La Maison Soloumbre: Evening of April 9th

[Nathan of the FoS]

It is late afternoon, verging on evening*, and the hubbub of the afternoon activities is being replaced by activity of a different sort. Supper is being set in the grand ballroom for those who have arranged to stay in the Maison or on its grounds, while those who are housed elsewhere are departing in the carriages in which they came.

Those present in the ballroom are called to attention by the sudden appearance of Father Mikkelson; raising one elegant hand for silence, he declares in a voice easily heard throughout the room and even on the grounds, "Brothers! Your attention, please. If you venture out this evening you may see one of these placed around the perimeter of the Maison grounds." He raises a black metal rod, perhaps five feet in height, with a globe of glass three inches or so in diameter set at its top. "Do not, on any account, venture outside of the perimeter formed by their line. Anyone so doing takes the consequence of his actions upon himself. For those who are leaving for their lodgings in the city, please do not return before daybreak. Certain security measures have been put into place which will not distinguish between person and person. We wish an excellent evening to all, and remind you that the discussions of the Conference proper begin tomorrow at 9 of the clock."

His announcement finished, he steps out of the ballroom, leaving a somewhat quieted group of diners and departers behind him.

*5:00; the sun will go down at 6:10, and it will get dark very quickly thereafter.

[Pamela]

When Gertrude had heard that the first arrangements had begun for the coming supper, she’d taken the opportunity to excuse herself. The conversation with Crow had been charming, and they’d parted in good spirits before turning their attention to other Brothers present. She sent word for her carriage to be prepared, wishing to keep ahead of the rush that was soon to follow.

She therefore missed Mikkelson’s warning; fortunately, she had had no intention of arriving before eight earliest. She was on her way back to the city, and was enrapt in her husband’s letter as she rode back.

My dearest Gerta-

How many the days before I set my eyes upon your fair countenance? How many the nights that I must pine in dark silence, yearning for your touch? Promise me, my sweet, that you will return as soon as you have settled your affairs! Until then, hold my heart close to yours, and know that you will never, ever be alone!

That was courtesy of Mrs Howarth’s latest opus, "Child of Love". I fear she is running out of euphemisms for bastards, so will either have to resort to that word or to legitimate children for her future endeavors. I’ve saved the finale of her “Union of Opposites” for you; I hear you sigh- with pleasure, I’m sure! Shall I spoil your anticipation? Oh, I suppose… Raven our poor beleaguered doppelganger did marry Clementine but was killed at the reception by his dastardly twin Blake. Alas, he too was killed, I am sorry to say. Raven lay in his true monstrous form until Providence had mercy upon the poor sod and revealed ‘the true nature of his magnificent soul’ and rendered his corpse human. Truly a great blessing for a dead man! If only you could’ve seen the tears in my eyes as I read this wonder..

Never one to end her tales with a death, the epilogue informs us that Clem finally married Beauregard after an appropriate waiting period. Can you guess the name of their first-born son? I sadly fear incestuous repercussions in the future, but perhaps that is only the bent of my mind…

The letter continued on in this vein, offering synopses of the latest penny dreadfuls that had arisen since his last letter. Both were inveterate readers, and they rather enjoyed reading aloud the melodrama with appropriate displays of emotion- or at least until they were too riddled with laughter to continue.

Gossip about her academic and Fraternal peers filled another page. Sometimes Gertrude broke into soft laughter as she could clearly imagine her husband’s expression and tone of voice. It was during such a moment that she realised Crow’s appeal despite his public theatrical mannerisms, and smiled to consider dinner with the pair. She heard Larner’s warning and the smile evaporated. It was one thing to endanger herself, but what of Rupert? She recalled the latest lack of news about Tao. What were the two playing at? What if Tao were already in Zherisia, visiting Rupert while claiming to be a friend of hers? Rupert wouldn’t trust the man, she was sure, but if he made a nuisance of himself, drew the local chapter’s attention in any manner… She shook her head, willing herself away from the disagreeable topic. She would be home soon, and be able to tell her husband all the details about Crow and Tao, so that he’d be fully prepared by any hijinks they might be considering. Blessed sun, I do hope that you truly are as innocent as you pretend, but… She returned to the cheerfully malicious account of affairs and emotional backstabbings.

