1.31 In Which the Dark Lord Passes the Time

1.31 In Which the Dark Lord Passes the Time

Despite myself, over time I started to like the Fflyr.

Sure, they used a whole overcomplicated set of hand gestures to signal social status (apparently that most common folding-down thing was just the tip of the iceberg) when a simple universal bow would have been sufficient, and refused to eat anything that wasnt spicy enough to be physically painful. And while the coins were clearly the fault of the goddesses, I wasnt easily going to forgive the insanity that passed for a system of measurements here. I had to recognize, however, that nearly all of what was so horribly and obviously wrong in this country was the sole doing of the people in charge of it, not that of anyone I encountered on the street. Castigating peasants for the dictates of feudalism was pretty futile.

While, in theory, any country can abruptly become a democracy if you rile the serfs enough, I knew very well from my own reading how difficult that is to do, no matter how bad things get. Humans are creatures of pattern and habit who will usually choose to suffer any hardship rather than try to fix their situation if it involves stepping outside the bounds of familiarity. That didnt reflect well on anyone, but it was also a universal defect for which it began to seem unfair to blame the Fflyr in particular.

What really redeemed this culture in my eyes is how musical it was. Yeah, yeah, Im a biased creature, but who isnt? The Fflyr love of books and literature was apparently part of their character as well, or at least Auldmaer claimed it wasnt as common in other nearby countries, and yeah, that was a positive trait, but it was the music that spoke to me. Every culture loves music; every person loves music, I think, excepting only the tone-deaf and other unfortunates. As with their books, though, the Fflyr took it a step farther.

There was the rondlow, the musical form Id first observed in the Alley Cat and then in every other brothel I visited which also served as a public house. Singing in taverns was nothing unique, Im pretty sure that happens everywhere, but rondlow were a type of Fflyr folk song with between two and five melodies, all of which everyone seemed to know. Everyone chimed in on their own vocal part, and not just harmonizing; they actually sang in perfect counterpoint, different parts coming in and out as the specific song required. At their very simplest a rondlow was basically a round, but they never stayed that simple beyond the second melody joining in. Once they built to a climax these things were as complex as any piece of musical theater Ive ever heard. And sure, people were off-key or off rhythm or missed cuesnobody Id heard wouldve been destined for Broadway even if there was an equivalent here. But by and large, they pulled it off successfully. Whores and johns did this in taverns, for fun. The working poor in general sang like people whod been trained to perform.

Why dont you guys ever do that? I asked my bandits once over one of our dinners of dried meat and porridge. Spiced, of course. Even the damn tea.

A round of exchanged glances ensued, along with Aster shooting me a sidelong look.

Well, I mean, theres eight of us, Lord Seiji, and thats assuming you and Miss Aster both wanna join in, Donon finally said. Thats, uh, the bare-ass minimum to get a proper rondlow going, and thats if youre lucky enough to cover all the parts. Itd still sound awfully thin. Rondlows are mostly for bigger groups.

Also, said Goose, weve got the bad luck to have four baritones and two altos. Thatd just sound weird; some of the better songs, the lower parts dont even cover all the lyrics. Unless?

She gave Aster a hopeful look, getting a rueful grimace in response.

Make that three altos. Sorry.

Man, whatre even the odds of that? Harold wondered.Visit no(v)eLb(i)n.com for the best novel reading experience

You should ask Virya to send us some squeakier recruits, Sakin said cheerfully. Anyway, Lord Seiji, youre a wizard on that guitar of yours; how come we never hear you sing?

Hm. That was actually a worthwhile question. I did play my guitar quite a bit, enjoying its more complex sound than a proper instrument from Earth offered. So far, though, Id been sticking to instrumental music. Guess I just havent felt like it. Also, I suppose, sort of the same problem. My preferred genre requires percussion at absolute minimum, and preferably a keyboard and bass guitar. Rock songs either work really well stripped down to one part, or end up all awkward and weird. Mostly the latter.

Sakin blinked twice, then looked over at Kasser, who shrugged.

It was Donon who asked the question. Uh, what the hell is a bass guitar?

