The Gilded Gleeman

[Ezekiel]

If this was a true fight, and one fought on Zahir’s terms, the man would be halfway to dead already. A needle-thin blade coated in poison did the work far more economically than dancing around with weapons, and he considered a threat better neutralised before it became a problem. He’d had to slash a throat cold once, and it had not been enjoyable. Watching the glassy realisation of death was incomparable in a moment like that, the power of it strangely intoxicating even as it disgusted him, but he didn’t care for all the blood as it pumped hot and gushing and seemingly endless. Such mess and drama was better left as glamour to the realm of stories. He hadn’t waited to see how long it took; just long enough to ensure the job was done.

Zahir could put on a good show though, and he did; a thing simply wasn’t worth doing without flourish, an ethos he carried and applied to much in his life. His muscles sang keeping up, jarring with every clash – it was not like he fought elite warriors every day of the week – but in stamina and agility he was unwinded. The breadth of Zahir’s travels took him to unusual places; as a result he’d learned unusual things, and had had more time than most ever suspected to hone skills. By appearances he was probably into his thirties, but in truth his face had long ago slowed; he was older and more experienced than he looked.

So he was holding fine. 

But then the warder snuck through his guard. The blunt smash of a hilt took him in the mouth, filling it with the tang of blood.

“Pay attention, gleeman,” the man grunted, acknowledging the flash of flame-hair in their peripheral. 

Zahir laughed, little more than a slightly manic sounding giggle, and spat the blood. “Easy now, I do need my face.” But the blow knocked all the loose connections to buzzing static in his head. For the knowing desecration of that last unbroken pound of flesh, like Zahir had not sacrificed and suffered enough worth several lifetimes already. The offense seethed like scorching desert winds, along with the desire to see this fool begging contrition in the dirt. When he attacked next, it was with a speed born of fury. The distance between them closed, and a blur of movement tangled untidy limbs. 

When they both fell, an accident surely, Zahir’s staff somehow ended up between them, jammed horizontal against the warder’s throat, like he’d tried to brace the landing without considering upon what he was bracing. Unintentional, of course, though you could kill a man easily like that; just lever upwards until his face turned the colour of overripe fruit. A howling gust in his skull demanded do-it-do-it-do-it, and he was tempted to adjust the pressure, just long enough for the realisation to run into cold certainty – that last second before struggle. Not because he wanted to see the man afraid and fighting, but because he wanted to see the relief of his being wrong when Zahir simply got off. His lips only pricked in a bloody smile, though. There were too many people watching. “Apologies, gaidin. You winded me. It seems I lost my footing.”

Perhaps he’d gambled a little heavily on the fact the man would take pains not to create a scandalous and bloody mess by accidentally gutting Zahir through when they fell. Fortunately he’d been right. No it was skill. His grip tightened on the wood, and whatever his claim for the tumble, he sprang up nimble enough. Skill, and a little cheating. The staff hit the earth with a dull thump when he discarded it. If there had ever been any hint of malice, it was gone now, a trick of the wind. He grinned, offered a hand to help haul the other man vertical, no real harm done, then clapped him companionably on the shoulder when they were both back on their feet.

Afterwards he found his way to the fence. Spectators gathered, not that he expected any less, but there was only one he was interested in. The stern-faced warder watched over her. That one was a potential problem; too naturally suspicious, and too willing to stick his nose into the business of Aes Sedai not even his own. Given the unusual circumstance here he was even more likely to be a tiresome burden, but not one worth making an enemy of. And anyway, even that dour face could not hate a gleeman, and for certain not one of Zahir’s charm.

“Did you want a turn next, Vladimir? I’m sure I can go again, for you.” Zahir grinned, sure the man would either disapprove of the suggestive humour or miss it entirely. As he spoke he ran a thumb over his lowerlip, watched it smear away bloody against his fingers. He hated that reminder of mortality; briefly considered taking further revenge against his sparring partner later. Not that the man would ever discover the root of his misfortune should he indulge. But despite the clawing devil of his thoughts every time his heartbeat pulsed in his split lip, it would have to wait until his task was complete; the punishment meted out for failure would be far worse than a bruised mouth. He wiped his fingers idly along his lower stomach.

He knew who the Green was. Hers was the only name he’d recognised on the list he’d been provided, for the accolade attached to it spread even beyond the Tower’s shining walls – that, of course, being the very reason he had desired to set a lure rather than to seek her out like the others. As such Zahir knew her by description, one he’d gilded with his own tongue a time or two, but had never beheld the flesh before. His gaze roved her up and down without a care to be subtle, though he did flourish a somewhat theatrical bow. In part that was for the warder’s benefit, sure the mark of respect towards an Aes Sedai would not go unappreciated like its absence would. Though despite kind eyes the smile ghosting his lips did not speak much to honour.

“So,” he said, leaning his hands on the fence, aware how he laid himself out for display. He was speaking as much to the warder as the Aes Sedai, though it was clearly Lythia’s opinion he solicited. “Did I impress?”