Unmaking Percy

Part III - IV (The Dizzy Tent)

It was a strange start to a stranger night still. The antique dealer was surprised to see him approach, and Percy was surprised to hear himself ask, with a bluntness he did not know he was capable of, whether he enjoyed the company of his friend. The man had practically fanned himself into flames. He had declared that he did, um, sincerely enjoy the company of the lady, um, and hoped he had not caused offence by being, um, too forward. With a quick assessment, Percy determined the man was about as forward as a reversing carriage, and reassured him that he had not caused offence, and that the lady was interested in him, too. And then, feeling quite dazed, he walked away, casting himself adrift in the party.

He wandered for a while, meandering in and out of conversations. Sometimes the fireworks set off by Myrtle would burst within range of his hearing.

"Damn right!" interjected a maid who, as Myrtle told Percy later, had already been cursed with eternal sleep, then with eternal insomnia, then with eternal dance, then turned into a statue, then into a pig, and finally into the statue of a pig, all by jealous or scorned or simply bored fae who had sought to punish her masters and mistresses.

"Couldn't have put it better myself!" cried another, a young man dressed in smart clothes and a stupid expression, and who had said nothing less than the strictest truth.

At times, a few objections tried to dam the river. Percy heard the The Rabble-rousers' flutist pipe up:

"But what sense would it make for us to join a union when we're artists?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, I don't quite understand your objection" Myrtle said, leaning a little on the chair she had climbed on top of.

"Well, we're artists. We're individuals, that's how we make proper art. And if the whole point of us is that we're individuals, not much sense in joining a union."

"Oh. Well, I do suppose some people like that."

"Like what?"

"The pride of getting fucked over as individuals."

Percy drifted away once more. Evans' words from before the party returned to his mind. They sounded teasing to him now, though he knew that Evans had spoken with nothing but his usual stripped-bare honesty. He could also have fun. He could. Why had it seemed so impossible to him an hour ago, and why did it seem so inevitable now?

He relaxed into the cushions and the wine. The tide had somehow brought him back to Tombert's side. He had for the past hour listened to the astounding stories Tombert told about themselves, and the even more astounding stories others told about Tombert, with kings made to dance in village squares, and village squares that had crumbled to nothing-dust after everyone else had been compelled to join in.

There was no truth at all to the stories. Percy could hear its absence clearly: that was why they rang with the glorious emptiness of a brass fanfare in a hollow cathedral. But Tombert's initial protests and corrections – "no, that's not quite how it went; well, it wasn't really like that" – soon faded into a tired yet amused grin.

Something loud flared within Percy. Here he was, travelling with the chosen one, and that overflowing cup of oohs and aahs was not being filled with his stories, as it should be. What did the exploits of a bard matter when the chosen one's could be recounted instead? The state of things was far from how things ought to be.

Were it not for the wine, he would have stewed over it in resentful silence. But he had filled his cup three reluctant times now, and he felt capable enough of rectifying injustices.

"I have a story too" he sounded his trumpet at the first pause. "About riding with the chosen one to a sleepy castle, to break its curse."

It did not produce the effect he had expected: it was barely the tinkling of a coin falling on the floor. Perhaps he was not thinking big enough. After all, even the smallest, most harmless lie could ring loud in a cathedral. He would not have to lie much.