The next part consisted of serious news, beginning with the misfortunes that had befallen their small circle of friends. These were thankfully few. The rest was devoted to the latest headlines and events that Rupert knew would interest her. Electoral reform was of course still being studied by the commission. The professor sniffed at the news, wondering how many more years King’s Quarters would be able to get away with their inactivity. Hopefully five, but no later than Jack’s next spree, I’m sure…

Here now was the mention of Larner’s coming survey. Rupert was surprisingly open about his concerns over van Rijn’s potential ties with unnamed members of their chapter. But then Larner had been the messenger. She doubted the Esteemed Brother would stoop to reading the letter- but if he had, the absence of any mention would have been highly suspicious in itself. Lines of worry marked her forehead as she read, hoping that none of Rupert’s own friends in the Fraternity were not involved.

When she was done, she began to reread it, unwilling to relinquish the moment just yet. She had to interrupt it as the carriage pulled up to the Black Ship. The rooms hadn’t been available when she’d first arrived, but she’d made reservations and had moved in last week. She returned Mme Dreyfuss’ warm greeting, and took her key; she preferred to leave it here, than to lose it to any potential pickpocket. “I will be supping here tonight, thank you,” she said in answer to the innkeeper’s question, and went upstairs to refresh herself beforehand.

[Rotipher of the FoS]

The bard nibbles bare the last of the skewer-roasted shrimp he'd bought off a vendor in le Marche -- spicy, but not unbearably-so; the wiser street-merchants have already reacted to the number of foreigners who've converged upon the town, by halving their victuals' flavoring whilst tripling the price -- and tosses its denuded tail to the knot of brown-necked pelicans that squabble over the discarded viscera of the local fishermen's catch. He chuckles aloud, as one of the ungainly-looking birds snakes its neck up from the flock to catch the tidbit in its comical bill, then returns his attention to the artist's sketchpad in his lap ... himself, a subject (he's made sure of it) of equal amusement to the resident fishermen, who pause in their end-of-day's labors to roll their eyes in bemused contempt at this dark-curled foreigner's frivolous pastime, whenever they think he's not watching.

Crow doesn't mind. A writing-pad in illiterate Souragne would rouse far more suspicion than a sketch-artist's drawings, and playing the frivolous dandy is a default role as comfortable to him as a well-broken-in shoe. That his talents don't much extend to drawing only feeds into his cover-act, as he updates his shorthand notes under the pretense of executing a few (lamentable, and already-prepared) wildlife pictures.

As the sun sinks beyond the western end of town, any opportunity to view a glorious sunset over water obstructed by the bay's southern shoreline, the diminishing light of dusk threatens his pose's credibility. Scribbling a last few abbreviated commentaries on the writing-paper concealed in his sketchbook, and colorfully cursing the descent of darkness for the fishermen's benefit, the VRS spy shuts the sketchpad with his notes inside. He unsnaps the latches of his guitar-case, and slips the pad into the loose pocket in its lid's velvet lining (nothing remarkable in that; for a conventional guitarist, such a pouch would house sheet music), opening the lid no more than necessary so the case's contents aren't exposed to other eyes.

Crow's grumbling over the dimness is as feigned as his "sketching". In truth, he is grateful for this forced cessation of his note-scribing; he has other business -- and another rendezvous -- to attend to this evening.

Rising to his feet, and feeling a spark of relief that his recovered ankle is once again equal to the demands of his work, the bard leaves behind the malodorous Port neighborhood, seeking the Rue Pescadero and the house of a certain "Mme. Solobre".

[Rotipher of the FoS]

Port d'Elhour is far too small for house numbers, but the directions which Crow'd received from the shrimp-vendor guide him easily to the proper street. (A pleasantly-quiet neighborhood, well west of the squalid docks and slums ... a bit of a relief, in truth: given Ambrose Skully's sordid reputation, the spy'd half-feared the Souragnien cell's own resident bard might've arranged for his visiting colleagues to gather in a brothel!) Turning left off Old Cypress, the dark-curled musician strides down the Rue Pescadero, catching the cucumber-scent of tulip trees in the bayou-domain's still, sultry evening air.

