Stepping Wild (Dungeon Runner 04)

"Herns," Cynta greeted the older man with a hug. "How are you doing?"

"Good, as always. I see you took good care of what I made you, J— Who's that?" The air of camaraderie turned sufficiently brittle, Tibs expected to see the essence change.

He looked around at the bolts of fabrics arrayed on crates, and clothing in various styles on racks, a few manikins and dropped on whatever surface was available without apparent care.

"He's Thibaud. A new associate of mine. And I'm Cynta right now."

"So you trust him, Cynta?" the ease with which he accepted the name told Tibs he was used to them changing.

She took his arm in hers and pulled Tibs close, resting her head on his shoulder. "Our interests are aligned for the time being."

The non-answer satisfied Herns.

"It's why we're here. I need you to make us something special."

Tibs had been concerned when, after announcing she was taking him to meet her seamster, she hadn't taken him to the textile neighborhood, or the mercantile one, but toward one of the warehouse neighborhoods. The building she'd taken him to sat on its edge, and might have been one itself, at one time. Now, there was a second floor.

The door they'd entered by was on the side and had a plaque with drawings of tools on it. The worker's entrance. They'd stayed by the outside wall, and he'd heard people speaking loudly on the other side of deep scaffolding, but the words were distorted to the point he couldn't make them out. The scaffold was made of wood that angled down with planks on top, as if people were expected to sit there.

They entered a corridor, and the voices faded away. There was a sense to them that they had been added. Of the warehouse being subdivided to make rooms in which he saw crates and tools, something with colors on it that he couldn't work out with the glance he got, and people behind closed doors.

A tailor's room had been the last thing he'd expected when Cynta had opened the door without announcing herself and entered.

The chaos jarred with what Tibs had experienced with previous tailors. Everyone of them had displayed their work with care. Placed them so the prospective customer could take in the quality of the work. Could envision themselves in it.

This gave the impression the man didn't care for what it made. There was also a breath of variety Tibs had never seen at any tailor's shop. There were rags on a rack, a dress in fine fibers over the back of a chair. On a manikin was in a set of work clothes next to one with clothing so fine he'd expect a king to wear them.

"And what makes this item special, this time?" he asked, sounding amused.

"We are attending a party among the city's elites. We need to dress the part."

The tailor's expression grew annoyed. "You know I can't make something original and showing up to something like that, wearing anything one of them might have had made exclusively for themself will not endear you to that group."

"And that is why we won't be wearing anything local. We are attending as visiting nobles from the Kingdom of Kadalisar."

"Wait," Tibs interrupted Herns, surprised at the added complication when there were so many options already available here. "Why not just have us wear one of those?"

The man snorted. "Nothing in my workshop will pass one of the noble's inspection."

"Then just make something like one of them would wear that would be good enough."

Herns narrowed his eyes. "Do you have any idea what goes into creating a style that matches what one of them is willing to wear."

"No."

"Well, me neither. I apprenticed under the city's best tailor, but she could never get any of that to stick in my head. I can reproduce any and all cuts of fabric she asked, but telling me to make something that will enhance the strength of a man's frame? I stared at the fabric, chalk in hand, for hours before she gave up on me. No one wants a tailor who can only make things others have made before. And the only work for seamsters is repairing damaged clothing. So here I am." The tone had an air of defeat Tibs couldn't match to all the work the man had clearly done. He was no tailor, but Tibs had seen good work, worn all kinds. As far as he could tell, the work that wasn't rags was good.

"Can you do it?" she asked, smiling.

"Really, Cynta? You have to ask? What city are those visiting nobles from?"

"Thoruak," she answered.

Tibs stared. He hadn't thought the city mattered since she hadn't brought it up.

"The capital?" Herns said thoughtfully. "That broadens the possibilities." He stepped to a pile of clothing.

"It's the simplest way to explain our different accents. Every noble does business with the capital, no matter where they live. My charming Thibaud was there, overlooking a shipment considered too meaningless for any of his siblings to be saddled with. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was special."

Tibs ignored the way she looked at him. Even if it was an act, it felt real enough and made him uncomfortable. Hopefully, he could talk her into a toned-down version of who they'd play.

"Not the important child." There was a carelessness with which the man moved the clothes from one pile to the other that had Tibs wondering if that had more to do with why he hadn't been kept by the tailor.

"The last son," Tibs said. "Looking for a place to settle and make his name away from my family's shadow. Hopefully, some place no one has heard of them, so I can make the name my own."

"Putting on air? Or accepting of your position?"

Tibs sighed. "Do any nobles accept their position?"

"A great many do," Herns replied without stopping his search. "But you never hear about them. If you want to be noticed, you'll want more than clothing."

"Ismael is our next stop, if she's here today."

"I saw her earlier. She's needs to make a necklace of sparkles to go with that dress." He motioned to the back of the chair and Cynta picked it up with the care he'd expected Herns to show. When held, the fine fibers made it shimmer and turned the blue paler. The best word Tibs could think of to describe it was 'airy'.