I sighed heavily and picked at my food.

Another Fflyr musical form I saw around Cat Alley, which impressed me even more than the rondlow, were what Id been told were called ffradlew. These werewell, basically rap battles, but an order of magnitude more awesome.

These things were fully extemporaneous and amazingly complex. Performers who practiced the art would apparently roam the streets when they were busiest, and when they encountered one another, the ffradlew would begin. The actual back and forth could be hostile or agreeable to one another, depending on the relationship of the individual singers, but there was always an element of competitive one-upmanship. Theyd spew rhymes off the cuffbut not just rhymes. These things were metered and melodic; contestants were apparently judged by the quality of their singing and the originality of the tunes they created for each ffradlew. They went at and played off each other, competing on lyrics, melody, and vocal quality, and the best part was the audience participation.

This might not work in other cultures, but as rondlows demonstrated, the Fflyr were a deeply musical people. Apparently the winner of a ffradlew was the singer who got more of the audience to back them upkeeping the beat with hands and feet, but also humming in complex harmony, picking up whatever repeating chorus they laid down, and joining in with instruments if they had them.

It was insane, and amazing. And frankly, these performers had nothing but respect from me. I couldnt have pulled off one of these things, and I dont lightly admit defeat. One of the great frustrations of my trips through Cat Alley (frustrations, not traumas, which were a whole other thing) was that the Healers persona didnt allow me to stop and participate in these. I enjoyed the hell out of them whenever I could in passing, though.

And those were just the styles of the lowborn.

My weekly trips into the city to meet with Auldmaer did occasionally end up in the upper ring, to which I gained entrance by virtue of my nice clothes, foreign features, and big bag of money. Mostly out of curiosity, though I was always carefully on the lookout for anything I could use in my campaign. Nothing really came up; getting in with nobles or the very rich required the introduction of an established member of high society.

Mostly, it was just for the benefit of the better shopping, pleasant environment, and occasionally having someone talk to me entirely in obscure literary references like those teenagers from my first day in town. According to Aster, all highborn did that to one extent or another, but when they started loading their sentences up with memes and allusions to the point that they were literally not comprehensible if youd not read the same books, that was their polite way of saying fuck off, lowborn and/or foreigner.

But the upper ring did introduce me to sianadh, so I forgave them.

It was by accident; I was passing by outside one of the structures whose purpose wasnt apparent to me because their organic, khora-based architecture tended to obscure the nature of buildings unless they had a sign out front. On that day, it was being used for choir rehearsal, and the sound made me come to a halt and stand there listening. There were several pedestrians lingering outside in the same place, just soaking in the voices which flowed from the open windows.

Minifrit eyed me pensively, but the conversation ended there. It wasnt time for me to reveal what I did intend.

I was the Dark Lord, not the Hero. I couldnt save all of the innocent; there were just too many victims. But I could sure as hell punish the guilty.

My unease grew as time passed. Slow and steady progress was better than none, but after six weeks had gone by since my deal with the goblins was finalized, I felt I had reached the level of esteem in Cat Alley that I needed to execute the next stage of my plan, yet the impetus Id been counting on had not arrived.

To an extent, this was a case of me having outsmarted myself yet again. Thanks to the Healers expanded notoriety, I found myself left alone far more than youd think a person who could heal any ailment would be among the desperate and impoverished. Non-prostitutes did approach me in Cat Alley from time to time, but they were all the most crushingly destitute and sick specimens of humanity I had ever encountered. Despite my determination to stay on mission Well, Im only human, and my appetite for suffering was constantly exceeded.

Never mind nightmares, I had started having occasional flashes of some of the horrible sicknesses and injuries Id seen among the brothels while wide awake and otherwise occupied, causing me to freeze and break out in a sweat. If I didnt know better, I could take these episodes as a symptom of PTSDbut I did know better, and that was just stupid. If these dozens of women could live through this every day, I could fucking well cope with only having to see it once a week.

To the desperate poor, I gave a long moments consideration, a pronouncement that the price had been paid, and then healing.

