The actress talking to Yala is the one who played the mage's dark-skinned Islander assistant, though her accent places her as growing up in Alárya. She gapes at Punchy's instruction and asks Yala, "A man watching a girl undress? That's a mite...improper. Are you sure he's human? Other races, other ways, as my Granny used to say."

"I asked but he got mad," Yala replies, her lower lip quivering.

"No worries, dear! Come over here and we'll try some on over your dress. You're such a wee little thing, it won't matter a whit." She draws the girl over to the trunk and sorts through the dresses.


The listening women explode with laughter. Amara wipes tears from her eyes. "Sure enough, I don't know why you'd ever leave that business!" she gasps between chuckles.


"Oh, my, you are a man of skill." The actress strokes the cravat. "I'm Samara. What can I call you?" She unties the cravat and then places his fingers on it, her hands resting on his. "Show me how you did that."


He sees much lascivious winking and hip gyrating, and, layer by layer, quite a lot of very interesting petticoats, under-petticoats, under-under-petticoats, and Unmentionables.


Moonforger holds up a finger. "Let me wet my whistle, interloper," he growls, as he pulls a flask the size of a small child from inside his bulky leather jacket. He uncorks it and drinks...and drinks...and drinks.

Finally he wipes his mouth, belches, and peers at Anthony. "Who are you and what do you want?" he grouses.


The man whips around, startled--he didn't hear any approaching footfalls--then relaxes slightly and takes another puff on his cigar. "Why do you ask?" he says. "Did they send you, too?"

Punchy jerks a thumb at Edric.

"This one wanted to, and I've looked after him since we were kids. So when he came to me and said 'Punchy, I went and pissed off the bosses, and I got to get hour of here.' I said I'd come along. Damn fool tried to unionize the clowns."

Punchy calls over to the trunk.

"I just meant that this one is such a clothes horse that he'd have a good eye for dresses. We're not strictly allowed to let miss Yala out of sight you see."

The mirth disappears from Punchy's voice entirely for this last bit.

"Mr. Posslethwait sent me." replies the illusion. "'Cos I was one of the folk what saw the bandits off. He said I got ta answer your questions wit sensi- sens- something and decor- er -" The illusion frowns, as if trying to remember something, but quickly gives up. "Something. What really means I'm not allowed ta hit you, 'less you hit me first."

The weedy man takes another puff of his cigar. "How do I know you're not putting me on? Give me something I can take back with me."

An expression of mild panic crosses the illusion's face, and it begins searching its pockets. "Mr. Posslethwait never said nothin' about givin' you nothin'!" it objects. "An' he never gave me nothin' ta give you neither." it adds.

The pocket survey having been completed, the illusion looks at the meagre results; a brightly coloured stone, a few dead flowers, and a dagger. "I'm not giving you me lucky rock!"

The man drops his cigar and stubs it out. "It's too public here. Meet me in the alley across the street in five minutes." He strides away around the tavern toward the busy street out front.

Anthony swipes his knife at the dwarf's face, not to kill, but to scar. He then walk's back in the tavern, yelling "Never waste my time, dwarf!"

"Understood, it's just...you meet all sorts on the road, and us girls have to watch out for each other." She taps Yala playfully on the nose and helps her pull a voluminous puffy yellow thing over her head.

"We have oxen. They're nice. Greenleaf said they were good and strong. Do you have oxen on your circus cart?" Yala calls through the mountain of fabric.

"A couple of mean horses. What did you do in the circus, then?" she calls to Edric. "Chew iron and spit out half-cent pieces?"

The dwarf takes a nasty cut across the forehead, but fortunately he's sloshed enough to be feeling no pain. He falls over backwards, arms and legs waving like a flipped turtle. "I won't forget this insult, you ... whoever you are!"

A weedy-looking man smelling of cigar smoke walks past, shakes his head at the dwarf, and gives Anthony a polite nod before Anthony goes into the tavern.

Thankful that his companions are taking care of the girl, Taddeo returns to his flirtations.

"Taddeo, milady. It is an exquisite pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The fop moves around to face her once more. He bows deeply, sweeping one arm out. With the other, he raises her hand to his lips kissing it.

"It would be my pleasure to instruct you in any manner you would please."

He holds out the cravat to her.

Back in the tavern and not seeing company, Anthony searches for some ladies.

Yala is a little hill of poofy yellow roses topped by a gigantic yellow headscarf covered in yellow feathers that keeps slipping down over her face. She looks around, parting the feathers so she can peer through them. Then she goes running down the path toward the stable and disappears around the side of the stage.


"Oh, my." She coyly ties the cravat around her neck, tucking the ends into the front of her shirt. "Do you really know how to use that sword you carry?"


A light-skinned woman in a scandalously low cut bodice and full skirt sidles up to him. "New in town, honey?"

"Why yes. Yes I am. Just seeing the shows and the sights, and my, what a sight we have here." He looks up and down the woman. "What's your name?"

"Most call me Ginger, but you can call me whatever you like." She guides him over to the bar, leading with her expansive rack, and tries to pick his pocket in the process.

Zaljan gets bored of the burlesque show by the time it reaches unmentionables, and wanders back stage, looking like a tourist.