Reflexively, Farrival reached for his good autographing quill. Then, as an actor well-trained in introspection, he asked himself:
Why am I reaching for my good quill? I threw it out years ago.
Next, as an actor well-trained to integrate mind and body, his consciousness caught up to his face, which was beaming invitingly at a gaggle of people across the street.
But why am I beaming invitingly at that gaggle? What’s got them all atwitter in disbelieving, hopeful excitement?
Penultimately, as an actor well-trained in stating the obvious, loudly so the cheap seats can hear:
Fans?! How the deuce could they POSSIBLY recognize me?
At last, as a man almost entirely untrained in magic, he realized:
Oh shit. It’s been an hour.
Farrival twitched up his collar as he blended into a conveniently passing throng. He turned a corner, then pulled down two buttons from his collar attached to hidden straps which, like blinds, truncated his long coat into a waist coat, which he quickly reversed as he ran a hand through his hair to restyle it.
And like that, Farrival Marchant disappeared again. He was replaced by an anonymous factotum, hurrying to some “networking opportunity.”
He pretended to look around for a friend who was running late so he could check that his fans weren’t giving chase. Satisfied, he approached another throng. Hoping to change disguises once more for safety, he turned a small flourish with his gloved left hand. But no cube appeared.
Ah, of course. It’s been THREE hours. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow. So, magic availing nothing, I shall rely on my artisanal skill at disguise! Three years of rust cannot occlude decades of finely burnished talent!
He wore a wide-eyed hopeful grin that was sincere to both Farrival and to “Billiam Utler, ex-army steward seeking employment as a household retainer.” He resumed humming a tune from the back of his mind as he diverted around the throng of pedestrians and tried to re-orient himself.
Where the deuce am I?
A week ago, Farrival had dipped a toe into the murky waters of the city’s underworld. Every day since then, he’d had swum the salty waters of the city’s underling world: the assistants and professional service providers who did all the nobles’ unappreciated work – those who drew the baths and those who drew up the contracts, both easily summoned with the snap of a lordling’s finger and then dismissed as easily as a Stage Hand.
Some aspired to win a noble’s favor and be plucked up to a higher station. Others, contented or bedrudged, persisted in drudgery simply to keep what station they had.
But all knew the lives and habits of their superiors far better than they would ever be credited for.
Wistful, Farrival was drawn back to the days when he’d had support staff of his own.
Ah, my personal assistant… the gnome — what was their name? Anyway, they were very reliable.
Oh, and my valet, dear… um ... F- Frob? Is that a name? Dear, sweet Frob, the very soul of discretion!
His mood darkened at the thought.
But were Frob or any of them truly so discrete? After all, the rumor never could have spread without help. But surely my beloved staff wouldn’t have gossiped about me – I treated them so well!
No, no, no. Stay in the moment, Farrival. Remember your training.
A few quick breathing exercises and he was re-focused. He grinned.
My dear Mister Staten and the rest of your fine, feathered ilk: as the Bard taught us, “there is a world elsewhere.” Once I learn to access this world of lackeys upon which your world of lords is roughly balanced, I shall be a step closer to learning your secrets! Or to paraphrase the Bard, ‘The lackey’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the calendar of the king!’
Re-oriented, Farrival spied the coffee house he was searching for, a meeting place for menials and majordomos.
As he opened the door, for a moment Farrival audibly hummed the tune that had been playing in the back of his mind for over a year.