Prince of Lies - James Lowder [87]
The man looked shocked at the suggestion he'd hire a pickpocket to work the crowd, though the practice was common enough. "Otto Marvelius has never bilked a patron of a single copper. Good, wholesome entertainment's what I offer. Shows that would bring a smile even to one of Cyric's priests -" he leaned close and winked conspiratorially "- and we both know how tough a crowd they can be, eh?"
The puppeteer went about his work, whistling a bawdy tavern song popular in the less reputable ports along the Sword Coast. The striped curtains and the bright awning he rolled out over the boxlike stage drew both children and adults like some enchanted piper. Vrakk milled at the fringes of the growing crowd of urchins and commoners, watching for the almost inevitable petty crooks who'd come to prey upon them.
"Kind people of Zhentil Keep," Marvelius began, standing before the stage, "on this festive day, I have come to your great city to present a play both entertaining and enlightening. I have presented this pageant, known throughout the civilized world as The Rescue of the Tablets of Fate' or 'Cyric Wins the Day,' to the crowned heads of Cormyr and the emperors of fabled Shou Lung."
With theatrical flair he unfurled a huge roll of parchment, covered with seals and elaborately wrought signatures. "These affidavits, provided by such notables as Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithril Hall, Tristan Kendrick of the Moonshaes, and King Azoun IV of Cormyr, attest to the story's power to enthrall even the most unenlightened audience."
The parchment could have been signed by anyone, stated anything, since most of the people gathered before the stage couldn't read. Vrakk smirked at the expressions of awe riding over the sea of faces; Marvelius might not hire a pickpocket, but he was certainly a flashman in his own right.
Marvelius hung the scroll on one side of the stage then took up another, less impressive piece of parchment. "I have also had the chance to present this play in each of the various dales to your south."
A hiss, very much expected by the showman, slithered from the crowd. Marvelius held up a restraining hand and presented the second parchment, blotchy with spilled ink, food stains, and huge, thick Xs. "They tried their best to sign an affidavit, too, but this was all they could manage." He waited for the chuckles to subside just a little, then added, "Good thing Elminster taught Lord Mourngrym and the rest of the, er, warriors of Shadowdale how to make Xs or the thing would be blank – and speaking of puppets, let's get on with the show, shall we?"
The laughter and rough clapping filled the time it took Marvelius to position himself behind the stage. By now Vrakk was almost mesmerized, watching the old man play the crowd. The Zhentish hated the dalesmen, especially Mourngrym and the men from Shadowdale, with a passion unrivaled. By insulting the nobleman and the old sage who advised him, Marvelius was certain to win over his audience – and more than a few coppers when his helper passed the collection box after the show.
A puppet of a raven-haired woman, with bone-white skin and strange scarlet eyes, appeared on the stage. Her blue-white robe and the farcical wand in her hand identified her as Midnight, the earthly avatar of Mystra. "Oh my," she said. "I wonder where the Tablets of Fate are hidden. Do you know where they are?" Her exaggeratedly shrill voice – provided by Marvelius's unseen assistant – made more than one child cover his ears with his hands.
Midnight leaned toward the audience. "Well, if none of you know, I'll bet I can guess who has them. Oh, Kelemvor? Where is my brave knight?"
The puppet depicting Kelemvor was as well-known as Mystra's: a hulking body supported a head divided equally into two faces. One side was human, with coarse features, all bristling sideburn and drooping mustache. The other was feline, a panther's head with a mouthful of sharp white teeth. The children