"Hi Delman", Rotemdol replies, "I can see you have troubles here. Hope it is just bad vibes, something that a good party will dispel. I was at the Dragon when this thing happened, everything stopped, and people were just sitting, brooding. No fun. Once the music started though people came back. I thought that even though I will probably not get the usual appreciation I should come here and see if I could cheer some people up, and I did promise".
"The *thing*", Delman replies, "What the hell was it. Some people are saying a wizard has been killed. Do you know anything?".
"I heard a rumour that there are two assassins loose", replies Rotemdol, "You know security is up all over the place; I guess it must be more then that. What gives?"
"Don't know", Delman shakes his head, "Too many bad things I don't want to think about. Especially today".
"It seems that before we start a party we have to convince that fellow here to let me in. Will you tell him I am not a security risk?", Rotemdol asks, " Usually it is not a problem, I mean he knows who I am, but I guess new instructions...".
"He won't let anyone in; place is under lockdown". Delman looks severe. "Trouble enough us getting *out*. A few of use have managed to talk our way out; we're going to have to find a tavern and hold the party there. Docker's Armpit's the nearest one".
That's not exactly the most salubrious tavern in town.
"The Docker's it is" Rotemdol reply. " Less then a perfect choice but on a night like this I am sure any entertainment will be appreciated. Performed there often enough that the locals know it is preferable to enjoy the show then cause trouble and become part of it".
"So who is coming with us" Rotemdol asks " or are they already there?"
"They're already there", Delman replies, "Vardeyn and Herrish are there, and Relanuis and Garvandra, and Jur Hengrill. And Ul Gessok. And that's about it".
The Docker's Armpit isn't the quietest of Calbeyn's taverns. The sign on the door reads "Drunk for a sixteenth, dead drunk for an eighth, straw to lie on free". A large man wearing leather armour stands by the door leaning of a mean-looking club; Gazardhan, the tavern bouncer.
Formerly known as The Riverboat, but colloquially known as "The Knifing a Night", this establishment has a reputation as the second roughest tavern in town, after the notorious Vordral's Head. Frequented by dockers and mercenaries, it stands just beyond the Karazthan buildings at the far end of the dockside, where it becomes the marketplace..
Inside, the place is fairly crowded; the patrons are overwhelmingly human, and overwhelmingly male. It also looks as though a significant proportion of the women present are 'ladies of negotiable virtue'.
The Karazthan contingent have commandeered one corner. Half the party are kandar, though, and one of the kandar is a woman.
"Hi everyone" Rotemdol says as he and Delman reached the Karazthan's corner. "In a few minutes I hope to dispel some of the gloom that is everywhere tonight".
The Karazthan group look appreciative, but a few murmurs go up from the rest of the tavern's patrons.
Rotemdol starts arranging a table next to the wall so that when he performs he will be able to see the party as well as those behind them, looking like he is doing it for the benefit of the other patrons but also to enable him to see if someone tries something funny. He pulls from his bag balls, clubs, knifes, plates and handkerchiefs and arrange them on the table.
"Why are we waiting!", shouts a burly man at the back, obviously very drunk.
A piece of fruit, well past it's best-by date, comes flying across the tavern. The fellow who threw it is also too drunk to be able to aim, so Rotemdol doesn't need to expend any effort in dodging it. It splatters harmlessly against the wall.
"Hey Garvandra, what do you say to sitting here next to my table?", he says, "I can always use a charming assistant."
"What? Get sliced up by those sharp knives?", she says, shrinking back, "You must be joking".
"His aim is good", Delman says, "You won't get hit".
On finishing his setup Rotemdol goes to the bar to exchange a few words with the manager. The landlord, who goes by the name of Argyn the Invincible is a massively-built man with bizarre tattoos on each arm. Rotemdol informs him of his intentions.
"Anything breaks, you or your friends pay for", Argyn says gruffly. "And if a brawl starts, it's on your head. Understand?".
"Anyone in the crowd I need to watch out for?", Rotemdol asks.
"All of them", Argyn replies, "But watch out for that group with the red-haired girl". He indicates the group with Zul "They've got connections; upset them and we're all in trouble".
On the way back he passes by Zul.
"Get on with it!", comes another drunken voice".
Zul smiles at Aldrand. "Well, least now you know whose side I'm on. 'Scuse me while I see if I can make ol' Stretch here look bad".
"Don't get yourself skewered", Aldrand laughs.
She stands up and saunters toward Rotemdol, glancing at his knife. "Careful where you point that thing, big fella. Girl might get the wrong idea."
"Why is it that beautiful women always make fun of my little weapon", Rotemdol sighs, "Size is not everything you know"
"Since you seem to like them big", Rotemdol says, "I will give you this big long pointy thing here".
He flips the nivork out of its scabbard and hands it to Zul, hilt first. "Your job is to guard the table with it. Do try to look dangerous. Now in addition to guarding please hand me things to juggle".
To Zul, the sword feels like it's a serious weapon, not a juggling prop. It's well-balanced, and the edge looks sharp enough.
On the table Zul has been tasked to guard are an assortment of balls, clubs, knifes, plates and handkerchiefs. No flaming torches or live animals, but you can't have everything.
Rotemdol improvises according to whatever Zul hands him. Three, four, five, six objects in the air at once, extra objects disappearing whenever the numbers get too many. He even attempts the trick of smashing a plate in midair, then juggling the shards; unfortunately he doesn't quite pull it off. He does manage to make it all look like part of the act, and does seem to be winning over the audience
To Rotemdol, Zul's clearly not an experienced entertainer, but she's smart enough to work out she needs to do quickly enough.
The last act, of course, is throwing knifes with Zul as the target. But before Rotemdol throws the first knife, the drunken fruit thrower strikes again. This time, his target is Zul rather than Rotemdol, and his aim is considerably better; the fruit strikes the side of her head getting her red hair covered in sticky fruit bits.
Without saying a word, she marches over to the table, her face a blank mask, her eyes like frost. With her left hand, she absently, almost daintily, plucks the pieces of fruit out of her hair. The nirvork, in her right, hangs at her side, point down. She stops. Her gaze settles on the thrower. Her voice is husky with rage. "Get up."
"Yer Wot", says the drunken fruit thrower. He gets up anyway, and lurches forward, unsteady on his feet.
"Give 'er one", shouts one of his companions, as drunk as he.
"If you do not consider a fight part of the entertainment, I would consider it a good time to leave", Rotemdol tells the Karazthani. While Rotemdol does not appear to be overly concerned his tone does convey urgency.
The Karazthan party don't seem to much in a hurry to leave, so Rotedmdol urges them further into the corner they have, as to have some space between them and the rest. Their eyes are all on Zul. She looks as though she means business, and her would-be opponent is very, very drunk.
The tavern's bouncers would be negligent in their duties if they did not pay attention to this little incident. The one who leered at Zul when she entered earlier strides into the centre of the room, and fixes his gaze on Zul and the drunk. He doesn't say a word, or make any attempt to intervene, but other tavern patrons make way for him.
All eyes are focused on Zul now.
Zul flips the sword around so she's holding it pommel-up, then tosses it underhand to Rotemdol, who catches it effortly. She spreads her hands wide and looks down at her fruit- and puke-spattered self.
"Can a girl get a towel first?" she asks.
"What?", he replies, "And get vomit all over a nice clean towel?. I suggest you take yourself home. It's almost chucking out time anyway!".