Silver Blades: Prize Fight

Part 1, Section 2 - Pertuli's Room

Pertuli.

Rip didn't pause for me to change in the dry room, so I pulled my robe tighter, the felted silk clinging to my wet body. No one would mind; ours was a tolerably casual realm and the white robes were seen here and there throughout the hall even on non-festival days. Still, being wet and underdressed was unseemly.

As we left the dry room and the enchantments protecting the nature grottos' peaceful ambiance, a wall of sound—lively chatter and music emanating from many varied voices and instruments—struck us. Tilwen music couldn't fail to be beautiful and enchanting, but echoing and commingling down the corridors, it composed an unintelligible symphony all its own. I observed, briefly, that listening to the mix of spring music was not unlike stepping into a forest and hearing the many sounds of bird, mammal and insect all around; varied and unquestionably alive, but utterly unconcerned for my individual thoughts as to its purpose or aesthetics.

Those we passed were dressed in their most dazzling formal attire. Tilwenna'i strategically veiled or exposed swathes of pearly skin and were trimmed in fine jewels, cosmetics and enchanting fragrances. Tilwenor wore expensive suits in bright colors, decorated with polished medals and family emblems, and looked their most suave and dashing. Tilwen of either gender wore spring flowers in their hair or woven in strings about their necks. Some wore masks. The imps, of course, still ran about the hall in a cacophony of unbridled mischief and activity, in various states of mis-matched dress, although no one under fifty was allowed to take part in any but the feast portions of the festival.

I followed (or, more accurately, was dragged along behind) Rip to a nearby archway, entered, and began climbing a smooth-worn wooden spiral staircase near the rear of the hall, situated to connect the living quarters with the baths. By taking the Bath Stairway, we avoided most festival activity, but even so we brushed past handfuls of tilwen hurrying to and from one party or another.

A normally dour steward named Saliiah nearly purloined my robe in an impressive demonstration of sleight-of-hand. Had she succeeded, I would have found myself cheerfully obligated to respond in kind. Sadly, my cantankerous guide anticipated her maneuver and caught her wrists in mid-filch.

"Will you tilwenna'i please keep your hands off him for one lousy half-bell?" He growled. "I only need him for that long, then you banshees can have him as long as you like!"

Her eyebrows rose in a way I don't think Rip would have liked, had he appreciated the meaning she had taken from his words.

"Koray," she teased, breathlessly. "I didn't know you observed festival that way! This opens up . . . possibilities . . . for the rest of the week."

He slapped his face into an open palm.

He's slow, but he gets it in the end, I thought with a poorly suppressed grin (that is to say, I nearly choked trying not to laugh), and had to bite my tongue to restrain myself from saying it aloud. I suspected Rip wasn't in the mood for my lampooneering.

"That's not it," he attempted to clarify, before adding unhelpfully, "I only need him to do something for me in his room!"

"Well, don't wear him out," she smirked, brushing her long fingers down my back and giving me a pinch that made me hop. "I hear Cafilenniel was hoping for some time with him today, and I wouldn't mind taking over from there..."

I gave her a suggestive, sidelong glance and snapped my teeth playfully as she left, giggling. Giggling! The last time I'd seen Saliiah giggle had been... Well not that long ago, actually. I sighed in remembrance. Sleight of hand wasn't all she was good at.