Close to Home (Cyrah & Ifran)

[Ifran]

64th Spring, 510 A.V. The Royet Theatre was dark for the most part this late at night. The ghost lamp kept the auditorium itself dimly lit, and the oil lamps everywhere else were trimmed low for the night. A few of the more driven apprentices were practicing their craft in the rehearsal halls, singing, dancing, going through forms with weapons, reciting monologues, running scenes. In his dressing room, was finishing the dregs of his tea. The makeup from the performance was already removed, only a bit of kohl still smudged around his eyelashes that wouldn't come off without a thorough washing. No matter, he was only going home tonight, and then returning to the theater on the morrow to perform again. Ah, the life of the repertory theater company! He rose, shaking off the weariness, and doffed his bathrobe for something light and more formal in which to return home. Everything he wore was a costume, and he had to be the eldest son of the eldest son of the venerable Sadiki of the North Winds when he was not being somebody else on stage. The sedan chair would be ready, he knew. He merely had to prepare himself for the show. Straightening, he made all traces of exhaustion disappear by sheer will power, and opened his door. With any luck, he thought as he walked down the hall, Aru will be waiting, having made contact with the man who did dealings for Anubis.

[Cyrah]

The door to one of the other dressing rooms adjacent to that hallway swung open. “You tell that useless piece of shyke that I don't want my money back!” the actor within was roaring, slamming first one fist, then another, then another, on his dressing table. Cyrah recalled the grace with which Ifran of the North Winds moved his six hands, and decided privately that this man's four were quite inferior. Had it been Clement, there would not have been any shouting. He was just better with people; he had a charm to him, when he chose to, that belied his otherwise ill-mannered and repugnant personality. Good with words, handsome and smarming; he would have apologized profusely and explained away the awkwardness of the situation. Cyrah had simply dropped the bag of gold on the actor's desk and told him she'd received a better offer. Never mind that he had no idea who she was, by virtue of never having met her, or seen her. He'd probably assumed it was Clement who did all the dirty work, not some witching little girl. He was, then, duly surprised when she walked away from the door and back over to him, balled up a fist, and punched him straight in the face. He howled, clutching his broken nose and collapsing backwards out of his chair. “Fine,” the girl said, plucking up the bag of gold once more. “Then I'll keep it.” The actor was too busy writhing about the floor in pain and a pool of his own blood to argue. Cyrah looped the purse strings over a dainty wrist, and turned on a heel, moving to make a hasty exit from the room. Now there would be questions, of course, but she felt her point had been made, and that alone was worth the ache in her knuckles, and the quickening rise of panic in her throat. It was always easier to escape the scene of a crime before anyone realized a crime had been committed. The actor started shouting obscenities, and calling for help. Privately cursing her own temper, Cyrah bolted through the open door...and ran smack into Lord Ifran. A startled noise, as the girl stumbled backwards to hold onto her balance; in the dress of a peasant girl, hair bound neatly and veil loose across the lower half of her face, she bore only the barest resemblance to the blade-wielding assassin who'd scurried out of the Eypharian's window. The difference might have been enough; she hoped it was enough. Directing her eyes immediately to the floor, duly inferior, she murmured, “Forgive me, my lord,” and moved to flee out of shame. At least, she hoped it looked like shame.

[Ifran]

Running into Anubis in the heart of the Royet Theatre was not something Ifran had anticipated. Not that he recognized the little bundle of nerves and flight instinct that bowled into him except to note that those eyes were familiar somehow. The ruckus in Ahmet's dressing room piqued his interest, of course. The other tenor was on the short list of suspected rivals who might have paid to have him killed, after all. The thrill of delight at the thought of Ahmet being murdered in his dressing room was tempered almost immediately by the surge of adrenaline jogging his mind to follow every logical path to be sure that he could prove his alibi, his innocence. In fact, he was innocent, but that had little to do with being punished for a crime. Unfortunately, it seemed that in order to protect his own skin, he would have to help Ahmet this once. His hands, first one, then three, reached out to grasp the fleeing woman. "Stop," he said in Common, his voice ringing and reverberating down the hall. Let it be known, his voice seemed to say, that I am doing my part to apprehend the murderer of Ahmet. Or attacker, rather. He was still making noises and sounded more angry than upset. Pity. "Stop!" screamed Ahmet from his dressing room. Ifran did so hate to play at being allies. When Ahmet struggled to the door, Ifran managed to catch the instant of shock and fear before his stage face manifested before his eyes.

