1        Soul Bound 1.3      Making a Splash 1.3.3    An Unrequited Love 1.3.3.19 The piper's call

It didn't take Lucille long to pull herself together, happy to turn everything back over to Ingrained Habit now the decision had been made.

Lucille: "Right then. Well, better get you lot over to the Muster, hadn't I? Don't want you falling into the endless puddle or getting eaten by ratatoskr, do we? This way, c'mon."

She bounced ahead of them impatiently, jumping across the gap between bridges rather than running along their length. Occasionally, when a gap was particularly wide, she took out one of the long cloth strips dangling from her belt. Then she'd give the weighted end a brief twirl before hurling up to wind around one of the scaffolding poles above and using it to swing across. An acrobat skill? Hmm, come to think of it, Columbina grew up near here too, didn't she. It explained things. No wonder Columbina didn't like letting people see she cared about more than money, and had been a thief when Harlequin had first met her. And perhaps also the care she took over her own appearance and her attitude to dirt and getting dirty?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the preposterous scene that greeted her as they entered a major junction. It was the size of a courtyard, and obviously well established. There were stone slabs rather than mud, and the streams had become nearly a river at the point they joined, crossed by a sturdy wooden bridge which looked like it might even have been constructed by a carpenter rather than thrown together by amateurs.

To one side of the bridge a stage had been constructed from wash tubs, barrels, and a variety of other random items the man standing upon it had been able to beg, borrow or otherwise acquire - including three horse saddles, two upturned sedan chairs, and one gondola with an enormous hole in its bottom. The man himself wore a bright piebald costume, sewn from different coloured cloth patches of every colour that somehow all managed to clash with his straw-coloured lank hair. The costume might have reminded her of the diamond pattern that was the trademark of Harlequin and Columbina from when they'd been performers, but in every other way this man was their complete opposite.

They were fit and active, while he was impossibly round bellied and had blubbery lips. They moved with breath-taking elegance and precision, while he flailed about and regularly burped or farted. They were artists and performers and he, while he did carry what looked like a copper flute, didn't play a note. Instead he used it to direct the children lined up before him, as each in turn placed a row of rat bodies in a cart before the stage, and was required to salute the man before receiving a few coins, grudgingly tossed by the man's twitchy nosed assistant.

He wasn't tossing coins now. He was scowling at five boys who'd disrupted his orderly lines by falling over, and who were now rolling around like maniacs, their arms twitching in a way that caused the others to laugh.

Their way over the bridge temporarily blocked, Tomsk and Bulgaria took the opportunity to lower their carrying pole and stretch their arms. Lucille noticed, realised they couldn't just jump over, and returned. Tomsk shouted her a question, jerking his thumb at the man.

Tomsk: "Who's that?"

Before she could answer, the assistant noticed the intruders and alerted the pudgy clown, who drew himself up, brimming with pride.

Koppenberg: "You have not heard of Koppenberg the Kind? The greatest ratcatcher in Torello? Bane of the beasts and pal of the poor? A fragile artistic soul, ironically trapped in such a body and yet, despite being unsuited to danger or physical exertion, the only man brave enough to visit the Scarrow just to give enterprising lads and lasses like these the life changing opportunity of being paid good coin, my hard earned valuable coin, merely for a little of their time and risking the occasional rodent nip? Me, yes that's me! I'm him, you may stand amazed, but it's as true as what you see before you with your own eyes."

Koppenberg bowed, attempting to dramatically sweep his be-ribboned sleeves and then nearly fell off the stage in surprise as it made a resoundingly loud creak. He scurried back towards the middle of the juddering pile on hands and knees, while the assistant bossed the other children into arranging the five boys into a rotating ring, gripping each other's hands convulsively. The result didn't remind her of drunkards standing with each other's support so much as a children playing 'dare' on a roundabout, madly whirling at increasingly unsafe speeds until their linked arms were the only thing preventing them all going flying - almost a parody of an ecstatic dance.

She felt disturbed at the sight, but took reassurance from Tomsk, whose voice remained calm and even a little amused.

Tomsk: "Nope, can't say I have. Mind letting us get past?"

The twitchy assistant scowled at them, urging the boys blocking the way to spin faster, despite the bank less than an arm's width away from their feet.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Nessler: "Cockspur."

Kafana looked questioningly at Lucille, who explained while they watched.

Lucille: "Never eat purple bread. Everyone knows that. Just, sometimes, ya get so hungry, you think maybe it won't be so bad, perhaps I can take just a nibble from the other end of the loaf?"

She shook her head.