The residence of the widow Solobre, a two-story affair surrounded by rich flowerbeds and a honeysuckle-entwined fence, is modest in comparison to the Maison, yet in far better repair. As Crow approaches, an older man in laborer's dirt-encrusted clothing -- presumably Mme.'s gardener -- moves up the path, burdened with horticultural tools; ever conscious of servants' value as informants, the bard opens the swinging picket-gate for the man and draws it aside. The Souragnien's dark, wrinkled face turns suspicious eyes at the stranger, so the spy shrugs his shoulder and hitches his instrument-case's strap slightly, drawing the man's attention to his own burden. Taking the instrument as a sign that Crow isn't the patronizing toff his poker-won garments imply, but a fellow-hireling genuinely trying to be helpful, the gardener's glare softens; the bard nods appreciatively at the resplendant gardens and briskly mimes a round of applause. Mme. Solombre's groundskeeper smiles at last, justly proud of his handiwork, and politely returns Crow's nod as he steps through the gate and heads on home for the night.

(So simple, to keep in touch and in tune with the common people: like the coachman or Duchamps, a modicum of due respect is all they really ask. How blind was the Fraternity -- to say nothing of Souragne's native elite -- to dismiss the masses as irrelevant or debased? Whatever the bard's own forgotten background, he sensed he'd grown weary of such shallow upper-crust pretension, long before his break with his old life.)

Slipping through the gate himself, Crow passes under an interlaced arch of branches, formed by the blooming tulip trees that flank the path to Mme. Solombre's residence. Feeling the path's lining of cypress-wood chips give slightly under his boots, he trots onward to the front portico, hung with yet-unlit lanterns and flower-baskets. The VRS spy pauses on the stoop to rake his fingers through his unruly hair -- a lost cause, as ever, but it's the show of effort that counts -- and then rings the small brass bell mounted in a bracket beside the door.

[Nathan of the FoS]

The door swings open almost immediately, revealing a pretty young woman dressed in white. "Entrez, m'sieur," she says, dropping a half-curtsey and opening the door wide for Crow's entry. "Votre nom?"

"Crow," the bard replies politely. Nodding, she makes a gesture the bard interprets easily as "wait here" and disappears into the house. Crow can hear a guitar being played softly and a few male voices talking; then the young girl appears again, smiling now (perhaps for the handsome new arrival?) and says, "Les autres sont sur la veranda. Suivez-moi, s'il vous plait," gesturing for Crow to follow her.

They wend through a darkened passageway toward the rear of the house; as they go Crow hears the guitarist strike up with a rhythmic, dramatic staccato, and someone else begins to sing in a pure tenor:

Karina
Lejana y sola.

Jaca negra, luna grande,
Y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
No llegare a Karina.

Por el llano, por el viento,
Jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me esta mirando
Desde las torres de Karina.

Ay que camino tan largo!
Ay mi jaca valerosa!
Ay que la muerte me espera
Antes que llegue a Karina!

Karina
Lejana y sola.*

Crow comes to the veranda mid-song, and sees the group assembled--Ibelis, who is singing, Ambrose Skully (already rather the worse for wine), a dark-haired young man playing the guitar whose provenance is not easy to guess, and two others--older and more settled looking--whom he remembers have seen in passing at the Maison.



*Cancion del jinete, by Federico Garcia Lorca. For present purposes Spanish=Luktar and Cordoba=Karina.

[Rotipher of the FoS]

However galling these FoS bards' amoral predilictions, the VRS spy knows beauty is not to be disparaged for its originators' unworthiness. The black-curled new arrival calls little attention to himself, but stands quiet and deferential beside the entryway, allowing the two performers the full 'center stage' which their respective talents merit. Introductions can wait; he savors the music like the others, eyelids half-closed, expression wistfully-attentive, arms crossed. Unconsciously, the slim digits of his left hand move across the fabric of his right shirt-sleeve, reflexively mimicking the same finger-placements which the Fraternity accompanist deftly executes.

