The Gilded Gleeman

[Ezekiel]

 
Zahir & Malaika

White Tower, Tar Valon

She was the most incongruous candidate; in fact she looked the sort of musty Brown who never much deviated from hallowed library grounds lest she combust from a little sunlight. But she had been missing a short while recently, and more interestingly, returned with a ruinous injury to one of her hands. Intel claimed she had been oddly withdrawn since, though in Zahir’s own observations of her manner he could not see how anyone could rightly tell. She had been marked for odd visits peppered into the city, for an object she had carried bound in cloth, and for a nighttime conversation with a Kandori woman some claimed had bolted home after the sting of rejection, and others whispered had simply vanished. That she was no longer in the Tower was the only certainty; Zahir had looked.

He’d observed from a distance so far, spending much of his time ingratiating his presence in more general means, until his visit to the Tower was an accepted eccentricity that warranted more freedom than scrutiny. Zahir had the name of a sister who’d sanction him, should he need the extra validation, but so far he hadn’t needed it. And it wasn’t like he spent his time poking at snakes in halls Red or White, where even the fluttered promise of a gleeman’s cloak might have been cruelly spurned. In fact most of his time these past few days had been spent in the library, on the grounds, and at the infirmary; reasonably public spaces, and Zahir did anyway enjoy the challenge of a silvered tongue.

The Aes Sedai of this morning’s question was quietly reading at a desk, surrounded by piles of books and scrolls like meagre battlements. Her dark hair was unadorned, the wrap of her dress shapeless and neutral. Both hands rested in repose, but one curled inwards like the movement had been compromised. Malaika seemed delicate as a butterfly perched on the edge of a finger. She spent more time ensconced in the library than anywhere truly private, which seemed odd given that she rarely spent time actually with others. She was never rude, that he had seen, or even impatient; rather she weathered the interruption of conversation like the erosion of the tide against the bank.

She made no indication of acknowledging his drifting presence as he finally came closer, though he assumed she was aware; she never really picked quiet spots for her studies. With another woman he might have boldly touched that hand, just a light and concerned contact, like he could not help himself. But it was difficult to charm someone who skirted eye contact, and he thought an overbearingly sensual approach might only make her startle. There was nothing remarkable about this Aes Sedai beyond what she had once been, but he was mindful of what it made her.

“I find myself too curious not to ask. Forgive me, Aes Sedai, does the hand pain you? What happened to it?” His voice was deep and mellifluous, and he had always found it amusing how easy a spell it cast on people, like the slow drip of honey dulled them sometimes to what he even said – a theory tested from time to time when he was in a particularly snide mood.

Malaika’s breath drew in and released quietly, in recognition or acknowledgement, he couldn’t tell. Her attention turned to it briefly. “It would make for a poor gleeman’s tale,” she said eventually. Ah, so she had heard the rumours of his presence. Gratified, the corners of his lips twitched. “Is there something I may help you with? There are attendant Accepted if you are wishing for help navigating the stacks.”

“I don’t need help navigating,” he assured. He rested his fingertips lightly on the desktop, where he knew her gaze might catch. He would court as much of her attention as he could. “I seek something more vital than words bound in books. You must have stories, Aes Sedai.”

“... I see,” she said. Silence lingered for a time, during which Zahir only waited patiently. Malaika did not seem self-conscious in her deliberations. “It’s true I have regrets, and I have pain. Perhaps that is the same thing. But neither would be to your liking, and I do not wish to lay down my burdens for a story.”

And oh, there was something; a loneliness so potent it was like the fanning of blood to his senses. There was hysterical laughing in the back of Zahir’s head; enough to make him giddy, and he almost hoped she had stolen what he’d been tasked to retrieve then. Imagined sheltering her misery with his own two palms, promising her everything of his protection while he encouraged the flames of her demise. It made him heady, that hint of vulnerability; especially in one so supposedly powerful. He almost reached to touch the ring on her finger like a claiming. Probably it was a good thing she did not look up at him. The hunger in his gaze was like to devour.

“Oh, I don’t know. The people love a good tragedy,” he mused. Smooth laughter made light; he would not press, it was only important that she remembered. This was a woman who craved a soul to share the burden, he was sure. “I assure you of my discretion. A master craftsman I am, yes; but not a thief, Aes Sedai. All stories deserve someone to hear them, even if it’s only once. I will be in Tar Valon for some time more, if you happen to change your mind.”

His hands withdrew. He wondered if she watched that, but he couldn’t tell. “I find crimsonthorn root helpful,” he added. “For pain. Small doses, though. If the hand is indeed ailing you.”

The Aes Sedai looked up then, and blinked in surprise. He could not say why. Her eyes were leafy dark, like the sprawling jungles he imagined had once been her home.

Zahir did not smile. This was not a seduction. Or at least not one that ended in her bed. Instead he inclined his head, let her absorb the warmth and empathy of his deceptively kind eyes, just to drive the hook a little deeper, and then left her to her thoughts.

He did not allow himself to smirk until he descended the steps back out into sunlight.

The next name he had been forced to defer, for now. Though he’d looked, the Yellow had been missing for days and would necessitate greater efforts to track down; fled, perhaps, because she realised the enormity of what she might possess, else certain sisters had already managed to spook her from roost. An annoyance, to be sure, but only supposing fruition did not come before then, in which case he could care not much less for flighty Aes Sedai politics. The next was a simpler lure anyway, because by all claims Greens were simple creatures. Thus he had spent portions of his last few days watching the warders sparring with the younglings, learning names and faces. Watching for weaknesses. Because if he was going to hold his own for long enough to draw a crowd, he needed the advantage.

He took a spot at one of the fences, draping his cloak over it to flutter in the breeze like a banner, and sat himself on the top rung. The familiarity of his presence sparked general banter; he called out and commiserated and encouraged, spoke of legendary victories and near-misses, and generally made an entertainment of his narration. Only this time when one of them cajoled him into a spar, he laughed like his arm had finally been twisted, and slipped down from the fence. “Go easy on me,” he grinned, yanking the shirt over his head and chucking it over his cloak. If there was a little manic gleam to him, it was barely noticeable.

From the unblemished skin of his face, one would expect the bronze sculpture of his body to follow suit, but it was not the case. His muscles were wirey, svelte in the manner of an acrobat, but the skin was surprisingly damaged. All manner of scars puckered: slashes that might have been from knives, a scrawled tapestry of burns along his ribs, a scarification of incomplete patterns that dipped below his hip, and ill-knitted flesh that might have been the result of a bite else from meat carved clean away. To name a few. Amidst the ruin was the odd tattoo, too small to see at a distance beyond the smudge of ink. They did not look like art.

Zahir knew enough of sword-forms. Artistically speaking. There was performance and spectacle in the base movements, and he had dedicated time to it once – used them as a flourish during performances still. But gleemen did not carry blades like that. Despite a capacity Zahir was perhaps surprisingly unenamoured of violence. He had seen enough of it, and been in receipt of more, that it was only a sometimes necessity to him, not something he derived much pleasure in. Which was not to say he ever fought clean or bloodless. He honed his body with the tenacity of the self-survivalist. A man who refused to let weakness define him because once it had been chains.

It was a quarterstaff he hefted. Preferring the distance to hand-to-hand grappling or duelling with knives. Death could be intimate, but not a dance like this.