Lucille: "Nobs like boasting how kind they are. Some days, 'specially if they're about to hold a big bash, one o' them will pay the Bakers to put out some free buns. They get a fancy testy moany ill, so the gongy man sez. All scribed and proper, so they can frame it like a Yule hunting trophy onna wall. Never seen one myself, so I couldn't tell you how many horns it has."

Bulgaria inserted his voice into the narrative, easing her on with the same care a safe cracker would use when jiggling a reluctant tumbler into position.

Bulgaria: "A testy moany ill can be a thing of beauty, right enough. Hard to tame, but very valuable if it has a good pedigree."

He nodded sagely, then added in seeming afterthought.

Bulgaria: "But that's all they care about? They never bother keeping track of what the Baker's Guild actually does?"

Lucille: "A nob get shit on their gown visiting the Scarrow? Sooner see Nemey in Chidia sit down for crumpets with Cov's Hierarch on 'is crystal throne. Not saying Bakers break their word, mind. Bread made from lowest grade rye from Jazdow may be so rough that even pregnant sows find it hard going, but it fills your belly better than pebbles or grass. Usually."

Did NPCs ever notice themselves becoming uncharacteristically talkative around players when a quest triggered them into providing an info dump? The only one she could remember talking about such things was Flavio. Perhaps the game was also manipulating the thoughts and memories of most NPCs, to squash their self-awareness? The remaining information she'd needed to grasp the implication of Lucille's revelation was supplied by the expert system Kafana had set to studying on her behalf the game mechanics of Soul Bound.

Dinah: [Cockspur is an alkaloid-producing purple fungus. Outbreaks of mass dancing during the Renaissance near Taranto in Italy are now attributed to ergot poisoning caused by eating bread made from blighted rye. Chances are high that 'dancing the poison out' has been implemented in the game as a folk cure that can be effective.]

Should they leave the boys to the ratcatcher and his assistant? She was still feeling drained, and delaying to help would increase the risk of being caught by pursuing guards. On the other hand, perhaps the boys would never have been inflicted with this, if Rac-OOC (the expert system XperiSense had put in charge of implementing plot) hadn't noticed them entering the area and then decided this would be an appropriate event for the Wombles to encounter?

She came to a decision. Even if the boys were just pawns without true self-awareness, the Wombles had taken a decision right at the start, to fully immerse themselves in this new world, rather than stay ironically detached. She couldn't be Kafana-the-Spellsinger if she spent half her time second guessing herself, and it was recordings of herself as Kafana, not herself as Nadine-the-boring, which Alderney had promoted so well that their popularity could now leveraged as resource to further the Womble's long term goals.

She grinned a little ruefully as her own self-awareness prompted her to admit, if only to herself, the possibility that she was hunting around for an excuse to justify something she was going to do anyway. Well, she'd just have to trust in the others to halt her if she was being too foolish. Thank goodness they were her friends and free supporters, not mindless minions.

She stepped forward, pushing her will into her Aura of Authority skill, but mentally imagining it as a warm blanket rather than a cudgel. The ratcatcher might be neither nice nor elegant, but that didn't mean he wasn't a good man - one who genuinely cared about others as well as himself. Until he proved otherwise, the least she could do was afford him a little respect and dignity, just for being a fellow person.

Kafana: "Excuse me for interrupting your splendid magnificence, great Koppenberg. For the noble cause of aiding the speedy resumption of your most benevolent trade in rodent remains, might I offer such assistance in ameliorating the plight of your poisoned customers as can be provided by a passing humble herbalist?"

She matched his pomposity as best she could, couching her demand as an offering to a superior being supplicated, but not actually waiting for his response before striding over the bridge, closely followed by Tomsk. Nessler, the assistant, gave way before them.

Just in time she remembered they were trying not to leave traces Pazzi's mages could home in upon, such as expending large amounts of mana or speaking their name out loud, so she didn't reaching for her pendant or even one of her potions, that might have unpredictable or even harmful effects if some of the fevered boys wasn't pure covadan. Instead she drew from her stash a handful of brittle glazed pastries, heady with spice and each shaped into a trefoil knot whose shape Vessel Kafana had accentuated with a delicate dusting of sugar. She held one up, even turning it admire from all angles the artistry her vessel had learned from Columbina.

[Skill "Haute cuisine" has reached level 4. At a higher level this skill may unlock new professions and evolution options.]

She blinked. The game rewarded players for taking the time to appreciate artistry? No! She chided herself to stop thinking about it being a game, and to focus on the people. The others had already left, so she couldn't hang around to check the pastries were sufficient, so she sent a little prayer to Cov before rushing to catch up. In her haste, rather than picking her way around each dubiously-iridescent puddle, she took a deep breath then splashed straight through, leaving chaotic ripples in her wake.

Was it her imagination, or did she catch a faint echo of a proud contralto voice laughing quietly to itself?

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