"...Karina, far away and alone."

Automatically interpreting the half-elf's lyrics -- Luktar is not a language with which Crow is overly-familiar or comfortable, but the song is an old Invidian lay he well recollects in its original Balok -- the infiltrator's fingers mime the closing chords of his fellow-guitarist's rendition, as the final notes sound. Then, and only then, when the last string's voice has faded as has Quiret's, does the spy let an appreciative smile spread across his features, as his palms come together in the less-ebullient, measured style of applause by which professionals salute others' mastery.

"Marvelous, marvelous," he gushes, when the room's occupants turn to look at him. "Gentlemen, any doubts I might've harbored as to whether this meeting would be worth attending, after the last one bloody near left me charred like a Souragnien entree, have been put to rest ... that is, if more recitals like that one should be forthcoming." He bows, doffing an imaginary hat (he's not had time to pick up a real one in the gaming-houses yet), then rises and nods at the performers.

"Please, do go on; don't let me interrupt now, I'll never stop if you let me get started." He grins sheepishly at the other bards. "Crow, folks call me, and overly prone to 'caw' incessantly if allowed to do so; again, please don't let me, or we'll never find time to hear another note, this night."

He dismissively waves a self-disparaging hand, in a Never-Mind-Me gesture ... even as he lets the hook sink in, his thoughts devious behind his embarassed smile.

Curiosity kills the cat and bags the bard. None but one among you was at the Manoir that night, and that one's too drunk by far -- then and now, looks like -- to offer credible reports. But I have my tale to tell from October, yes indeed ... a tale, and a bit more besides, to buy your trust and your insiders' knowledge.

Here, kitty kitty....

[Nathan of the FoS]

The gentlemen of the Fraternity present stand up as Crow enters; Quiret acknowledges Crow's effusive praise with a half-smile and a nod of the head, and the dark-haired young man playing the guitar nods briefly. "Brother Crow," the half-elf says politely, "may I present Brother Vasily Yarek, Brother Simon Torrens, and Honored Brother Paolo Dilisnya. Brothers, this is Brother Crow, who comes to us from...in truth, I know not where; we are acquainted only this afternoon, when I saw him for a musician by his guitar-case."

At this Yarek (the guitar player) looks at Crow with interest and says, his High Mordentish heavily accented with the sing-song rhythms of Kartakass, "You play, m'sieur?"

"Capital," Torrens (a tall man, perhaps in his early forties, wearing a thin mustache and elegantly dressed in an old-fashioned style) says, smiling politely. "I am certain your talents will form an admirable addition to the party." By his accent he is almost certain native to Mordent, or perhaps the south of Dementlieu.

Dilisnya--a dyspeptic fellow, perhaps in his late forties, with the stamp of his family strong in his features--sniffs and says, "The guitar! A gypsy instrument. Is there nothing better to hand this evening?"

"Now, then, Brother Dilisnya," Quiret says placatingly. "Perhaps you will regale us with something?"

"Oh, I think not..."

"But to have come, and not to share your talent!"

"Oh, very well," Dilisnya says, with pretended reluctance. "I suppose I might..."

He produces a violin--could it really be a Delamati?, Crow wonders--and fusses over it for a minute or so before raising it to his chin and drawing the bow across the strings, his peevish face relaxing into something like contentment, and the Night Aire from The Golden Nightengale wafts into the waiting darkness.

[Rotipher of the FoS]

"Brothers, this is Brother Crow, who comes to us from...in truth, I know not where; we are acquainted only this afternoon, when I saw him for a musician by his guitar-case."

The spy merely shrugs, quips: "Everywhere, really; I've made the world my home, if anyplace qualifies. If I could tan worth a damn, even in this Island's torrid clime, you'd likely presume I'd a dash of giomorgo wanderlust in my ancestry." The patterna term slips neatly off his tongue, so accurately-pronounced as to virtually belie his joshing words and fair skin.

