[Crooked Playhouse] Strangers in the Night [Arrow]

[Ifran]

78th Fall, 511 A.V. The talent exit from the playhouse was not so terribly difficult to find unless the cityscape chose to confound the seeker, but tonight it seemed content to let the curious await their favorite performers. The last show of the evening ran a good three hours, and then they had to change out of their costumes. Master Fabel had a few words to say to Ifran; he still wasn't sure the Eypharian fit the mold there. If asked, those performers who preceded him out by several minutes would have told a person that Ifran would be out eventually. But when Ifran emerged from the door, he had let those words slide off his back like a duck in the rain. He was too exotic to be a matinee idol, but he certainly had his fair share of admirers, few bold enough to make his acquaintance, even those who occasionally waited outside this back entrance to see him one last time. His face was mostly clean. There was always gunk hiding in the corners of his eyes when he woke up the morning after a performance no matter how much of the kohl and paint came off in his grooming, so he tended to get the majority off. In the dark of night, few people noticed the remnants. But there was enough kohl remaining around his eyes to frame them, and even in the lamp light, a bit of the gold still gilt his face, lending his complexion a strangeness. It was just before the 22nd bell when he emerged, well and truly night. Hasre was not there, neither the handful of acquaintances he had in the city. But he slowed for a moment, trying to determine where he should go for a drink or two before sleep.

[Arrow]

Arrow had been leaning casually against the wall of the building across the way from the performers’ entrance of the Crook. Having once located it, patiently he had waited for the players to appear and disperse, wending their way to whatever destination lay in their evening, or what was left of it. The tiny bird perched on his horn had drowsed, as he had kept his own mind occupied by first a mental recap and analysis of the production. A trip to the Crooked Playhouse was a happening in and of itself, regardless of the play being seen. With its odd curves and angles, its subterranean nature, and its antiquity, it had always held a very special appeal to the Ethaefal. This evening’s performance had been one of the finer of Fabel’s efforts, as far as what Arrow had seen of them since moving to Alvadas. That the specific target of his evening out was involved had been, of course, both the draw, and also a chance to observe the Eypharian in his milieu, before approaching him. Not really necessary to the reason for which Arrow sought Imran, but he found the race exceptionally intriguing, given their ancient history. He had quite enjoyed the play, though he wasn’t entirely sure that he had understood all of it. Introducing Ionu into anything had a tendency to muddy the water, and his perceptions.

After a time spent in such musings, Arrow had then tried to focus on clarifying and organizing his thoughts on a particularly difficult bit of prose he was trying to construct for the book he was currently working on. It was a bit tricky, not having the parchment before his eyes. But he had worked on it for so long that he had it virtually memorized. Perhaps that was the problem, he thought to himself, with a smile. Perhaps he needed to just put it aside for a week and come back to it, move on to another section and let this one settle and firm. His thumb had come unconsciously to his lips, and he pressed it against the lower, as he ruminated. Each time an actor, or actors, stepped through the door, his eyes would lift. So far, though, Imran was not amongst those who had made their farewells to the theater for the night. They had trickled out, alone, or in twos and threes, until Arrow was quite sure most of them had gone. Still, with the utmost patience, he waited.

Finally, Imran appeared and this time, as his gaze took in the striking looking performer, Arrow pushed himself away from the wall, and walked towards the Eypharian. Imran had paused, and Arrow took the opportunity to hail him.

“Good evening!” He called out pleasantly, the dim light from a candle sconced near the door catching to reflect on the curve of his horn, the opal tone of his long, thin face, a warm smile. “What a fantastic performance.” He was close enough to stick a long, elegant hand forward, towards the young Eypharian. The other-worldly looks of the Ethaefal stood in sharp contrast to his rather humble and worn clothing.

“I’m Arrow. I wonder if I might have a quick word with you.”

[Ifran]

No, there was no pleasing Fabel, but the public seemed to enjoy his performances, even if he was rarely featured and even if it was only for his exoticism. There was no audience for the vaunted craft of Semhu here, and so he was relegated to singing Alvad songs and the occasional sword-dance with his bronze khopeshes. His style of acting and theirs was not the same, and no matter how hard he worked, Fabel was not impressed. But someday Ifran too would have Ionu's favor, perhaps even work with the fabled Inverted, and then he would not have to deal with Fabel anymore. In fact, he appeared to have a fan already in the stately form of a moonlit Ethaefal. The corners of his mouth curled up in an understated, amused smile. These were the people whose grace challenged his own, who might be considered as equals. Almost. And so he shook the soft, scholarly hand with his own, marked by the calluses of a swordsman. "Thank you," he said graciously. "I was going for a drink, but company is welcome."

[Arrow]

It was more than Arrow could have expected. Not knowing Imran, he could only base his prognostication upon his interactions with other Eypharians. One thing was certain, they were a proud, elitist and stand-offish lot. He was aware that Imran’s race did seem more tolerant of his own than they were of most. But, being a complete stranger to this particular Eypharian, he had been unsure if Imran would even condescend to speak to him, here in the little side lane beside the theater. So it was that his smile broadened at the offer to lift a glass together. Beer, if this son of the desert race held true to their tastes, might well make the discourse he hoped to have flow even better.