[Cyrah]

One, two, three hands caught her, and she knew she couldn't wrench away without rousing further suspicion. So she relented, wilting beneath the Eypharian's hands and stooping as though duly chastened by the command in his voice. He had quite a voice; had she actually been a servant, she could imagine being cowed by it easily and often. As it was, she ducked her head and attempted to seem more terrified of Ahmet than Ifran, as though the former had abused her quite thoroughly before she'd fled into the nobler of the two. When Ahmet burst into the door-frame, blood still streaming down from his disfigured nose, Cyrah flinched into Ifran, as though afraid he might strike her. She took the gamble that Ahmet wanted Ifran to know who she was even less than she did, and won it. For a moment, Ahmet simply looked between the two, attempting to pull himself to rights despite the extraordinary awkwardness of this particular situation. Fortunate indeed that he was an actor, because he managed to hold onto his composure with more certainty than Cyrah would have given him credit for. “Unhand that servant,” Ahmet said to Ifran, breath ragged. “She was meant to give chase to the brigand who attacked me.” His tone lowered dangerously, but it was aimed at the girl, not the Eypharian. “And if she does not catch him, I will be very upset.”

[Ifran]

Ifran smiled, bland and ungenerous. "No, Ahmet," he said in Arumenic, "there was no other." The words were simple, but his undermode indicated a secret. "You should seek a physician," he added, his solicitous words tinged with grammatic command. "Makeup can only cover up so much, and a broken nose will alter your vocal quality." There was no threat implied in what he said, but the circumstances might sufficiently cow the bleeding victim. His hands on the woman were not rough, but they were strong and he secured his grip given the opportunity to do so. Half of his body was given to shackling her to the spot, whatever theatrical post she chose to adopt. Perhaps she was even sincere, though Eypharian politics--even Eypharian theatre politics--were generally more complicated than that. "I will see to your servant."

[Cyrah]

A vein came to prominent, quivering life, striking across Ahmet's forehead and pulsing there as his fury surged towards Ifran for his words. But he dared not even acknowledge them, not in the theatre corridor, and not with the Northwinder's hands presently gripping the very assassin he'd sent. If his features began to turn a questionable shade of purple beneath the blood-splatter, well, the very idea of damaging his voice was likewise enough to see him shouting down either direction of the corridor for the company physician. The girl in Ifran's hands squirmed once, testing, but was otherwise still. There wasn't aught she could do in the corridor, and certainly not now that Ahmet's shouting had begun to rouse others left in the theatre so late. Heads started popping out of doors and hands started appearing around corners; she bit back a curse and kept her eyes low, hoping it would at least be over quickly. She had to presume that though Ifran did not believe some other burglar had broken his nose, he might not yet have concluded that she was the same girl he'd fought through his bedchamber. If she could be but a messenger instead, that would be all the more preferable. Whatever he might have thought, she had to wait to find out, and was presently rooted to the spot on which she stood by his hands. Ahmet ceased to acknowledge their existence and went storming from his dressing room to find the physician himself.