At this Yarek (the guitar player) looks at Crow with interest and says, his High Mordentish heavily accented with the sing-song rhythms of Kartakass, "You play, m'sieur?"

Tilting his head and tipping a rascally wink at Yarek -- a boyish gesture of camaraderie for a fellow guitarist -- Crow nods with pride. "My first and favorite instrument ... though I'd not steal the stage away from yourself, Brother, if you've further renditions to offer us! Our worthy Songmaster reminded me just today of the Kartakan school's customary omission of woodwinds; perhaps I'd better serve the needs of our ensemble, filling up that gap."

He winks again, this time with modesty. The VRS agent's information on Yarek is almost nonexistent -- Kartakass produces far too many bards to keep track of; Crow's played the role himself, too many times to count, so knows this for fact from both directions -- but the younger bard's lecture-topic was listed on the programme, and it hints at a fondness for antique musical arcana, rather than the Land's darker secrets.

"Capital," Torrens says, smiling politely. "I am certain your talents will form an admirable addition to the party." By his accent he is almost certain native to Mordent, or perhaps the south of Dementlieu.

"Too kind, sir," Crow replies, acknowledging Torrens' graciousness with a small bow. "And by your presence, another role in our quintet -- oops, make that sextet; I assume that's Brother Skully, 'inspecting' the underside of the drinks-table there? -- is filled! Assuming, of course, our hosts at the Maison should have a harpsichord about the place, and one of a quality not demeaning to your talents, Brother Torrens."

The keyboardist's reputation precedes him, though not to the same extent as Quiret's; Crow honestly doesn't know how much of Torrens' rumored travels should be believed. Best to leave it up to him to reveal any details, rather than jump to conclusions.


The last musician Quiret introduces, of course, the black-curled bard doesn't need the half-elf's words to place. Even if Buchvold's cautionary remarks about the Borcan expatriate hadn't sufficed, the irritable violinist's features would have betrayed his despised heritage at a glance.

Easy, Crow-my-lad: you're working. Besides, you damn well know the man can't be blamed for his ancestry; you've no reason to resent him out-of-hand...

Dilisnya sniffs and says, "The guitar! A gypsy instrument. Is there nothing better to hand this evening?"

...all right, maybe now you've a reason to....

(The flash of possessive hostility that jabs the spy's psyche startles him by its intensity. He's braced himself to suffer a Dilisnya's presence, and he's well-enured to his chosen instrument's occasional disparagement by the upper crust. But enduring both at once? Something deep within Crow roils in outrage, that a self-important heir to assassins should demean Tiahn in such a fashion.)

Realizing he's let sudden resentment crease his brow in outrage, the VRS infiltrator hurriedly lets his features go blank, then covers up the lapse by trading affronted glances with Yarek. The Kartakan's look offers subtle commiseration, and the younger guitarist's eyes roll slightly, in mutual irritation; perhaps Crow's not the first to have heard his 'peasant instrument' belittled by the wealthy expatriate, this evening.

Interestingly, Paolo Dilisnya doesn't seem to notice this mute exchange between the two guitarists, distracted as he is by Quiret's soothing flattery. Either the half-elf's natural talent for steering is greater than the Songmaster's simple words imply, or the older man's social aptitudes are as limited as his crassness and bluster suggest. Best to find out now, so as to be certain how pliable the violinist really is, before the spy brings out his 'gift' to the bardic Brethren....

Indeed, the performance to follow -- one rendered on a Delamati, no less: the violin's sound speaks eloquently of its quality; such a rarity surely deserves finer hands than a Dilisnya's, for all that the expatriate's skill is admittedly respectable -- confirms what Crow's intuition already hints at: this man's skill comes from technical precision, not soul. His bowing is smooth; Night Aire's eerie harmonics are delicately reproduced; tempo and motif are spot-on, befitting an opera house's orchestral treatment. There isn't anything dissenting or incongruous or out-of-place about the piece ... but that's just the problem: the music doesn't bend or bloom with the mood of its audience, nor emulate the sultry dusktide ambience of the lantern-lit veranda; it doesn't dance, doesn't speak, doesn't live.