“I’ll gladly take you up on your offer, then. The matter I have to discuss involves poetry, and perhaps politics. Both seem to go better with a cup of something mellowing in hand. And the first round will be on me, in return for your time.” He paused, contemplating the appropriateness of what had just popped into his head. His home was indeed an exceptionally tiny and plain one. Still, if there was a need to refer to other volumes, he had two more they might wish to consult. Having predicted that this interview would be exceedingly short, at least initially, he hadn’t bothered to bring them along.

He decided to make the offer. Imran could always say no. “Or . . . all of them can be on me, if you’d prefer an extremely humble setting for our conversation. But I can guarantee the beer is of good quality, for I brew it myself. If you’d like to wander about with me until we find my house, I can offer you quality, quantity, and quiet in which to contemplate a line of verse in High Arumenic which has me a bit puzzled.”

[Ifran]

"Poetry and politics are my bread and butter," he admitted, though he was unsure how many Alvad citizens knew that being a part of the House of the North Winds meant he was suckled on politics, even if he was not an active participant. But perhaps his grandfather, the great Sadiki, queen-maker, would work him into the power structure when he returned. "And home brewed beer would be preferable to what most bars purvey. Let us repair to your home, then." His smile remained slight; this one was stoic unless on stage. But it was not a judgment for once. In fact, his mere presence in Alvadas, submitting to the genius of Master Fabel, was a mark of his tolerance if not belief in any sort of egalitarian framework to society. He was proud, but he could abase himself for gain. "You speak Arumenic?" he asked, still in Common. His hip shifted away to indicate he was ready to depart.

[Arrow]

Imran agreed readily and pleasantly enough, and Arrow did not question his sincerity or enthusiasm. The man seemed reserved, but that didn’t bother the brewer. One might assume a performer, of all types, might be effusive and larger than life. But the Ethaefal had met a few of those in his long, long years, as well as the odd Eypharian, and he had come to the conclusion that quite the opposite was often true. The stage seemed an outlet for a quite latent persona to leap forth, one rarely seen in the performer at any other time. The individual that set fire to the imagination in some fantasy scene being acted out in darkened play house, was often so quiet as to go largely unnoticed as they walked the common, everyday streets of town. Of course, he was aware that much of Imran’s reserve almost certainly stemmed from a sense of superiority. That had little to do with stage presence and everything to do with his culture. Whether he was apt to let any boundaries fall given time and the right circumstances, Arrow could not hazard a guess. Nor was there any reason to do so. One line of poetry, one translation, or possible mistranslation, of an idiom, and that would be it. A few beers and some conversation – it seemed unlikely Imran would unwind to the point of showing his true colors, if any Eypharian ever did. They were renowned for their treacherously polite deceipt. Arrow was simply glad that he only needed help with a translation, though he had to admit, it could have some interesting implications, if he was correct.

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed quietly, but with true sincerity. “And no, I don’t. That’s in fact why I sought you out. I had heard an Eypharian was performing here, at the Crook. It’s a pity Fabel probably hasn’t let you loose, yet, so to speak. The arts of your people are indeed heart breakingly beautiful.” While he was saying this, his hand went to his right horn and he pressed one long, elegant finger against the breast of the small brown-gray bird. “Wake up, my lovely. We need your help.”

The sparrow, thus roused from her doze, hopped onto Arrow’s finger. He held her before his face. “Go on, show us the way home, please, love.” The sparrow chirped once, a sleepy sounding chirp if a bird sound can hold such a quality, and flitted off. But it perched on a post a short distance away, and looked back at them.

“We’ll get there much more quickly this way.” He said to Imran. “She is kelvic. Somehow she’s able to navigate these streets far better than I’m ever able to.” Setting off at a sedate pace towards the corner where Trouble awaited them, he returned to the topic of language. “The poem in question was written in Arumenic. I have only ever had a translation of it, in Tukant, of all things. What interest the Akalak who translated it had in the subject matter, I haven’t a clue. I’ve finally stumbled across a volume that contains the original Arumenic verse. But as I don’t know Arumenic I can’t tell if the questionable passage, the one I have in Tukant, is, as I suspect, poorly translated. This is why I’ve sought your help. I’ll be greatly in your debt if you can help me sort this out.”

Imran had fallen in step with the Ethaefal and they had reached the corner. The kelvic, within arm’s distance, flew off, coming to rest on a window ledge on down the street to their left.

“This way,” Arrow said.

[Ifran]

Ifran seemed nonplussed by the Ethaefal's trick sparrow; had he not needed trusted eyes back in Ahnatep, his own servant would be here seeing to his needs. Falling into step, he matched the man's elegant pace with his own, peripherally aware of the music their feet made upon the cobblestones, the rhythms that Alvadas didn't always skew with illusory echoes and counterpoints. Sometimes, though, he got the feeling the city was playing deliberate tricks on him, throwing a trickster set of feet on his tail in an attempt to spook him. "Many linguists attempt translation of Arumenic," he offered, "but I think mostly as a diversion or exercise in nuance. When High Arumenic poetry is properly translated into Common, it looks more diagrammatic than like proper language. A clever politician's speech would needs be so footnoted and otherwise annotated as to prevent the lyricism to come through as tangential themes and modes are spelled out rather than implied. "How long have you been a resident of Alvadas?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. He was not afraid to go to a stranger's house. Ifran had been taught to fight both on stage and off, and had lived his life in the shadow of assassins.

