From: kjc@athos.rutgers.edu (Kelly J. Cooper) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: Jameson W. Walker, Part III Keywords: in which the new character emerges from the new territory Message-ID: Date: 28 Oct 92 21:12:16 GMT "The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents." - H.P. Lovecraft "O, there has been much throwing about of brains." -Guildenstern Jameson W. Walker, Part III ___________________________ There is a road. It's dusty, but this can't be helped -- so many travel here, there is no way it can remain a weed choked path. No roots trap the dirt. No one can or wishes to afford paving it. After a time on this road, the dirt works its way into everything -- every crease and fold of your clothes, your skin. Every bite of your food. Those who travel on foot understand this. To be without this layer of anonymity means you can afford to be above the dirt, on a horse, or protected in a carriage with heavy curtains. If you are rich, you are dismissed from thought or robbed. If you are on foot, you learn to read eyes. Eyes are the only things that remain expressive above dust masks called faces. In the blended camouflage of brown dirt streaks, friends or foes are determined in a moments' glance. The end of this road, the very end before it touches its destination, is paved with cobblestones set in a kind of cement. But still, travellers bring the dust into the city with them, to be brushed or washed off into ... sewers? How interesting. Levels of development definitely skewed here. Relatively sophisticated road building and sewers. Wooden buildings mixed with stone buildings and beautiful works of architecture? Jameson strained to see more of the interior of this city, looking around and over her fellow travellers. They were making slow progress through the gates, as a guard on either side recorded the name and business of all who passed through. She examined closely the workmanship of the gates and compared it to what she could see within. Possibly a cross-over city? She mused. The guard at the gate looked bored. He barely glanced up at her, saying, "Name?" It was fortunate that Common was one of the easier languages. Probably why it was common. "Jameson W. Walker." "Occupation?" "Student." The guard's eyes flickered. Not an adventurer, not a patron desperately searching for help from adventurers, nor a beggar, nor even a trouble-maker. Slightly out of the ordinary. He shrugged mentally and waved her in. A highly stylized sign, complete with illustration, announced to her that she was standing upon Dragon's Lane. The crowd of tired people and piled-high carts was pushing in this direction and she allowed herself to be led. She stayed on the right hand side of the street, on the fringe of the people, glancing into shop windows and observing architecture. The buildings on this side of the road ended abruptly to reveal a large open air market. It was obvious that most of the crowd was headed here. Even as she noted the various stalls for foods and wares, her proximity detector went off. She silenced it abruptly and moved quietly, but now purposefully through the crowd. Nothing special, she goes largely unnoticed except by those eyes that notice all. On the other side of the marketplace, there is a huge queue around a red and white tent. Mostly young, ragged men with hopeful faces. In this exposed location, Jameson doesn't want to pull equipment from her bag. She makes a mental note to return here during quieter hours. -*- Fiero nearly belted an old man in his way, but slammed his fist into his other palm instead. The guards were acting tight assed these days, with the weirdo shit goin' down in the city. Everybody's a little on edge. The Press is leakin' into everything, everybody. It wouldn't take more than a wink to get Fiero thrown in the lock-up. He folds his hands and flexes the muscles under the flame brand on his upper arm. Teeth flash as he smiles quietly, noticing the shakes his scar gives the old people. He's been looking for a decent mark all day. Just a quick grab and flash. He could use some cash to pick up some more Joystix. It was getting expensive these days, and Karry really didn't like it when he came back without her fix. She really REALLY did not like it. Or him. He hated working the market. He's not a pickpocket, just a brute force grabber. It's tough getting out of this place when you can't slip through, but he usually manages, shoving folks left and right and back into the guards' way. But most of the padded merchants were bodyguarded, all tense and unhappy. The jewel dealers 'been hiring watchers to keep open eyes on the stock. Everybody's tense, nobody's letting his guard down. What Fiero needed was a newbie. Letting his eyes do a slow travel across the crowd he sees the surge of dusty newcomers entering the market. Most of them are looking in all directions at once. A few aren't. One's crazy, looks like he's about to start yelling prophecies or chants or something. One's big. Too big. One's ... dirty, but ... carrying a bulky bag and holding it pretty tight. He? No, she. About average. Looking across the market, not paying attention to anything around her. He lets the current of people draw her nearer and he wanders into the stream himself. They drift closer and he can see she has brown hair and sturdy clothes. She doesn't look particularly intimidating, but her bag does certainly look full. He smiles. -*- Tearing her attention away from the tent, Jameson all at once