Niico stared through his spread fingers toward the sky, clouds passing by in their lazy trek toward elsewhere. The Sun flickered through the trees, dappling the ground around him as a soft breeze caught the leaves and thin branches, causing them to sway in slow, sultry movements that were almost hypnotic. With his other hand, he twisted a stalk of grass between his lips and he held back a long, satisfied sigh until it almost burst from his chest.
"You know what I hate about towns?" He didn't say it to anyone in particular, only making an observation that others could listen to, were they conducive to do so. "People. Every problem in a town, or a city, comes from people. Of course, every delight comes from people, too, but I still hate them. When I don't love them."
"And do you know what I hate?" Pelenia's voice drifted across to him. She sounded a little irate. "Those people that lay on their backs all day and do no work. Do something! Anything!"
"I am doing something." He waved the stalk of grass in the air as though writing. "I'm composing. What use is a bard if he only sings the songs people know? Where does the fame come from if he only copies others? No, true bardic legends make their own songs. It's an unwritten rule."
Though he didn't want to, he lifted his head, squinting one eye closed, to see the progress of the others. Pel laboured with the artistic requirements of their upcoming tour of Larissa, painting the advertising boards and the sides of the wagon with grand words describing their troupe, with excellent pictures of a strong man, a superlative bard, and a mysterious, mystical crone. She didn't look it now, but Pel made an excellent crone. On the other side, she had already painted the details for the potions and tonics con and they would flip them as needed.
Akafa had the duty of creating a frame for the boards, that they could slip the boards into depending on which scam they were playing at any time. And, later, he would create the stage upon which they would practice their arts. Another sigh came from deep within Niico as he watched those magnificent muscles swell and contract, sweat glistening on the man's dark skin that, were it not for the scars, would have a perfect complexion. The Patrons had certainly reached perfection with that man.
Of the boy, Pel had shown him a variety of flowers, weeds and plants she would need to concoct their potions. Bitter tasting roots for the medicinal tonics, sweet and intoxicating saps for the potions of love, foul smelling leaves for the tinctures. Nothing poisonous, not in small quantities, at least, but they would give the impression of easing whatever ailed the folks along the route they would take to Baccirese.
"Is it necessary to lie to people?" Ah. The good man. The caring man. Were there no end to Akafa's good qualities. "The lady is no soothsayer, and you are no bard. I am not certain we should take money from people that are already poor."
"We're not taking anything from them, not really. We're giving them something far more vital to a good and fulfilling life. Something that will last far longer than a few Bones that they save for rainy days that may never come." Niico laid back, sweeping his hand before him as though presenting words on a sign. "We're giving them hope. Hope for good health, for a better future, for love."
The light hammering had paused as Niico spoke and he twisted his neck to look at the man, so tall and wide of shoulder, close-cropped, curling black hair that Niico would simply love to trace his fingernails through. He didn't look convinced. Not that it was Akafa that they had to convince. So long as the people were willing to hand over their coin, Niico was happy to take it.
And, while they were entranced with the feats of strength and endurance performed by the beautiful Akafa, or caught under the spell of the etherial Pel, Niico would help these poor people to understand the fragilities of wealth by divesting them of any they may have hidden within their homes. If only they could teach the boy how to use those thin, flexible fingers of his to pick pockets, they would do well on this journey.
"It still feels wrong." Akafa returned to lightly hammering the tacks into the frame. He was far too naive for his own good. "I could perform odd jobs for people. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay. This is the way of good people."
"People are awful wherever you go, my excruciatingly beautiful friend. People ruin everything. You'll see." It seemed obvious Akafa had not spent much time around people. Niico returned the grass stalk to his lips and then removed it again. "Like I was saying, towns and cities are wonderful places, ruined by people and, you know what I hate the most about them? How they walk."
The hammering continued. The clink and chink of Pel washing bristles upon her brushes, tapping the sides of the jars as she spun the colour and the paint from them. No-one appeared to wish to hear his thoughts, though they were very deep and factual thoughts that should, really, be laid down on paper for the benefit of the many people that didn't know just how annoying they really were.
