Tourmaline bet on the bull.

That was more or less customary; the bull’s odds were longer than a week of wet Tuesdays just about every year, and for good reason. A pike was usually more than a match for even the longest horns.

This year’s variety was a giant brindled monster, a colour of smoke gray that breeders would have referred to as ‘blue’. His shoulders bulged, coming to a high crest of muscle that twitched irritably as he eyed the pudgy looking man stuffed into an ornate jacket the colour of blood and barley. The man had opted against the use of a dog, which was uncommon; a good baiting dog could usually distract the beast long enough for it to be dispatched with relative safety. A really good dog could grab onto the bull’s nose or throat, and keep it exceptionally distracted.

Mistress Swift yawned into a tarred leather mug that was completely out of synch with the layers of satin and lace that had her bound up like a smoked ham. Tourmaline had not made that particular comparison aloud; not out of courtesy, but for the want of a good opportunity.

Swift was by virtue of form, not. A soft, round faced woman whose breasts were snugged up to her clavicle by an expensive looking corset in a shade of bruised plum, she filled the seat she occupied and then some. Side by side, neither Tourmaline nor Swift benefited from the contrast; Tourmaline’s height and stiffly self-possessed posture made Swift into a sinking pudding, and Swift’s exaggerated curves made Tourmaline into a stick putting on airs. The assessment would not necessarily have displeased her either.

The square had been taken over almost entirely by the spectacle. A system of high iron gates set into small but deep pits in the stone work separated bull from spectators, and movable banks of seats and boxes had been arranged at intervals around the ring they form by the gating. Between banks lesser entertainers plied their trades with varying degrees of success; (as it turned out no one was terribly amused by the dog who could pick pockets, and the jugglers were of poor quality this year). Tourmaline and Swift occupied one of the small boxes closest to the actual gate. Rights to the box had been won by the Mistress during the previous years festivities and Tourmaline had at the time imagined she might enjoy the spectacle. Having been knee deep in some of Mistress Swift’s more expensive employees at the time (and perhaps experiencing a number of drinks more vividly than she’d realized at the time), Tourmaline was forced to accept that the decision was heavily influenced.

“Ooo! Almost got him there!” Swift’s thrust her mug out excitedly as the bull swung his enormous head sideways, nearly sweeping the man off his feet. Tourmaline picked through a small plate of toasted nuts absently, and contemplated tossing one over the bank’s edge where the man with the trick monkey was. Monkeys ate nuts, didn’t they?

“Alvie’s having a bit of a to-do later on. He’s finally finished that hideously enormous garden of his this year; just in time for the frost to kill the lot of it I imagine. He’s a dear man, but he’s a god-awful bore. Keep me company?”

Tourmaline reminded herself that she was not fond of peanuts by eating three in quick succession. “Alvie would be infinitely more interesting if he’d admit to half of his oddities. Honestly; the man dotes on his dog more than his children, and changes his shoes sixteen times a day. That pleasure is entirely yours; why in the name of god would you accept his invite in the first place?”

“Business,” Swift sighed painedly, reaching out a free hand to collect a few pecans from the dish. “His oddities go all the way to the bedroom. Masks and something about birds
I don’t remember exactly.”

Tourmaline snickered, and wiped the salt from her fingertips on the arm of the empty chair at her hip. “Poor birds.”

—–

The crowds washed back and forth through Muddy Bottom, packing every pub with screaming townspeople and making the streets nigh-impassable. Celino coasted on the excitement for a while, letting himself be shoved this way and that. But then the heat of the day grew and the crowds got drunker and none of it helped his mood; so shoved, pushed, elbowed in the head, and spilled-on, he wriggled free and into a back alley. Here the locals were feeling the festival spirit, too, but they were feeling it quietly. Celino ignored the people pissing or vomiting in the corners, and started to feel cheerful again once he passed the fourth courting couple. Ah, festival.