(Paolo Dilisnya is no bard, and the realization of that comes as a relief to Crow. The presence of bards in the Fraternity is already repugnant; knowing one of them for a Dilisnyan backstabber would have been still worse. To hear the living music that is his solace soiled by doubly-fouled hands is an affront the spy would rather do without.)

If not for the violinist's needless crack about guitars, Crow would let it go and procede with his proposition. But, again, he needs to weigh the man's discernment -- and that of the others, also -- while keeping up his 'Brother Crow' facade. And Quiret's seen 'Brother Crow' cowed once already, in the forbidding presence of Mikkelson and his cronies; he'd best correct any erroneous impression that the spy's FoS-persona is easily backed down, before he goes any further.

When Dilisnya's final notes from Golden Nightingale fade away, and the obligatory praises are offered, 'Brother Crow' avidly contributes his own accolades, no less readily than the others:

"An exceptional piece, Honored Brother, and rendered with all the refined precision that Piorageli himself could have asked for, were the great composer yet with us! And such an exquisite violin, too ... really, to hear a Delamati's fine voice is a privilege I daresay none among us will soon forget."

The spy watches Dilisnya's reaction, and those of the others, to see if either the aged violinist or his Brethren catch on that, from a bard's point of view, Crow has just coyly insulted the dour Borcan's performance -- speaking in homage to the original composer and the instrument, yet not to the player's 'personal touch' in presentation -- rather than commended it. If this Dilisnya is a wizard dabbling in music, as he suspects, the man likely won't recognize 'precision' as a subtle jab at the overly-technical mindset of his dryly analytical profession; conversely, if the real bards in the group coyly indicate to Crow that they get the joke, the spy will have determined which ones are discerning enough to pose a potential problem.

Tempting as it is to rush directly to his offer, Crow knows complacancy or haste is no less dangerous, amongst these men, than in Mikkelson's testing-chamber. The more he knows in advance, the more easily he'll win them over to 'Brother Crow's' proposition; the folded sheet of sketch-paper in his jerkin pocket can wait a little longer.

Besides, he's rather looking forward to his turn to perform. Tension at the Maison was so high, in the wake of the Tarokka-card incident, he'd not had time to properly enjoy his day's work: the VRS agent is overdue for a chuckle.

[Nathan of the FoS]

"An exceptional piece, Honored Brother, and rendered with all the refined precision that Piorageli himself could have asked for, were the great composer yet with us! And such an exquisite violin, too ... really, to hear a Delamati's fine voice is a privilege I daresay none among us will soon forget."

The Borcan positively grins at Crow's "compliment", although his reply takes the bard rather by surprise. "A Delamati! Oho, no indeed. I am fortunate enough to have two at home, but I could never subject them to this heat, this wet. But it is very like, is it not? A Turgorov, made when he was still in Delamati's shop, I believe, or perhaps just after, before he began to use the more elaborate scrollwork and the maple pegs." Turning the violin for Crow's inspection, he gestures to the "T" wrapped in vines just visible within the violin's soundbox. "Still exquisite, of course, and the Turgorovs have the reputation of being robust, so I thought I might venture. The Night Aire, exceptional, as you say, and well-suited to the present setting, though I might have brightened the vibrato in the second return, perhaps; what do you think, Brother Quiret?"

The Borcan's enthusiasm is startling, even jarring, to Crow; his appreciation of the instrument is entirely unfeigned, and it renders his expression almost pleasant. The implied criticism of his playing appears to escape him entirely.

Quiret certainly caught it; not quite smiling at Crow as he answers, he says, "Ah, Brother Dilisnya, I think you are precisely correct; one may be accurate and yet miss the truth if he does not give the imagination free rein. The brightened vibrato would add an element of tension which would complement the harmonics you rendered so exactly."

