A Scoundrel's Song

3

Niico stared through his spread fingers toward the sky, clouds passing by in their lazy trek toward elsewhere. The Sun flickered through the trees, dappling the ground around him as a soft breeze caught the leaves and thin branches, causing them to sway in slow, sultry movements that were almost hypnotic. With his other hand, he twisted a stalk of grass between his lips and he held back a long, satisfied sigh until it almost burst from his chest.

"You know what I hate about towns?" He didn't say it to anyone in particular, only making an observation that others could listen to, were they conducive to do so. "People. Every problem in a town, or a city, comes from people. Of course, every delight comes from people, too, but I still hate them. When I don't love them."

"And do you know what I hate?" Pelenia's voice drifted across to him. She sounded a little irate. "Those people that lay on their backs all day and do no work. Do something! Anything!"

"I am doing something." He waved the stalk of grass in the air as though writing. "I'm composing. What use is a bard if he only sings the songs people know? Where does the fame come from if he only copies others? No, true bardic legends make their own songs. It's an unwritten rule."

Though he didn't want to, he lifted his head, squinting one eye closed, to see the progress of the others. Pel laboured with the artistic requirements of their upcoming tour of Larissa, painting the advertising boards and the sides of the wagon with grand words describing their troupe, with excellent pictures of a strong man, a superlative bard, and a mysterious, mystical crone. She didn't look it now, but Pel made an excellent crone. On the other side, she had already painted the details for the potions and tonics con and they would flip them as needed.

Akafa had the duty of creating a frame for the boards, that they could slip the boards into depending on which scam they were playing at any time. And, later, he would create the stage upon which they would practice their arts. Another sigh came from deep within Niico as he watched those magnificent muscles swell and contract, sweat glistening on the man's dark skin that, were it not for the scars, would have a perfect complexion. The Patrons had certainly reached perfection with that man.

Of the boy, Pel had shown him a variety of flowers, weeds and plants she would need to concoct their potions. Bitter tasting roots for the medicinal tonics, sweet and intoxicating saps for the potions of love, foul smelling leaves for the tinctures. Nothing poisonous, not in small quantities, at least, but they would give the impression of easing whatever ailed the folks along the route they would take to Baccirese.

"Is it necessary to lie to people?" Ah. The good man. The caring man. Were there no end to Akafa's good qualities. "The lady is no soothsayer, and you are no bard. I am not certain we should take money from people that are already poor."

"We're not taking anything from them, not really. We're giving them something far more vital to a good and fulfilling life. Something that will last far longer than a few Bones that they save for rainy days that may never come." Niico laid back, sweeping his hand before him as though presenting words on a sign. "We're giving them hope. Hope for good health, for a better future, for love."

The light hammering had paused as Niico spoke and he twisted his neck to look at the man, so tall and wide of shoulder, close-cropped, curling black hair that Niico would simply love to trace his fingernails through. He didn't look convinced. Not that it was Akafa that they had to convince. So long as the people were willing to hand over their coin, Niico was happy to take it.

And, while they were entranced with the feats of strength and endurance performed by the beautiful Akafa, or caught under the spell of the etherial Pel, Niico would help these poor people to understand the fragilities of wealth by divesting them of any they may have hidden within their homes. If only they could teach the boy how to use those thin, flexible fingers of his to pick pockets, they would do well on this journey.