Rumscrabble Tooltinker, all four feet and nine inches of him, stood in the center of a public square in the city (not to be confused with a town, village, or townage) of Velenia, surrounded by a group of people not much smaller than himself. Unlike Rumscrabble, a very rare half-dwarf, half-halfling (quarterling?), those around him were human children, notwithstanding the presence of a few mothers—of the children present, as opposed to people who just happened to be mothers standing near children who were not their own, which would be weird. Rummy, as he was known for numerous reasons (in addition to being shorter and easier to say than “Rumscrabble,” it also described his disposition and the generally spicy scent—not necessarily unpleasant—of his breath), held the rapt attention of his audience, who oohed and aahed at each new feat of prestidigitation he performed.
Side note: I don’t generally use a two-gold-piece word when a copper piece word will do, but in certain parts of Erithea, “prestidigitation” is the technical and professional term for sleight-of-hand tricks performed solely through non-magical means. Some street magicians are literally magicians, and their tricks and conjurations involve everything from simple, environment-affecting cantrips to elaborate illusions; others, however—generally less successful, but no less abundant—rely solely on quick hands, nimble fingers, and misdirection to wow their audiences, and Rummy falls into that group. The only thing magical about him was his ability to consume liquor in quantities that would fell a Cormanthian yak beast and still be able to pull off a successful shell game, complete with snappy patter. I’m not even sure I would dare to get into a drinking contest with him. I think it was his rare genetic heritage; the dwarven side gave him a higher level of tolerance than most and the halfling side gave him ample room to store it—I swear, it’s like they’ve got a hollow leg.
It was easy to see why the children couldn’t take their eyes off of Rummy—with his muttonchops, wiry goatee, sunny smile, dark brown skin, and a pair of golden, wire-framed spectacles perched on the bridge of his bulbous nose, he looked like your favorite uncle (just shorter), and his charisma was matched only by his deft sleight-of-hand skills. The children’s mothers were no less enraptured, and Rummy worked both children and adults into his act, asking them to hold onto birds that disappeared beneath silk handkerchiefs, instructing them to draw cards that then showed up elsewhere later in the performance, and making them hold still while he pulled increasingly (and comically) larger coins from a range of ears. An observant bystander might have noticed him performing a higher proportion of ear-pulling tricks with the mothers and lingering a bit longer with them than the children, and that bystander might assume that it was simply the behavior of a lascivious quarterling who had a thing for human women of a certain age.
Rummy, however, was anything but a ladies’ man, having rarely, if ever, shown any interest in the fair sex; his interest in the mother members of the audience was less lewd, lascivious, lustful, lecherous, or libidinous than it was financially motivated (or maybe “larcenous”).
Incidentally, why are women the “fair sex”? What does that even mean? I resent the implication that because I lack a dangly part, I’m expected to be fair in any sense of the word—I mean, I am undoubtedly fair in the sense of my complexion, and if one takes “fair” to mean “attractive,” well, that’s certainly true, too (objectively speaking). I’m certainly not gentle, demure, or deferential, however, and goodness knows I’ll just as readily punch someone—man or woman, incidentally—in the crotch as I will the face in the middle of a bar brawl. I’d suggest that we refer to women as the “superior sex,” but that would be sexist of me (albeit factually accurate).
After concluding his performance with an astonishing feat that involved the apparent transformation of a pair of pigeons into a jar of cookies that was then passed around to a cheering audience of sugar-addicted kids, Rummy took a bow and sauntered on down the street. As he walked, an elven woman sidled up next to him and matched his pace, though neither looked at each other and, for a moment, they walked in silence.
The woman was tall and striking by human standards with long blond hair and pale blue eyes, though on the plain side by eleven standards. She walked with the ease of someone who is confident in her ability to handle both the longbow slung over her shoulder and the very sharp sword that hung from her belt. She wore plain leathers, well cared for but worn with use, and her skin was freckled from long hours spent in the sun.
After the pair turned a corner, the woman glanced over at Rummy and said, “How many?”
“Ho ho! Whatever are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m straight asking how many mothers of young children you just robbed.”
Rummy shook his head and frowned. “Such an ugly word, ‘robbed.’ That’s something hoodlums do.” He sniffed.
“And what are you?”
“An entertainer who simply collects payment for his performances in a discreet way that saves audience members the hassle of having to stand in line to purchase a ticket or the unseemly embarrassment of handing money over directly.”
“How many?”
“There were eleven paying customers for today’s performance, which I humbly submit was a very fine one.”
“Unwilling paying customers.”
“I would suggest we call them ‘unwitting’ paying customers instead—who’s to say how they feel about it? It’s entirely possible, given the thrills they experienced during the show, that they might have wished to pay even more than they unwittingly did. And, they got cookies, so there’s that.”
Nadinta Ghettinwood shook her head, both exasperated and amused. “You didn’t take too much, I hope?”
Rummy shook his head vigorously. “Never, dear Nadi! I love those wee lads and lasses, and I’d never take the food out of their mouths. A pittance! ‘Far less in coin than received in pleasure.’ Which, apparently, is the motto of the local house of ill repute.”
Nadinta frowned. “And how do you know that? We haven’t even been here for a full day.”
“Only because I can read—don’t fret.” Rummy pointed across the street to a sign with that very motto hanging from the balcony of a classy building that looked out of place in the rundown neighborhood through which they walked. “I assume that a place called ‘The Soiled Peacock’ is a house of ill repute, anyway.” He scratched his beard. “I suppose it could it could be a bathhouse for birds, in which case the motto might still be readily, if a bit less aptly, applied.”
“Speaking of birds…you’re an odd one.”
“So I’ve been told.” The pair walked in silence for a few more minutes before Rummy spoke again. “Do we have a plan?”
Nadi took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “I’m working on it. I have an idea, but it’s not fully baked yet.”
“Where are Whiska and Borg?”
Nadinta rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you two guesses.”
“Ah, I’ve always been good at guessing games! Now, let me think.” Rummy tapped his fingers on his chin as he walked. “Let’s start with Borg: he must be at the Feed Bag. Still.”