It was beginning to be downright eerie how nobody else dared approach me. Lacking a better explanation, I put it down to rumors of the Healers powers, which only grew more terrible in the retelling. Id miscalculated, and made myself an object of far more fear than I had intended. Now that people expected me to smite them with holy fire if they crossed me, I was only approached by those Id already sought out, the truly desperate, or those who were extremely confident in the purity of their own motives.

Strangely, there didnt seem to be any of the last category bumming around the whorehouse district.

Also, I was shadowed by obvious thugs now. Lady Grays forces were stretched thin dealing with Clan Olumnachs incursions, but she could spare a few to keep tabs on the Healer. They tended to show up an hour or so after I arrived in Cat Alley and keep their distance. They always made sure to catch my eye, smile and fold hands politely, and display weapons. None came close or spoke to me, though.

Profits were up across the district thanks to my ministrations, which meant I was making Lady Gray money. That didnt mean she was going to leave me aloneonly that for the time being she preferred to let me work under supervision than provoke me into doing somethingexpensive.

But she was a sword hanging over my head. Sooner or later, somebody would connect the dots, and I needed to have my mission here finished before that happened. There was also the matter of the goblins, who continued to be polite, friendly, professional, and heavily suspicious if not outright aware that I was the Dark Lord. It was both a relief and deeply unsettling that they never mentioned it again.

That part I really dont think you need to worry about, boss, Biribo insisted. Goblins are competitive with each other, like any Viryan society. Right now, Maugro and Sneppit represent the only factions who know, and I guarantee theyll sit on that info until its valuable. Theyre watching to see how you do. If youre not the real Dark Lord or get killed or something, theyd lose face and resources for having declared you were, and if you are, theyll wanna get in on the ground floor of your operation, ahead of all their competition. They wont do anything but watch until you start to really make waves, and then theyll be eager to throw in with you.

Soundstoo easy.

Not everything is gonna be an uphill struggle, boss.

Biribo, I would like to believe that, but unfortunately Ive been paying attention.

Have you? Well, thats progress.

It was six weeks, just when I was starting to scheme ways of breaking out of this rut and pushing my agenda over the hump, when the impetus Id expected finally arrived.

I was in the back corridors of the Sizzle, healing the last injuryanother kitchen burn, this time. Thered been no fresh cases of disease in nearly a month, but johns continued to mistreat the women here, and then sometimes they just had accidents with hot oil, like the poor woman whose badly seared arm I remedied. The sick, sad truth was that the Healer was never going to run out of work in a place like this.

Just as she stepped back, a commotion from the common area occurred, and swiftly burst out of the front room into the hall in which I stood. This was unusual enough; the Sizzle was by far the quietest and most orderly joint in the Alley, as a rule. Adinet kept bouncers on hand to firmly encourage her idea of proper conduct.

When three men burst through the curtain into the back area, though, I could immediately see why the hired muscle hadnt stopped them. Theyd probably been afraid to try.

The two guards were all decked out in some fancy clothes, plus chain armor under their heavily embroidered coats. All of it had that overly-embellished aesthetic of goddess-made artifacts, which the Fflyr nobility liked to emulate in their own tacky style. To my Blessed eyes, there was no giveaway glow; neither of these fellows had actual artifacts. But they were big, muscular, armed with rapiers and daggers, and both clearly rich. That was no shortage of trouble in and of itself.

Their boss was even richer, by the cut of his clothes, but even more important, he was blond and black-eyed. A nobleman of a rank which was rarely if ever seen in these parts.

And he was sick. With sunken cheeks, a grayish pallor, and patterns of lesions along his eyebrows, hairline, and the backs of his hands, he was clearly in the later stages of something I had repeatedly seen in Cat Alley before personally purging it from the district.

You, the nobleman rasped, pointing a trembling finger at me. He was sweating and breathing with effort. Youre the one! The Healer. I demand your services.

I drew myself up to my full height, breathing in and then out slowly. It seemed rumor of the Healers miraculous power had circulated as far as the upper city, drawing the interest of the over-privileged and entitled.

Finally.

Have you paid the price?