Priscilla scowled, though it hurt her head to move. She got the picture, even if she hated the artist.

  "Um, so what's the point if I don't tell anyone?" Tim was asking.

  "Knowledge is the point," Uncle answered. "You know someone's out there, now. The way your princess reacts to things may be different. Keep that in mind." He led the young man back to red-check territory, where the atmosphere was palpably lighter than before. Helen still glared at Tim a little as he took a seat next to Shelby, but her frown had leveled out a bit.

  "So," Uncle began, "Priscilla has just finished some private business, to be revealed later, and Cassie is back at the inn with Gwen. That leaves Selvi, Bianca, and Flora. Who wants to go first?"

  A three-way bout of rock-paper-scissors resulted in a happy whoop from Cynthia, who readied her array of yellow and orange dice expectantly. "What's up next?" she asked.

  "Musical criticism."

  Flora was feeling pretty good, complete failure of an audition notwithstanding. She'd played her best, and she knew it. One of the bards on the panel had even complimented her on her voice, before passing judgment on the subject matter. That had been a bummer.

  The outside air was so fine, however! The afternoon breeze was light and warm, while the fragrance of flowers abounded. The green within her soul took solace in nature's embrace, even in the heart of a city. Atop her shoulder, Mr. Chitters squeaked happily.

  She stopped by a bakery stall for a penny bun, then joined a small crowd to watch a juggler working his art. An older man with plenty of grey hair on his face and none on his head, he had half a dozen colorful plates whirling through the air, the patterns upon them blurring and reforming into beautiful medleys. So enthralled was she by the spectacle, that when the man took a short break, Flora timidly asked if she could join him for a while.

  When next the juggler rose to perform, he sent bell gourds through the air. The spherical vegetables, when properly dried and preserved, rattled and sang as they sailed, and Flora's lutestrings danced to provide accompaniment. It was a challenge, but after doing similar service for active combat, it was nothing that Flora couldn't handle. Mostly. The way the bell gourds jingled as they flew was music of the most basic sort, random notes finding a place to hang in the air, and she filled the space around them with her lute. Together the two strains of music lofted and soared, to the enjoyment of the crowd.

  The show reached its natural end, and she helped the bearded juggler pack up his things. The crowds had thinned, but one group remained at the edge of the performance area. There were five of them, each dressed so distinctively that their variety took on the concept of a uniform. More than anything else, the way they stood together identified them as a band.

  One was short and skinny, wearing a tunic and skirt none too different from Flora's own except in how colorfully it was threaded -- though in the young man's case it was probably a kilt. At his hip was a lumpy bag made from the same multi-colored material as his clothing, with long woodwind pipes sticking out at weird angles.

  Next to him was a barrel-chested man with a huge moustache that probably took most of a morning to properly wax. The rest of him wasn't nearly so well-kept, with the exception of the accordion strapped to his back.

  Two more appeared to be twins, and their outfits were intentionally patched up with mirror-image patterns. From opposite hips hung miniature drums, while other small percussion instruments were clipped to bandoleers strung across their chests.

  The last, by swagger and sneer the leader of the group, had a bullhorn near his left hand and a blade by the right. His hair was a red to match the bandannas tied to his and his friends' arms. "You're the gal who just auditioned last hour, eh?" he asked.

  "That's right," Flora said, gripping the neck of her lute firmly as she stood up. "Are you studying at the college?"

  "Are we, my friends?" A chorus of snickers arose. "Yeah, I guess we are. Learning the ins and outs, as it were. How to play. What to say. How not to say it." The grin sharpened. "Caught a bit of your audition. Interesting stuff."

  "Thank you."

  "Especially liked the part where you cast a beloved local fairy tale into the midden heap, and then piled more dross atop it."

  The musical druid's eyes flicked nervously between the faces of the group. All of them had the same fake-friendly smile, big and toothy -- or gap-toothy, for the moustachioed accordionist. "Ah, yes..." she said. "I hadn't realized it would strike such a nerve..."

