seemed. He signed to another of his agents and turned to immerse himself in the fine art of mingling.

as before, Zember, Korinne, and Ummaro are PCs

the Phantasian girl is Miri, one of Dennis' PCs

the food-monger is the NPC from my earlier chapter; I have another chapter planned for later during the evening that requires his cooperation, so don't any of you go messing with him just now

all the others are fair game

--Adam

Chapter One: Street Show
Chapter Two: Shalisa's Tale
Chapter Three: Introductions
Chapter Five: Gala Finale

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