The Gilded Gleeman

[Ezekiel]

He laughed a little, and pressed a hand to his chest as though to staunch the terrible wound inflicted there. Since Vladamir might later prove a problem, and Zahir did not like problems, it was no bad thing if the warder presumed him a clumsy fool. Not that he enjoyed the disdain, or the mark upon the reputation of his prowess, but it made it easier that he did not care about the humourless man’s opinion. Underestimation was not a coat Zahir preferred to don given a choice, but it fit him well; he’d worn it often enough during his long life, and much as he hated, it had saved him more than once.

To the Aes Sedai he cocked a smile, though her mocking was little better to stomach. It would be forgotten soon enough, now that he had an audience. “I always get up,” he assured. His dulcet tone sounded like the promise of a secret. Mischief glittered his gaze, but whatever else he’d intended was swallowed by the jaws of interruption.

Irritation sparked like a sheet of lightning. He was annoyed at the intrusion; annoyed too that Lythia retreated like she might not care what happened next, for it meant the hook did not drive nearly half so deep as he needed. His attention turned smoothly, though, expression amiable and curious, and perhaps a little amused that his performance garnered such lofty interest. He knew who she was once his eyes set upon the unusual colouring and warrior’s forbearance. It didn’t improve his mood any.

Her greeting was cool as mountain winds beneath a veneer of civility. Bare civility, really. It was plain the pale-eyed woman did not like him, and meant to leverage his exit in a cloud of overbearing protocol. The Tower was a tiresome audience at the best of times, but even here people did not generally turn such a damning gaze upon gleemen like Zahir. It might have shriveled the insides of an ordinary man, but Zahir was not that, and besides which, he had been the recipient of far worse gazes.

Whatever her opinion of gleemen, it was ill-advised to make an enemy of one. But perhaps her muscles made her too dense to realise that.

“Your comrade did not hit me so hard that I’ve forgotten where I am,” he assured, touching his bloodied mouth with a wince. She had the flat expression of one who would refuse to soften beneath any amount of Zahir’s charm, which meant it would be a waste, but needs must. He’d be polite at least. The velvety smooth voice did not hurt either, the edge of contrition at having apparently been caught in an unknowing wrong, yet unbowed by submission.

“I’ve been nowhere I shouldn’t, as I’m sure you already know. It’s not like the cloak makes me difficult to keep an eye on. I’ll be rather offended if you tell me it’s not bright enough.” He didn’t wink, though he was tempted, just to witness the stone of her expression harden further. The cloak itself fluttered its rainbow patches across the railing where he’d left it – untouched so as not to marr its beauty with the blood of his injury. Zahir’s vocation meant many different things to him, foremost amongst them a way to open barred doors, but the garment was a legitimate source of pride for him. He reached for his shirt.

“I’ll share a secret, gaidar. Much as I’d prefer you to think the art comes effortlessly, gleemen are not made in vacuums. I’m not here to entertain; I’m here to pluck stories from grit and turn them into diamonds. A ballad for the Age. Where else would I find it but the White Tower? An invitation I could not pass up.” She had asked to ask after his patron, made a self-snare in the politic politeness of her own phrasing. Zahir had resources here; a sister’s name he could offer, and he might have given it simply, but he was toying. An escort would be an inconvenience, but not much of a problem.