"Sistro's putting on Air and Wind?" she asked with surprising enthusiasm.

Herns looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Can we tempt you back on the stage with it? You know he'll give you the lead if you ask."

She put the dress back on the chair with reverence. "My stage days are over. You know that. If the wrong person recognizes me, you'll all suffer."

"Germane will be hurt you don't trust their skill anymore." He sat a vest of velvety green aside.

"I trust them, but once the show's over, I have to present myself without artifice."

"We can have someone go in your place. I'm sure there is someone who looks enough like you to pass."

"And the scandal when someone realizes she wasn't in the play? It's safer all around if I stick to what I do now."

"The stage hasn't been the same without you on it."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

That explained how Cynta was so skilled at becoming other people. And Herns's place here. He knew little of the theaters; they felt too much like putting a bunch of bards together and letting them make more stuff up, but he knew the people there needed to be skilled at acting like others. Wearing clothing and jewelry that was fake, but still good enough to seem real.

"We'll come see the production," Cynta said.

"I won't," Tibs countered. "I have too much to do."

She smiled and looked at him the way he'd seen others looking to endear themselves. "You can't work all the time. Nobles know how to have a good time."

"I'm not a noble."

"But you need to get into the role."

He bit back his protest, realizing she'd given him an opening he hadn't considered. "Can you make us less ostentatious clothing to go along with what we'll wear at the party? Something we bought on arriving, since after traveling for so long, we'll want something fresh to be seen in."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You said I need to get into my role. Walking about the city as the son of nobility will be a way to do it. And it means we'll be seen going about, instead of being recluse."

"Yes." She beamed. "We also have to arrange for our shared lodging."

He kept his reaction from showing. It would be simple enough to always be busy those nights she felt they needed to be there together.

Herns motioned to the racks. "Just pick something. Buying them is what we do for the minor characters."

"I'd rather trust your opinion on what either of us should wear," Cynta said.

The man looked Tibs over critically, then took out a set of braies and placed that atop the vest. "Then I'll find you something."

"Make sure it fits someone who can't afford to put on airs," Tibs said.

The man snorted. "I have many of those." Not long after, Herns had a set of clothing before the two of them. "Will that do?"

They looked far too ostentatious for Tibs, which was the point.

"What color can you make this?" she asked. "Red isn't good on me."

"That depends on the fabric I can get. These might be good enough for the stage, but no noble would wear them, no matter how low they are. No nobles would believe anyone in those claiming to be one of them."

Tibs looked at the sets better. "Why not?" They looked like beautifully made clothes.

"Can't you tell how poor the fabric is?"

Tibs sensed them, but, unlike with Metal, he hadn't spent time sensing how quality work was on the level of essence for Wood. "No."

"Cynta will have to teach you how to fake it. Nobles know those things and will not hesitate to comment about it. Also, Nobles from Kadalisar won't wear clothing made of teflen linen, or lined with wool from the sheep of Durmar. They'll have to be of the finest Silian silk. The accent colors in the finest surfon. The leather needs to—"

"Can any of that be found locally?" Tibs asked, not interested in a course on what clothing was made of.

"Anything can be found locally," Herns said. "If you have the money."

He smiled. "Then make a list of what you need and I'll get it for you."

* * * * *

"You need to relax," Cynta whispered, pressed against him as they exited a corridor into a large room. "No one is going to believe you're my special man with how tense you are."

She let go and rushed to greet someone.

On one side of the room was a long and deep stage. Facing that were the seats for the audience. The scaffolding had been exactly what it had felt like. Rows of benches, each one higher until they reached the wall.

Then she was back, leading him through, interrupted by more people greeting her. They all took to the new name easily, and before long, other were greeting her by it before she had to tell them. She introduced Thibaud as a new friend who she was showing around, then took his arm again and pressed herself against his side, leading him to a door.

He tried to relax into the role as they were looked at with knowing smiles, but he couldn't.

They entered a corridor much like the one they'd left, with rooms containing more clothing, furniture, and what he now realized were painted backdrops. Some of the rooms reminded him of the dressing rooms nobles had, where they got themselves ready to head outside and impress the masses.

Cynta entered the room without announcing herself again.

Unlike Herns's, it was large. Easily three times the size. And, also unlike his, it was neat. A large table occupied the center, with items arranged on it. A small woman was seated before an intricate assembly of clear sparkling jewels. Or cheap crystals polished to seem so. One of those kinds of jewels, if real, would cost more than the building and everything it contained.

"Ismael," Cynta greeted her from the other side of the table. "Are you busy?"

"Do I look busy to you?" she replied without looking up from working the fine metal wires with small pliers.

"Do you ever? I swear, half the effort you put into this is so we'll think it takes so much work we couldn't survive without you."

Ismael put the pliers down and when she looked up, instead of annoyance, her eyes were filled with warmth. "Come over here and hug me, Cynta."

She hurried to the other side of the table, and they hugged.