Yarek does not appear to be following the conversation; Crow doubts his Mordentish is good enough to suss out the subtleties of the present exchange. Torrens murmurs his compliments to Dilisnya while casting a bright ironic glance at Crow; the Mordentishman then says, "And would you favor us with a rendition of your own, Brother Crow?"

[Rotipher of the FoS]

Crow doesn’t hide his bemused expression at the expatriate’s correction. In truth, while he dearly appreciates quality instruments, he’s a reluctant connoisseur of their particular manufacturers’ prestige: keeping abreast of the plethora of villainous factions, cults, and conspiracies infesting the Land seldom leaves him time to savor fellow musicians’ latest compositions, let alone the works of famed instrument-crafters! But his nonplussed look at seeing one of the infamous Dilisnyas burbling on about the violin’s provenance, like a numismatist cooing over a mint-quality Old Borjian “sun’s-glory” platinum, should stand in for mild embarrassment at his misidentification.

Even with this improvement in mood, Brother Dilisnya’s self-absorption is obvious … not exactly an endearing trait, yet one that serves Crow’s purposes, if the aging grouch is as blind to others’ feelings – and motives – as his words imply. A hobbyist, this Borcan is, and indeed no bard, nor likely any real threat: a man so focused on his own viewpoint and possessions is an unlikely candidate to take enough interest in ‘Brother Crow’s’ doings to notice anything amiss. The VRS spy provisionally sets aside his concerns regarding this Fraternity member, to concentrate on his other three waking opponents.

(Still, any man who professes to admire an instrument, yet still refers to the ‘prized’ item as an impersonal “it”, isn’t living up to Crow’s standards as a caretaker. The spy makes a mental note to learn just where in Richemulot Paolo Dilisnya now resides, before the FoS gathering’s end: if what Buchvold’s told him is correct, the man’s library might well be worth a rifling in future … and the mere thought of two precious Delamatis languishing in the hands of this dabbler, who plainly thought to buy his way into artistry, while natural talents as potent and riveting as Duchamps made do with substandard instruments, readily justifies his intervention.)

The other bards’ reactions are more encouraging; although their perceptiveness carries its own dangers, Quiret’s and Torrens’s sympathy for his sly put-down of the wizard implies they’ll likewise be amenable to ‘Brother Crow’s’ viewpoint in the future. He winks appreciatively at Quiret’s likewise-taunting reply to Dilisnya’s query (when the violinist isn’t looking, of course), then beams gratefully at Torrens when the Mordentish gentleman invites him to take a turn ‘on stage’.

“Why, sir, how could I even presume to match the Honored Brother’s exacting perfection of form? Any other classic favorite would surely pale in comparison,” he replies mildly, in a continuation of the ‘Tease-The-Wannabee’ game he and the half-elf have serendipitously struck up, at Dilisnya’s unwitting expense. A slight bow in the violinist’s direction is returned by the Borcan emigrant, still contentedly in the dark.

“Then again, perhaps something endemic would be fitting. Are you gentlemen familiar with Souragnien folk music’s twelve-bar harmonic progressions? The ‘call-and-response’ vocal motif which accompanies and inspires it? No? It’s rather... novel, I’ll admit, but remarkably fresh and enlivening, to say naught of 'catchy'.

“I’ve been experimenting over the past few days, you see, and would much appreciate your opinions. If I may…? Oh, don’t worry, I’ll not butcher any piece known and beloved to any of us … nor step on worthy Brother Yarek’s toes, either! If none of you are averse to the harmonica, I believe we’re due a change of pace from strings.

“Now, this first signature-technique of the style is a slight drop in pitch, or ‘bend’, which is applied to any one of the odd-numbered notes of the major diatonic scale, with the exception of the tonic note itself. It’s a counterintuitive change, to step outside the classic scale, but I for one was amazed at how the mood of a passage can be transfigured by that slight deviation! Just to demonstrate its effect for starters, let’s see what it can do to salvage a truly wretched piece…”

The chorus of simultaneous groans that herald the opening notes of the late, unlamented Raoul Dumont’s trite “Alas! My Love Is No More” gradually abates, as Crow’s best treble harmonica picks up the clichéd ballad, shakes out the piece’s wrinkles, re-dresses it with shuffles, repetitions, and Duchamps’ spirited glissandi – a technique that comes naturally for the mouth-organ – and, in short, makes it worth listening to.