felt the people crowding around her. She was tired. Settling her bag firmly on her shoulders, she began to turn, to fight through the crowd back to the lane when something bright jumped up in her face. She started and the figure laughed raucously and backed away flinging colored bits of paper at her. Orienting herself, she realized his face was a rainbow of make-up and he was juggling painted wooden balls. Coming up from behind and beside him, another clown began stealing the first's juggling tools. They mock-fought back and forth, juggling between each other's hands, becoming more and more frantic. Jameson grinned. Coming through the crowd, yet another clown, more of a raggedy man standing over a foot taller than the other two, cut through their act flipping pins from hand to hand. The first two turned, stumbling and seeming barely able to continue juggling, each about to drop any moment *four* balls where there had been only three between them to start. Suddenly, a small child streaked under the tall man, followed (around) by a frantic mother. The tall man stumbled and dropped a pin. Jameson caught it and flipped it back into his pattern before he lost the whole thing. He grinned and flipped her another. While she caught it, he added another pin from his huge pockets. He repeated this until they had six pins going back and forth between them. The crowd cleared around them a bit, whether from fear or amusement was uncertain, but it made it easier to breathe. The other two clowns began prancing around the people at the edge of the observers, tripping and catching themselves, juggling madly and holding out their hats for donations. The man began to bellow in a resonant voice, "See here, ladies and gentlefolk. Drummer the Magnificent can teach even the lowliest of low how to juggle in mere moments..." "Low only from thy great height, oh mangy master," Jameson retorted. Drummer grinned wickedly. "Look, the bit of dirt speaks!" "Better than you ever shall, my fond fool." "Drummer the Magnificent deigns to speak with dirt clod only because it has exhibited a penchant for the oldest and greatest art in the world." Rising to the bait, Jameson laughs. "Does your title recommend you for talents in the oldest profession, Drummer? And is it true what they say about men with big feet?" "What do the people say of men with big feet, little dirt clod?" "Why, they wear big shoes of course!" The crowd laughed, and many walked on. Bowing and scraping, the other clowns collected what they could and returned to Drummer. Catching all the clubs and stowing them in his pockets, the afore mentioned gentleman glowered down at Jameson. "Would you like a job, little dirt clod?" Jameson smiled. -*- Fiero cursed twenty-some-odd gods while he watched his prey slip from his grasp. Especially frustrating since he'd already signalled Markli to be ready to run interference and Chone to do distraction. He cursed a few more gods and made a decision. Glancing around at the encroaching twilight, he nodded purposefully to Markli and Chone. They looked at him in disbelief, but resumed position when he threatened with a clenched fist against his jaw. Jameson and Drummer both noticed the Flame Brands at about the same time. Drummer flicked his fingers and the two young clowns ran off, tripping and jumping over each other toward a guard at the edge of the crowd, near the lane. Drummer shook his head and glanced down at Jameson. "Ready little dirt clod?" Without waiting for an answer, he began juggling his clubs and turned away from Jameson. Jameson stepped left, back and over from Drummer, toward the edge of the stalls. From between two stalls, a thick-set youngish man headed toward her purposefully. She spun on her heel abruptly and caught the three pins coming at her from over Drummers shoulders. He still faced away. Juggling, she took a quick step back and let her foot land squarely on a loose board that had been laying atop a brick. The other end of the board flipped up and nailed the gang member firmly in the crotch. Behind Jameson, Markli's eyes bulged as he quietly curled up on the ground. In the next few moments, Jameson's juggling moves became more and more exaggerated and on one pin catch, she swung it back to nail Chone between the eyes without breaking pattern. She got him twice more before his body figured out to fall down. Turning slightly to the right, she saw Fiero coming at her, eyes angry and mouth set tightly. As he concentrated on her, he did not see the pair of clowns concentrating on him. One jumped in front of him to juggle three heavy balls off his chest. Before Fiero could shove him out of the way, the other jumped on his back and brought him down to his hands and knees. The clown then leap-frogged over him and landed squarely on his right hand. Fiero howled, holding his hand to his chest and attempting to get to this feet. One of Drummer's pins caught him under the chin and he flipped back onto his ass. Dazed, it only took one of the clowns' wooden balls landing on his head to put him completely out. The clown caught it on the bounce and danced over Fiero's inert form. The guard following the clowns did not look happy and the troupe melted into the crowd, becoming invisible surprisingly quick for a group so brightly attired. Frowning, the guard settled his gaze on Jameson, zeroed in, and began to ask questions. -*- Kelly J. Cooper \ Still swimming... Tragically Hip Waif \ Comments appreciated. ...individual at large... \ kjc@cs.rutgers.edu