"What's wrong with the way people walk?" The young lad, returned from his hunt for useful flora. As Niico glanced his way, the boy looked at his feet as he made several steps. "How can the way someone walks make you dislike them?"
"Hate, my boy. Dislike is such a weak word. I hate the way people walk." Niico turned on to his side, supporting himself on his elbow. "For example. Weavers. Not people who work with cloth and things, though don't get me started on them, but those people who can't walk in a straight line if their lives depended on it. Weaving from one side of the street to the other. Hate them."
The boy thought about that, his entire face screwed up as he considered Niico's wise words. In this light, Niico could see the boy's delicate features, long eyelashes and prominent cheekbones that even the usual childhood plumpness couldn't hide. One day that boy was going to break hearts. A lot of them. In fact, with looks like that, he may even break more hearts than Niico himself. Probably not. Niico had been, and continued to be, quite prodigious.
Still lost in thought, the boy, arms hugging the basket filled with potion supplies to his chest, walked across to where Pel continued to paint. All the way, he watched his feet, taking care with each step. Once he reached Pel, he waited while the woman ran her hands through the basket, checking the contents before smiling at Herit and ruffling his short hair. Pel liked the boy, which would make it harder, later, when they had to score as much money as possible from him, Akafa and the boy's father. Dumping the contents of the basket on a nearby rock, Pel sent Herit back out for more.
"The boy's got a good eye." She watched Herit skip away, no longer watching his feet as he raced back into the groves that surrounded the little, abandoned farmhouse of Pel's former lover. "You could sort through these for me."
"I could. This song, though. I almost have it. As soon as I've worked through it, written it down, put music to the lyrics and practiced it until it comes as natural as breathing, I'll help you with the less important things. I promise. Veerers." He used the grass stalk to make his point with that one, his forehead furrowing as he scowled. "Those people who just veer in your way in an instant. Patrons' blood, I hate them. One minute, you're walking, the next, someone just turns, for no reason, without looking, not a care in the world, right into your path! And then ... and then! They look at you, as if you're the one in the wrong! Hate them."
Niico wasn't lying. Well, lying was probably a little extreme to describe his actions. He was certainly thinking about the song, a little. The title, for instance. He had considered a few of those and now fixated upon something to do with how awful people were at walking. The actual words of the song, the tune, what it was going to be about were all in a state of almost ready to think about. Titles, after all, were vital and important in all the famous songs.
What he was mostly doing, however, was enjoying this place. He had spent so long living in towns and cities that he couldn't believe he hadn't travelled for as long as he had. This was the life. This was freedom! For certain, he could make money within the confines of those civilised areas. So civilised that they almost all required large walls to keep the civilised folk separated from the uncivilised, forgetting that people would as soon slit your throat inside a town's walls as outside them.
Towns and cities restricted him and, as much he hated them, he loved them as much. Out here, though, with the crickets, or were they cicadas, making their sounds from the undergrowth and the birds wheeling in the sky, or sitting on branches serenading the day with their pleasant songs, he could feel the weight of civilisation falling away.
He had thought of splitting away from his travelling companions at the first town large enough to have a thriving criminal underbelly, where he could test the waters about selling the emerald. Lying here, looking up at the blue sky and the clouds and the shifting branches and leaves, he considered staying with them a little longer. They gave him the reason he needed to stay out in the countryside and, without it, he would only return to civilisation again. And who would want that?
-+-
In order to save himself from more needless badgering by Pelenia about 'not doing anything', just because he didn't look as though he was doing anything, or actually doing anything, Niico decided to run through his few belongings in search of his reserve talent. He had full confidence in his abilities as a bard, but, just in case, it was probably a good idea to practice something else he once had a talent for.
Sat beside the wagon, in the shade that cooled him beneath a Sun reaching its zenith, he placed the rolled, oiled rag before him. The last time he had used these, he had had to spend the night in a cell in Pastiano after almost severing a major artery in the leg of the town's mayor. As luck would have it, the healer that attended the mayor found a rather nasty growth that would have killed the man within a month. You are most welcome, Mr Mayor! Of course, they didn't see the service he had provided and, with the aid of Pel, had escaped the cell, and the town, under cover of darkness.