He used to love festivals–the streamers, the ribbons, the girls’ unbound hair swaying over their shoulders as they danced, the golden streets of Pentexoire scrubbed clean and bright in the sun, chilled wine in dripping jugs, sticky sweets in sparkling glass bowls, sitting on a terrace and watching the spectacle pass or plunging in like he’d plunge into a bath. The finest singers leaving the cool of their opera houses to sing in the streets, the most fabled of courtesans and dancers performing in the squares–Vittoria, her diamonds like cascades of ice against her coffee-black skin, kicking off her sandals and leaping up to dance in the Verdianii Fountain, smiling over her shoulder at a kennel-boy far too poor to ever have her.

But there the streets weren’t made of mud and the spectacle of choice wasn’t drinking contests and the people made way for him. He was finding this increasingly important as the day wore on. He had no idea how anyone got anywhere on festival days without guards–and there his inner monologue was interrupted by another look-around for a very particular shade of blue. Nothing. Celino slid around a corner and skirted the crowd in front of the Vigorous Unicorn, heading upstreet toward the better part of town and the parks. A ring of girls did one of the odd Ostmonter skip-dances to the tune of a mouth-harp, and here the crowds were almost thin enough that Celino found the dance charming. The crowds thinned a little more, and he had hope; more still, and the hope bloomed into expectation; and then he ran into a wall of people.

Bugger.

The entire park belt was crammed with people, laughing, shouting, shoving, screaming, drinking, pointing, repeating themselves endlessly because everyone wanted to talk and no one wanted to listen. Celino made a few forays through back alleys, and finally found a weak spot in the defenses where he could get through. He broke into a square where the people were watching a-watching a what? Celino fought his way to the fence and squinted. Watching a bull-baiting? Oh, this was too much. What was next, cockfighting? Spitting contests? Bowling?

He found an emptyish spot near some man and his wretched monkey (Hah! Work for Tyr) and contented himself with people-watching.

None of them were blue.

It was going to be a long festival.

—–

Tourmaline picked a bit of salt out from beneath the shell-like curve of a pointed nail and frowned. The little man in his expensive costume was playing coy with the bull, sauntering around in what appeared to be an attempt to show off his well muscled calves rather than a clever tactic. Several of the other boxes had begun to make their dissatisfaction known, throwing roast chestnuts, little currant buns and rounds of fried dough both in the direction of man and beast. A bun bounced comically off the bull’s flank, and the animal gave its great head a toss that made the ribbons festooning its horns flutter.

“I wonder if he realizes how pudgy those pants make his bum look,” Swift mused, popping another pecan past her rouged lips.

“Hmm,” said Tourmaline, who was just wrapping up deliberations on the subject of tossing nuts over the box’s side on the off chance the monkey would get them. An almond sailed over first, and hit the stones with a click.

“What are you doing darling?” Swift, who called everyone from priest to pauper darling, began leaning as Tourmaline abandoned her chair entirely to peek over the edge. The monkey was picking at the pigtails of a small girl, who was cackling wildly while her little brother scowled in verdant envy.

“Damn. Hmm? Oh, trying to feed the monkey.”

Swift made a face. “Nasty little creatures. Fleas and all kinds of nonsense. Be a dear and get the attention of that excellent little beer vendor. I’m going to be positively desiccated if I don’t have another.”

Tourmaline’s focus however was on her aim, which left something to be desired. As the monkey hopped down from the shoulders of the pigtailed girl, she tossed a walnut, which landed on a head of hair and lay there, like an egg in an auburn nest.

“All apologies my good man. I was aiming for the monkey.”

—–

Celino ducked his head as something–pigeon dropping? monkey paw?–landed in his hair. Oh, wonderful, the squalor had gone interactive. He plucked the thing out of his hair and scowled at it. A walnut half. What was a walnut half doing airborne? It was cleaner than either dropping or paw, but it was salted, which meant that now he had to comb his hair again or itch as soon as his sweat touched the salt. He looked about for the walnut-thrower with thunder in his eyes.

“All apologies my good man. I was aiming for the monkey.”