[Ifran]

Ifran chuckled at the discomfiture of his rival, if he could be termed thus, as soon as he was out of earshot. Someone who had taken in the scene ran off in the other direction telling people how Ahmet had been beaten up by a girl, and laughter followed in their wake. "Walk with me," he said quietly to the veiled woman, and turned toward his own dressing room. With her in tow, he ushered her in and closed the door behind them. Standing before the door, he let go of her. "I apologize for laying hands upon your person," he said with clean courtesy, his apology sounding for all intents and purposes sincere. "It was necessary. Please, have a seat." He indicated the room, putting it at her proposal. The most comfortable chair, of course, sat in front of the mirror lit all around with oil lamps, but he made no move for it. There was also a divan and a couple of chairs for guests, easy to move around, a painting on the wall that was a gift from his grandfather, and other evidence that the occupant of this room was not only an artist, but an aristocrat. "I would like to hear what brought you to our theater."

[Cyrah]

Cyrah's mind raced as Ifran walked her down the corridor. She cycled through every possible story she could come up with; some of them were stupid and some of them were not, some of them were believable and some of them were far-fetched. She was a relatively skilled liar, by virtue of who and what she was, but had so rarely had to lie upon the instant that thoughts were failing her. Had it been Clement, there would have been no floundering, she was certain. So she tried to drag her heels a little while he pulled her along, but ultimately upon being delivered into his dressing room, she was still at a loss. And he stood before the door. She recalled how fast his hands were, and doubted that she'd be able to overwhelm him as she was, weaponless save for tooth and claw, without an escape but through the closed door, Ahmet's coin purse still dangling discreetly from her delicate wrist. Her eyes stayed low, half-lidded by thick, curling black lashes, both because she knew he could recognize her by her eyes, and because it further established the roll of peasant that she had donned. She didn't sit, simply stood before him with her hands clasped and her head bowed. “I was sent to fetch a payment from Master Ahmet,” she murmured, sounding duly terrified, which was only mostly feigned. “He owed a gambling debt to my brother.” In a certain speculative light, only the brother part was truly false.

[Ifran]

With her eyes so fixed upon the floor, he allowed himself the luxury of a frown. It was rare he wore an expression without meaning to, but with nobody looking, his irritation was allowed to flare. Her voice, of course, was also familiar but he could not decide where he had heard a servant speaking to him with it. Of course, in the bowels of a theater, he knew that one needn't be a servant in order to play one. In her brother's place, he would likely send someone else to collect on a debt, as well, unless his presence would secure some further advantage. After all, a sister could lead a person back to a man. If he didn't trust Aru implicitly, he would not have trusted him to go and speak for him. A hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, and then his hands were calm, his face smooth. "A perfectly believable story," he said amiably, daring her to look up and meet his gaze. He liked to think that he was a good judge of character, but the aristocrats and climbers alike of Ahnatep played a clock and dagger game with masks upon masks and intrigues upon intrigues. Things were never what they seemed unless they were and that was only to distract from some other machination. "And then what happened?"

[Cyrah]

She wouldn't risk lifting her eyes to his. Sore as she wanted to, just to see what his expression might hold, she knew too well the price a peasant might pay for lifting her eyes to nobility, and likewise knew that to do as much would betray her out of hand. So she stared resolutely at the floor, and let her shoulders tremble just a touch with the frustration of it. Cyrah was very dedicated in her work, but sometimes it could not be helped that she was still a girl, and still woefully young, a thing she would always be, unfortunately, even if Dira left her live as long as her kind was wont. “He tried to grab me, my lord,” she explained, doing her very best to sound ruffled. “And so I hit him. My brother taught me how.” And Ahmet was no noble, merely a half-breed. He could not wield the fear that the four houses could, and his four arms were likewise not enough to deter most of the barbs and the condescension Ahnatep felt towards those who were not purely Eypharian. It was more likely that a peasant girl with some notable sass might have struck him for threatening her. Afraid that even that lie would not take her far enough, she sank to her knees and bowed her head over her hands upon the floor, prostrate and pleading in the face of the noble Eypharian's judgment. “Please, my lord,” she begged. “Don't have me punished. I won't do it again – I'm very sorry – I was only frightened --” She stared at the carpet, hoping it was enough to inspire pity or disgust, anything that would see him drive her away or let her go freely.