Mistakes happened. Niico felt very regretful about the entire incident. Yes, mostly regretful that he hadn't managed to run faster before the town guards had caught him, but also regretful for hurting someone. A little bit. Still, wildly inaccurate one time out of a hundred was pretty good odds. Alright, one time in fifty, but that incident in Aprilia really wasn't mostly his fault. The point was, that he had skills he could use perfectly well a decent amount of the time.
With care, even though the contents were, pretty much, not liable to get damaged by a little roughness, and reverence, even though they weren't really the kind of objects one should revere, or maybe they should be, Niico unrolled the rag and set eyes upon a series of throwing knives that he had gone out of his way to steal from someone who could both appreciate and afford them. Still as clean and sharp as the day he had tossed them into a bag, in passing, as he robbed the previous owner blind.
They were magnificent. Perfectly balanced. Shaped like elongated rain drops with a trailing tassel that, he was told in a moment of clarity where he actually listened to someone, aided the accuracy of the knife's flight, while slowing it down enough to not cause too much damage, should something go wrong. Try telling Pastiano's mayor that.
Niico picked up one of the knives, flicking it across his fingers in a magnificent display of dexterity, skill and Patron's given talent, and, when he had picked the knife up from the dirt where he had dropped it, he did it again, with even more magnificent dexterity and skill. That he still had all his fingers was a good sign. Playing the mandolin without a finger or two could prove difficult. What he needed was a target. Preferably one that moved and bled so he could see if he had hit it or not. Not the child. That would be bad, he supposed.
Another rummage in his bag and he found the matching belt, that enabled him to place the knives in a ring about his waist, each little sheath enabling him to remove and throw the knives in one, swift, gloriously accurate movement. With the belt fastened about him, the knives secured in the places, he began to look for somewhere, or something, to stab. From a distance.
The wagon was out. Freshly painted, awaiting that paint to dry, Pel would have a fit if he managed to hit the wooden sides and put holes in the thing. The hovel wasn't an option, either. The door had fallen away and rotted long ago and the mud and straw walls would only serve to dull the blades which Niico would never find the energy to sharpen. People, apparently, didn't like being used as targets and the war horse gave him a look that said if he even considered the possibility of trying, it would trample him like a bug. Which was fair.
Which left ... nothing. Unless he counted the thin, twisted olive trees that surrounded the old farmhouse, which he didn't, because he needed a target he had at least a chance to hit. It all left him more than a little frustrated. Like finding a gorgeous man, taking him to bed and finding out that he actually, truthfully, just thought Niico had meant 'to sleep'. Which had happened. More than once. People were stupid was the only conclusion Niico could come to with those incidents.
He now decided that he hated the countryside. It was boring. Boring and bereft of suitable targets to throw shiny metal things at. And the rocks were not suitable alternatives to a nice, comfortable, cushioned chair. The ground not a patch on a good, solid, wooden bed with a down mattress and a willing occupant beside him. Beds didn't have ants! Alright, that was a lie. Beds did have ants, and fleas, and ticks, but it was worth the discomfort of scratching himself raw to sleep somewhere where stones didn't dig into his back.
The rock he had sat on hurt his backside, but he refused to give the rock the satisfaction of moving. He wondered where Pel had disappeared to, having finished painting for the time being. And Akafa had wandered away, too. That worried Niico. What if the man liked women? And he and Pel had disappeared to make sexual congress out in sprawling olive grove. That would be bitterly disappointing.
"Are those for killing people?" The boy had an unerring, annoying habit of appearing from nowhere and asking questions. "Akafa has killed people, but he says it was necessary."
"No, these fine instruments are intended for entertainment purposes only." The boy's delicate features fell and Niico had to admire a child that found disappointment in finding that something wasn't for killing. "But, they could. In the right hands. A swift death from afar. A flashing blade, thrown with practiced accuracy, could fell even the greatest warrior."