Oh, her. What was she called? Jasper? Turquoise? Tourmaline. Bitch-Queen Devorah pretender gone madwoman Tourmaline. He still hadn’t decided to believe her–here he made an unconscious pass of the crowd for blue–but she was entertaining, and she was sitting out of the crowds. He approached the box, turning the walnut over in his fingers. “This is the second time you have put food in my hair, Madam,” he said with a slight bow. “Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence, three times is a hobby.”

—–

Pigtails eeled past Celino with her still scowling brother in tow to cling to the steel fencing. Tourmaline blinked a few times at the man she’d festooned. Celery, Cilantro, Cel
–something certainly. And he bowed; how quaint. Tourmaline considered throwing a larger nut, or perhaps one still in its shell.

“Did I? Well, perhaps if you had ornamented yourself properly, I wouldn’t feel so instinctually compelled to add whatever I have handy.”

Mistress Swift appeared over the box’s edge, her face like a full moon hovering in the cloudy black night of her hair. “Darling, if my company wasn’t entertaining enough for you, you might have said something. Although,” she sucked a bit of salt from her fingertip, “one could see why he might be entertaining. Do join us, whoever you are. Two is not a proper cheering section. Three is at least slightly better.”

A footman appeared rather like a well-clothed ghost to open a door in the half-wall that seemed upon first glance no more than another section of paneling. “I had no idea you were familiar with exotic-looking men!” Swift batted at Tourmaline’s arm, while the myrath found her seat again, peering with some longing at the door.

“Several, believe me. This flavour belongs to our good Captain I believe. Isn’t that right Cel
–oh bloody hell. What IS your name?”

—–

Victory! Celino sauntered up the stairs to the box. Oh, the shade was bliss. And “exotic-looking” was the kindest thing anyone had said to him since he arrived in Ostmont. He smiled with genuine warmth as he entered the box. “Celino XVII, madam.” He nodded to Tourmaline’s companion–she was a promising little dumpling, though he sensed a warning in Tourmaline’s comment. Well, he only wanted to flirt. They did flirt for fun here, didn’t they?

“The question of whom I belong to has reached a pleasant ambiguity,” he said, smiling like a cat as he stopped behind the empty seat and rested his hand on the back. Oh, plush. Oh, heaven. “If you find me underornamented, I can rectify the situation, though I warn you, there will be feathers involved. The peacock robe and hagoromo,” he added to his purse, and held it up overflowing with silk to demonstrate.

Was Tourmaline supposed to be talking openly about the Captain’s tastes? He was fairly sure she wasn’t. He wasn’t. Maybe this dumpling-woman was safe? He was absolutely sure one wasn’t supposed to correct the Dowager Queen of the Underground on points of decorum. He planned to do it, just like he planned to throw food at her–just to say he’d done it–but he knew enough to choose his battles; and this battle, though high in stakes, was too risky to fight in public.

—–

Boredom; Tourmaline gave a name to the apathy that washed over her like a tepid wave, in the hopes that it would be by it banished. Poking absently among the remaining nuts, she noted it remained firmly entrenched, and vowed to swear off all invitations for the next three weeks at least. Or perhaps chance scenery altogether. The house in Lyalwhyte had been empty for months now, and they had all that interesting business about pheasant hunting this time of year. The hunting itself seemed a terribly arduous affair; but the feathers were lovely. Maybe she could keep a pheasant as a pet, and simply collect the feathers as it molted. Pheasants molted, didn’t they?

While her companion made grandiose if unorthodox plans involving game birds, Mistress Swift cooed like a plump little rock dove. “The pleasure is obviously all mine! Mistress Swift, at your utter disposal.” A dimpled elbow found Tourmaline’s shoulder and she snapped out of thoughts of relocation long enough to pass the nuts. “Pfft!” Swift hissed, giving Tourmaline another elbow, which was received this time with a tolerant sort of smile. “The captain indeed. Stiff in all the wrong places if you get my drift.”

Tourmaline half choked on a little giggle at that assessment. “If anyone would know, I’m sure you would. Merely trying to interject a little life into the terribly stale rumour mill.”