By the time the impromptu blues-lesson is over, and he’s capped off his medley with the 'turnaround' coda to the traditional lament “La danse le deuil du Feu Follet” – an eminently-suitable piece to close upon, as Mme. Solobre’s backyard garden is by now alive with fireflies – ‘Brother Crow’s’ reputation as one who thinks outside the box seems secure. And, in viewing the other men’s reactions to his unorthodox choice of styles, Crow-the-spy has a better sense of which among them is the most open-minded and receptive to radical techniques … or ideas. Such knowledge will certainly come in handy for the future, if the black-curled infiltrator has any say in the matter.

A pleasure indeed, to blend music with his work ... and to savor the irony of seeing arrogant FoS members attending so closely to techniques a penniless, blind sharecropper had taught him! Besides which, Buchvold now owes him five gold pieces.

(Really, the Borcan illusionist should know better, by now, than to bet that “Mr. Crow” couldn’t get the famed Ibelios natha Quiret to listen to bloody showtunes….)

It’s a good finale to his performance, and he lets the vigorous discussion that follows run on, until the Fraternity members’ debate over Souragnien music has traveled full circle. Only when the participants, both ‘pro’ and ‘con’, have exhausted all options but to repeat themselves, and Simon Torrens has pledged to exhibit his own skills in the event a decent keyboard can be tracked down in this soggy realm, and a wearied Paolo Dilisnya has excused himself early to retire for the night, does the VRS agent at last put his other gamble of the evening to the test:

“Brothers, as our colleague has already departed, and we’ve three long days of lectures in store for us, and two of us have upcoming presentations to prepare for, perhaps it’s best if we not while away too much of the evening in debate. Certainly, we’ll have cause to come together again, in celebration, once Brother Yarek has presented his discoveries to the Fraternity-at-large!

“But for now, as we’ve some time away from the more scholastically-inclined Brothers – away, too, from our rather precise associate – perhaps I might introduce another topic of interest … something that you, Songmaster, might find particularly relevant, given your own upcoming panel appearance. Indeed, something that might be to the advantage of us all, as a brotherhood within the Brotherhood … provided, of course, our ‘exacting’ colleagues deign to give credit where credit is due.” This time, the VRS spy shifts to Vaasi as he speaks the word “exacting”, to ensure that Brother Yarek isn’t excluded from the reference.

“You see, brothers, I’ve a puzzle I’ve been working on – unsuccessfully – that you might be able to help me with.” The curly-haired infiltrator drew a folded paper from his inside jerkin-pocket, opened it out flat on the veranda’s tabletop.

“Pardon my ignorance, gentlemen, but what might you make of this? I’m afraid it’s got me stumped, but if I tell you the tale of where and how I came by it, perhaps you can help decipher its meaning. Oh, and if any of you know how to nullify toxins – and alcohol – or if Madame Solobre keeps smelling salts in the house, we definitely ought to rouse Brother Skully: this very much concerns him, too….”

The bards gather round the table, the gnome is roused, the document's cryptic content is dissected ... and the kitties are snared without protest.



[OOC: "To Be Continued" If you want to know what the spy is up to now, either wait until Nathan and I reveal it, or find an excuse for your PC to ask Quiret, Skully, and/or the other NPC bards what happened at their little get-together.

[Don't blame me if the French song-title's grammer is screwed up, BTW: I had to use an online free translator, so have no clue if it's right or not. ]

[alhoon]

Draxton faked a happily suprised smile at the announcement. So no sneaking after hours to the graveyard. No secret meetings with Dadrag if there is a need.
Still Draxton couldn't help but take a mental note on who seemed to be rushing to leave the room after the announcement. A couple of brothers seemed to have changed their mind after the announcement was made... Both of them Richemulotese. People like them seem to create the bad name his compatriots have for intrigue.
Real masters of intrigue don't show they are into something.