Tibs used the time to study the items displayed on the shelves lining the wall. They were arranged with care. Stage props, Tibs expected, but they looked real enough he had trouble believing some were made of wood, instead of metal. The swords and knifes even had chips and scuffs gained in battle. A helmet was dented, and a shield looked to have been pierced by a spear. Some of the objects looked to be in perfect conditions, while others had seen use over many years.

He gazed over the crest without slowing, pausing at a set of tankards while he considered it. Was it good enough for his purpose?

"See anything you like?" Ismael asked. "I can give you a fair price."

"They're real?" he asked, motioning to the weapons, playing the role of someone unable to tell what they were made of.

"As much as anything, and anyone in this place," she replied with a laugh. "It's why a fair price would be low. Go ahead. Pick one up. They're made to be used."

He played up his surprise at the lightness of the sword.

Ismael's chuckle interrupted his planned question about how it was. "You don't have to play it up for me. I know how good my work it."

"What do you mean?"

She laughed, and Cynta joined in. "Everyone here's always putting on an act of some sort. Even those of us who don't step on the stage when there's an audience. We learn to tell. You're better than many who've come through my workshop."

He didn't know what to make of it; how to respond. It had been a long time since he'd been around someone, let alone multiple of them, who could tell when he wasn't honest. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…."

She chuckled.

"Other than the weight, it's very much like many I've used." He motioned to another. "That one even looks like it's seen battle."

"How fine of a swordsman are you?" she asked. "We could use someone else who can handle one without accidentally hurting his opponent."

He returned it to the shelf. "This isn't something I'm interested in doing."

"We're here for your skills," Cynta said. "We are going to a party as visiting nobles. Herns is making our clothing, but we need jewelry to go with it."

"You know nothing I make will pass even a noble's distracted glance. I only make them for the stage."

"But that's because you only use stage crystals, right?" Cynta smiled. "I know you could do wonderful things with gems."

Ismael looked away, her expression worried.

"How are these made?" Tibs asked, hoping to diffuse her discomfort. He could tell the clear jewels she was in the process of attaching within an elaborate necklace of fine wires weren't real by the play of the light. The essence going through it dispersed in a different way than it did through real ones.

They were still good enough he doubted any but the best jeweler or thief would be able to tell.

Ismael wiped her hands before picking one up. "We use lirimal crystals for them. You can pick them up by the handful at the base of the mountain. If you've seen crystals decorating doorways, that's what those are. If they're cut correctly, then properly polished. They look as close to diamonds as it's possible to get."

She placed it down and took a different one from a drawer. It was pale yellow and cloudy. "This is made from hardened tree sap. I can mold them first, which makes it easier to work the final design. Sometimes I use rocks with the right paint. Agates can easily be done that way." She motioned to the work on the table. "After that, it's all about setting them correctly. How it's set goes further in convincing the audience it's real than what is set in it."

"Ismael has first-hand experience when it comes to setting jewels," Cynta said with pride. There was no light on the words, so she believed it. Ismael looked uncomfortable again, but this time, Tibs had the sense it wasn't so much about the claim, but events relating around it.

"Then, if you have the right parts, you could make something nobles would accept as authentic?"

The chuckle was forced, but as she spoke, eagerness replaced the discomfort. "With actual gems, gold and silver, it would be authentic. That's what it takes to 'fool' a noble. They're all about what it's made of, not how it's made."

"What do you need for a high noble to be convinced to wear it?"

She whistled. "I'd need palladium for that, and the best cut diamond."

"Who in the city had that?"

She stared at him. "Do you have any idea how well guarded that metal is?"

"I've gotten things their owners thought were overly protected before. You tell me who has it, and I'll get it for you."

She looked at Cynta. "Is he serious?"

"That's the kind of jewelry we'll need to attend the kind of party we're going to."

Ismael looked at the necklace on the table, but her gaze was distant. "You get me what I need," she said, her excitement mounting. "And I'll make you something that will be talked about for years after that party is over."

He kept from telling her they didn't need anything that big. She looked more alive than since he'd entered the room. He also figured that now was a good time to ask about the item that interested him.

"Can I ask you about one of the piece on shelves? I can't shake the feeling I've seen it before."

"Any theater will have those," Cynta said.

"I don't go."

Cynta stared at him.

"Which one?" Ismael asked.

He pointed to the crest. "That medallion."

"That's a family crest. A reproduction on one."

He frowned. "Why would a noble be showing something like that to a merchant?"

"To prove which family they are from. Nobles are always worried about someone scamming the merchant claiming to be one of them. That one's from the Jurgal Family. We needed it when we put on the Robber Noble a few years ago." She looked at Cynta, who smiled wistfully.

"It's from a real family?" He didn't have to manufacture the surprise. "They let that happen?"

Ismael chuckled. "I doubt they know about it. We used it in three scenes, and no one in the audience was close enough to see the details. They'd think it was just a disk of clay with random scribbles on it."

"Then why go through the work of putting so much details?"

Ismael looked away.

"Because it's what she does," Cynta said with pride, squeezing the other woman's shoulder. "Never anything but the best."