  "Oh, didn't you?"

  The old juggler hefted his pack as he meandered between Flora and the others. "Ain't a good place to be airin' the laundry," he muttered, pulling at his beard. "Some stains ain't for the showin'."

  "Sorry, my good man!" the redhead replied. "Was just inviting this fellow lover of the performance arts to a little workshop, that's all. Gotta work on the rhythm. And the beat," he added, smacking a fist into his palm. The cronies all chuckled at that.

  The juggler's hairless brow wrinkled with annoyance. "Here I was thinkin' you ponces in the big buildin' were finally learnin' to behave yourselves. Ain't got time for this, and I don't think the lady does, either."

  "Well, my fine, upstanding friend--" The bard's words were silenced by a bell-gourd to the face.

  It was a funny thing about the vegetables, that even when dried they proved to be far heavier than they looked. Throwing them through the air took quite a bit of muscle, as the juggler now proved. The gourd hit with enough force to rebound high into the air, trailing a line of blood spurting from the bard's nose.

  Flora wasn't about to let an opportunity go to waste. Her cry of "El Kabong!" echoed upon the lacquered wood of her enchanted lute, causing the instrument to swell and warp until it took on the form of a mighty war club. With a quick swing, she bowled over the twins, and then whacked the accordionist upside the head for good measure.

  "Many thanks!" she cried to the juggler as she ran off.

  "Don't mention it," grumbled the old man through his beard. Holding his hand out straight, he caught the bell gourd as it came hurtling down, then buffed it against his vest as he stared down the rest of the band. The challenge was imminent.

  They wisely chose to race after the young lady instead.

  Selvi Khan's-daughter had inherited the instincts of a thousand generations of orcish survivors, and her father had taught her how to use them and trust them well. So when she felt like she was being followed, she did not second-guess herself. Without a backwards glance she hastened her stride, and sharp ears picked out the sounds of heavy boots on the cobblestones as they tried to match her speed. Four... no, five pairs, she figured.

  For the first few streets, her followers were content to keep their distance, but gradually they sped their steps, closing the distance little by little until it strained credulity for Selvi not to notice them behind her. So, she ran.

  They were in full armor; she was in her camp clothes. By encumbrance alone, she had the advantage, but they knew the turf. Knights appeared on the street ahead of her, by their rose sashes identifiable as constables on patrol, and by their stance well aware that Selvi was a target.

  The barbarian swallowed a curse before it wasted breath leaving her lips. Three ahead of her and -- she risked a backwards glance -- yes, five behind. Narrow alleys branched off to the left and to the right, though ancestors only knew what path they took.

  Eh, what the hell. Selvi dashed down the lefthand alley and around the corner. The rumbling of armored legs in motion echoed behind her, and she could only pray they hadn't been able to call ahead for more reinforcements by whatever means they had. Her eyes kept sharp watch ahead for the telltale glint of sun on armor.

  "Psst! Here!" A pale arm reached out from a crack between buildings and waved her over. The space didn't look nearly big enough to accommodate someone of her size, but after the initial pinch it proved easily passable.

  It was definitely for the best that she hadn't worn full armor that day, however.

  "My thanks," Selvi said, turning to face her benefactor. "This is a great -- you!?"

  Standing before her was the figure of a young woman, pale of skin with a plethora of freckles, as well as the red hair and green eyes so common to Baragocci families. No second glance should have been given, if Selvi were to pass her on the street, but for two details. First, she was dressed in the soft leather and quilted fabrics of the central steppes of the khanate, such as no native of the Rose City was ever likely to see. Second, Selvi had removed that smirking head from its shoulders with a single stroke of her blade less than a week before, but for all that Rosina Garlinda Tatannus seemed in fine form.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Selvi demanded.

  "No hells involved," said Rosina. The smirk never left her lips. "And I'd love to stand and chat, but we'd better hurry. Come on!"