[Arrow]

“Those were my thoughts as well,” Arrow replied as they strolled along. “Though you’ve encapsulated them far better than I could have done. And I believe this particular line contains an idiom, and that makes it only that much more tricky to translate properly.”

Trouble kept her eye on the two as they walked, and she hopped and flew ahead, stopping to wait for them every fifty feet or so. When the performer put his question to Arrow, he answered readily, “Oh, about six years or so, give or take. I’ve lived here before, though, several times. More than any other city, one can truly say that Alavadas never grows dull from always being the same.” He laughed lightly. “Each time I’ve returned, it’s almost like learning a whole new environment all over again.”

Passing the conversational ball back to Imran, he asked, “And you? Have you come here specifically to perform under Fable’s direction?” That seemed highly unlikely, but stranger things had happened, no doubt about that. “Have you been here long? You must miss Ahnatep. It’s such a beautiful city, even in its near ruination.” It might well be, Arrow thought, that the presence of an obviously well heeled Eypharian in some other part of Mizahar signaled political maneuvering afoot, they were all such schemers. But Alvadas? For a choice of city in which to hatch political intrigue, Alvadas seemed a very poor fifth, or maybe sixth. Seventh even. Though, its level of magical saturation was intense, there was that. In any case, if there was more to the six armed dancer being here, it was highly unlikely Arrow would be made privy to such information, and he was probably far safer that way.

[Ifran]

Ifran simply nodded regarding the poetry; he would have to see it to comment with any sort of intelligent or coherent reply. He watched the Ethaefal's pet bird leading the way, wondering of Nowa would ever prove such an adept assistant or if he was pushing his luck expecting the raven to remember things it had heard and passing them along to him. "It is certainly a variegated manifestation of civilization," he said, choosing his words carefully. After some consideration, he replied in kind. "There were many motives, one among them being to learn the Alvad style of performance, of which Master Fabel is, well, a master. Another was the pursuit of Ionu and, perhaps, even its Inverted. A performer who has mastered illusion... well, we spin lies to tell the truth, pretend to be other people in order to strip off our own masks before an audience. And then I wanted to see something of the world beyond the deserts of Eyktol, or the jewel-city, Ahnatep. Its romantic ruins will remain until I return, I am sure." There was, too, the drive to develop a network of devoted friends, allies, and servants, the better to infiltrate Ahnatep upon his return and engineer his rise politically as well as artistically. He had ambition, this one, but he kept it well hidden among more innocuous ambitions. "I arrived a few seasons past. I am not sure Winter will agree with me."

[Arrow]

Arrow laughed. “Yes, if you had asked my opinion, I would have said all actors have mastered the art of illusion, the good ones anyway. But I see how it would be a worthwhile pursuit, the mysteries of Ionu. If you remain in Alvadas for very long, you’ll not only acclimatize to the winters, but also the sneakiness rampant within these walls.” He smiled. “But it does not get so very cold here – not like in Avanthal. Unless Ionu is pissed off – and that could be in mid-summer as easily as mid-winter.”

With similar desultory and polite conversation about nothing of real importance, the two men followed the little bird who hopped and flew ahead of them, until she reached a slightly peeling blue door. “Here we are,” Arrow said congenially, opening it and standing aside to let his unlooked for guest to enter first. Fortunately, Trouble was a very domestic little thing and the place was spotless, as always. He entered on Imran’s heels and began to light a few candles and one oil lamp, creating a pleasant glow in the small one room home. It was really kind of bare, he realized, thinking that he seldom had any guests like Imran – men well used to the finest in luxurious accommodations and appointments. Oh well – it was what it was.

“Please, have a seat.” He indicated the one shabby armchair. The only other seat was his plain wooden seat by the lone table. “I’ll fetch the beer. But here, let me show you . . . “

Making his way to a shelf, he took up two volumes and brought them to the Eypharian. Tucking one under his arm for the moment, he showed the first. “This is a volume I’ve had for a while. It’s in Tukant. And here . . . “ He quickly thumbed through the pages, onbviously well familiar with the book. “Here is the poem in question.” He held it out to Imram. “I don’t know if you know Tukant. Here is the particular line I’m wondering about.” He pointed with a long, elegant finger.

“And this . . . “ He pulled the other book from under his arm and as quickly found the page he sought. This volume appeared to be much older than the first, its pages yellow with age. “Is the same verse in Arumenic.”

“I’ll be right back,” he ended, turning to go out to the brewing shed and draw two mugs of ale. “Trouble, time for bed.” The last was unecessary, for the little bird had already flown to her perch on the door frame. Arrow smiled. “Good night my love.” He called softly, then with another look at his guest, he said once more, “Back in a second.”