He lifted one of the knives from the belt and twirled it upon his fingers, praying to Patrons he didn't care for that he didn't drop it again. A grin spread across his features as he caught the knife by the grip once again, proving that he hadn't lost the entirety of his skills. He proceeded to attempt more complicated moves, only a little worried about embarrassing himself.
"May I try?" The boy's thin fingers reached out toward the belt and stopped, pulling back a little. "If it be pleasing you, sir?"
Always a fool for feint praise, Niico switched the blade around in his hand, offering it toward the boy, and then hesitated. If Herit managed to injure himself, it could reduce any payment for bringing him to his father. Niico made several quick calculations, putting a price on a lost finger, or a toe. How much he could lose should the boy, say, gut himself. It could prove costly. But the boy seemed competent enough. Mature, for his age. Whatever that age was. Ten? Thirteen Summers? For all Niico knew, the boy could be of age, only very short.
"Herit!" From behind the hovel, Akafa appeared. He didn't look flustered after a rampant romp with Pel. Niico still held out hope. "You must not!"
"There's no harm in it, surely?" Even so, Niico put the knife back in place on the belt. "I am a responsible adult, after all."
He wasn't a responsible adult in any sense of the term, but Akafa wasn't to know that. The big, former slave rushed toward them and fell to one knee before the boy, passing his large hands over Herit's body, checking the child as though Niico had perforated the boy for fun. After ensuring the boy was not injured, he pushed Herit away, scowling at Niico.
"The child must remain pure. Unsullied by such things." Akafa whispered, though the words still boomed from that mighty chest. "Herit cannot touch weapons of war, must remain unmarred in body and soul. You must not show the child the ways of barbarians and cutthroats."
"I am neither a barbarian or a cutthroat! Well, there was one time, in Aprilia, but that was a complete accident. Almost completely accidental." Nevertheless, Niico lifted his arms in the air in mock surrender. "Fine. But I'm not a barbarian. I'm as civilised a man as you could hope to meet. Ask anybody. Well, not anybody. But quite a few people. Most people. Some people know I'm not a barbarian."
"What have you been doing now?" Pel emerged from within the hovel, carrying a basket filled with filled potion bottles. Definitely not after having sex with Akafa, thankfully. "Whatever it is, he apologises."
He absolutely did not apologise. Even had he done something wrong, the very thought of apologising would stick in Niico's throat. He never apologised. Not ever! Unless his life was in danger. Or he would lose money if he failed to apologise. A couple of other reasons that he couldn't quite think of in the moment. But, on the whole, Niico never apologised. Mostly.
"All I was doing was showing the boy my throwing knives. He expressed an interest after witnessing my great skill and I was about to let him examine one of them." When he put it like that, he really didn't have anything to apologise for, which was surprising. "All quite innocent. It's what young lads do. I know I had a fascination with huge swords from a very young age. Obviously, I grew out of that and preferred to witness a skilled wielder, rather than someone who simply tossed a big weapon around, but ..."
"Patrons' blood! You are a complete idiot." This wasn't news to Niico, but Pel rolled her eyes, lifting the basket onto the back of the wagon. With a sigh, she looked down to Niico. "Just ... don't treat the boy like a normal boy, alright? He's more ... delicate than that."
"Alright. I completely understand." He didn't understand at all, but at least he didn't need to spend more time with the boy than he had to. Or any time at all, which was preferable. He pointed to the bottles in the basket. "So, who's testing the potions to make sure they're not poisonous?"
Not him, that was for certain. As Pel began to arrange and sort the bottles, Niico looked across to the boy, who sat, alone, against the wall of the hovel, knees folded to his chest, elbow on one knee, chin upon hand. He looked absolutely miserable, and who wouldn't be when they had an over-protective older brother spoiling all their fun? Definitely within the parameters of Niico's 'not my problem' imperative. Still, the boy looked positively distraught at the loss of a chance to play with a dangerous, very sharp object. Of course he was. He was a boy!