  The hand which grabbed hers felt solid, and the decorations on that steppeland smock jingled appropriately, but Selvi's ears caught only her own footfalls as they ran down cramped and twisty alleyways, some still choked with the rubble of wars a century past, or else garbage of a more recent nature. Selvi had to hold back the gorge rising in her throat as they passed the worst of the miasma, and when they returned to the fresh air, it was with the greatest relief.

  "How did..." She coughed out the last of the foul vapors. "How...?"

  "I used to sneak out of the castle all the time to play with the street kids in this quarter," Rosina explained. "Not much has changed in a hundred years, sad to say. Why were the knights after you?"

  "I dunno..." Cough, slight wheeze. "...but they were interested in your sword."

  "The Starsinger? Well, normally I'd say they could have it if they pry it from my cold, dead hands, but even that's out of the question now, isn't it?" The redheaded phantom giggled.

  "Back to my first question," Selvi said. "What are you doing here?"

  "Helping, like I'm tasked. I..." Rosina broke off in mid-sentence, touching her forehead gingerly. Before Selvi's eyes, she began to fade. "Damnit, out of time for now. Call on me soon, and I'll fill you in. That's a promise." The former princess of Baragoccia was barely the outline of a person by the time that last word was spoken, and then her image popped like a bubble in the summer air.

  Upon Selvi's chest, her dragonbone talisman glimmered faintly, its runes spelling out interesting words and phrases before also fading away. The barbarian did not notice.

  Shelby was glaring like the headlights of an SUV, and in other circumstances Uncle might hve been the proverbial deer caught in their brilliance. However, he was the game master, and she was still twelve years old, if barely, so her sevenfold stare of death was readily ignored.

  "Okay, so what's up with ghost-girl?" she finally demanded.

  "Still not telling."

  "Aw, man! C'mon!"

  "All in good time, I promise." Uncle chortled at the scowl on her face. "Next week, for reals. You can find out then. For now, we've got music critics after Flora, rosy nationalists after Selvi, and we still need to see how Bianca's doing. Ready?" he asked Katelyn.

  The quiet girl hugged her stuffie, picked up her dice, and nodded.

  Three days had been long enough for Bianca to get a rough idea of where the alchemists made their homes in the city just from hearsay. She was sure that if she took her broom up high enough, she could also spot the area by the chimneys, funny smoke, and occasional crater, but she was hesitant to go up to such a height. Even when she'd been full-sized, the wind had been too strong and too chill for her to enjoy for long, and in her currently shrunken state, it would doubtless be worse.

  So instead, she navigated the city streets at a more reasonable altitude of about two and a half yards, above the heads of the citizenry and with a clear view of the signposts. All she really had to watch out for were the laundry lines crisscrossing the open air. While her eyes managed that, with the help of some annoying mews from Jinkies, other senses were at work betwixt her ears. There was a tingly feeling she'd gotten once or twice since their arrival in town, always just at the edge of her ability to sense. At first, it'd been just one more item on her list of things to check out, but as she closed in on the alchemy district, the stronger it got.

  The feeling was unmistakable: there was another witch in town. Moreover, this witch was bound to Gran'mama's covenant, which meant she had to be one of Bianca's many far-flung aunties. The family tree was so broad at this point that it could rightly be called a forest, but blood recognized blood. All Bianca need do was locate her auntie.

  This was easier said than done. Witches were not known for their sociable natures, so there was no sign hanging from her door to know her by, and the mystic sense provided by the covenant only worked in the most straightforward of fashions. It was hardly better than a children's game of hot-and-cold, but the other witch would have to notice her as well, so they could probably meet somewhere in the mid--

  A small stone hurtled past her, barely missing her face. Blinking in surprise, she looked down to see a growing crowd of townsfolk. More than a few of them also had stones ready.

  "Um, hello?" she called down to them.

  One man stood before the crowd, his face drawn and sullen. His cassock robes were blue, and around his neck was a leather thong with a medallion, the shape of which she knew only from her aunties' scary bedtime stories. Bianca and her sister-cousins had all shivered in delightful terror when told of the Order of San Matabruy and its avowed inquisitors, but never had she seen one in person.

  With a sinking heart, she realized that she was about to add one more tale to the bedtime story list.

  "If you could tell me how to get to Alchemy Row, I'd be..."

  "Witch!" shouted the inquisitor, raising his staff.

  "Oh, no. I'm an alchemist. I can show you my... ah!" Beneath her padded seat, the broomstick bucked and swayed. Jinkies mewled in outrage, but she didn't have the time to voice hers. Spinning wildly, she and her familiar barreled through a line of lady's undergarments, hit a fired-clay gargoyle hard enough to knock it from its perch, and crashed to the cobbles below.

  A long litany of witchy curses paraded through her head as the crowd approached. Naughty words a-plenty, but no spells came to mind. Whatever magic that staff contained, it held quite a whammy.

  There were five potions on her belt right now. Three were strictly curative, one needed a free moment to work, and the last one was already sailing through the air, to shatter on the stones and send up a wall of greenish vapor from building to building across the road. That bought her enough time to disencumber herself from the corsetry and Jinkies from the oversized pink-striped underpants.

  Unfortunately, the wall of vapor didn't do much besides look dangerous. Any one of the inquisitor's followers could have walked straight through it, if they could muster the courage. When it had dispersed enough for them to overcome the yellow stripe on their souls, the crowd surged through.

  Bianca had her magic rod at the ready.

  She really, really wished she didn't have to resort to it, because the so-called Rod of Random lived up to its name. With a few words of evocation, she activated the gilded scepter, then braced herself for whatever insanity ensued.

  A wave of bright light emanated from the little green stone at the tip of the rod, rolling outward and over the inquisitor and his followers. There was a brief pause, as if the world was catching its breath, and then everyone continued to rush at her. Slowly. Sluggishly. Like they were wading through molasses. A few stones, lobbed in her direction, drifted in serene arcs.

  Well, that had gone better than normal, but she'd been hoping for something a wee more useful. Gritting her teeth and praying to whichever deities saw fit to respond, Bianca let the rod's power surge forth once more.

  This time, the result was butterflies. Dozens, scores, hundreds of butterflies, in a fluttery rainbow explosion of colors. They filled the street, blocking vision and spreading beautiful, wonderful chaos. The inquisitor of San Matabruy and his men had to waste precious time batting them away.

  Now was the moment for Bianca's last potion. This was a special brew, one that her instructor in the alchemic arts, Mim the beast-woman, had helped her make. She'd almost forgotten about it in the events that followed, and if she had remembered, she still wouldn't have used it. With her magic spells stripped, she didn't have much choice.

  She chugged the stuff as fast as she could, mostly to avoid the vile taste, and could feel it kick in immediately. Her brain felt coddled in wool, and thoughts came too slowly. Mim had warned her of that effect, so she did not panic, instead focusing on the potion's benefits. Arms and legs swelled with strength, far beyond that what she should have had in her original size, much less her current one. With that strength flowing through her, she grabbed her broom and her cat and hightailed it out of there as fast as she could.

  Looking around the table, the sight of all those confused faces may not have been the prettiest sight in the world, but it was certainly an amusing one. "So... let me get this straight," said Cynthia. "Right now, four of us have groups of people out to get us?"

  "That's right."

  Shelby was snorting giggles out her nose. "A mob for you! And a mob for you! And one for you! Mobs for everyone!"

  Uncle was glad that she for one could crack a joke this time, even if the other girls (plus one boy) were nonplussed. "It's just one more facet of role-playing and storytelling," he told them. "Actions have consequences. Whether it's one's choice of music or taste in clothing, people will still react in ways that may surprise you. Gotta keep things interesting, right?"

  His niece managed a thin-lipped grin at how he appropriated her usual line. "So, um, Gwen's got no idea what's coming, right?" she asked.

  "None whatsoever," Uncle confirmed. "But just to be nice, let's say that Bianca beats everyone else but Cassie back to the inn..."

 

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