“Bless you for trying darling, but you just don’t have the knack for it. It needs to be plausible at least. Alvie
–you could have claimed he was Alvie’s beaux and I might have–Lord! Whose dog is that?”

It eeled through the bars of the fence, the long brush of its tail giving pigtails’ little brother’s nose a tickling. Lean and rangy with neat conal ears that sat up interested, it trotted jauntily into the ring while an onlooker or two called for its removal. The baiter, who was by now trying in earnest to get close enough to the bull to earn his pay while still living to enjoy it jerked his gaze around nervously for the dog’s owner.

“What kind of dog is that?” Mistress Swift’s fingers froze about the tray of nuts now balanced atop her thighs.

Tourmaline had lifted a hand to her eyes, tenting long fingers across them. “A stupid one.”

—–

Celino worked a bow and a “Madam, your servant” to Mistress Swift into the contortions he needed to get into the voluminous peacock-silk robe in the confined box. The hagoromo, at least, went on easily; he swooped it over his shoulders and collapsed grandly into his chair, which overflowed with silk and feathers like a pasha’s throne. Celino sprawled contentedly. Oh, softness. “Thank you for inviting me into your box,” he said to Tourmaline. “It’s so much more pleasant than being among the groundlings. Barbarous place; one gets pelted with walnuts.

“And the company is so much more–” he said to Mistress Swift, then sat up, compliment forgotten. He watched the beast trot into the ring. “That’s not a dog,” he said, fascinated. “That’s a wolf.”

His interest temporarily negated even the slight sulk he was nursing at being told he wasn’t plausible as Aldridge’s lover. (And who was this Alvie?) He slid to the edge of his seat to see what the wolf would do.

—–

Celino’s hasty wardrobe amendment earned a little ‘ooo’ of interest from Mistress Swift, who having had a good look at the unlikely interruption ringside, was ready to pay attention to more attractive distractions again. “Like sittin’ next to royalty,” Swift purred happily. Tourmaline’s eyebrow didn’t so much as twitch; though that may have been due in more than part to the intensity with which she was glaring at the dog. “A wolf? Surely not! In the middle of the city?”

“Oh dear gods,” Tourmaline mumbled under her breath, dragging the hand down from her brow with what looked like an effort while the baiter’s attention was quickly turned toward the interloping canid which was trotting half circles behind the man. Its tongue lolled like a wide pink ribbon between ivory canines, as it darted toward the man and danced back again. The baiter’s options were poor; either move toward the bull (who looked rather as if he meant business) or back up and move toward the ‘dog’.

Someone else called for the dog to be chased out; the greater portion seemed happy enough with the unusual inclusion. Forepaws splayed playfully, the rangy canid made a half hearted leap at the man’s calves sending him scurrying straight into the angry bull’s range. With a snort and a buck, the brindled monster heaved forward faster than one might have imagined, and using a horn like a sling tossed the hapless man a good twelve feet. He landed with a thick thud, and there were sympathetic ‘ooos’ from every direction. As the help scuttled out to collect the groaning baiter (who was trying without success to raise himself onto his elbows, while the dog meanwhile taunted the bull a bit) Mistress Swift blew out an annoyed sigh.

“Well, I suppose I owe you twenty crowns don’t I?”

Tourmaline’s lips were an unreadable shape for a moment, before she seemed to shake herself out and find a cache of unused composure. “Never mind that now. A dog on the play
its hardly fair. And now I’m going to be horribly rude and run off on you; if you manage to ruin Alvie’s party, by all means come tell me about it.” Hastily collecting a long layered cloak, Tourmaline stole a glance back at the ring only to find the ‘dog’ trotting merrily toward the box.

—–

“Like sittin’ next to royalty,” Swift purred happily.

Celino preened, shooting her his proudest and fiercest grin. He liked this little woman. She wasn’t nearly as interesting as Bitch-Queen Devorah, but she was good for the soul. He was going to return her compliment, but once more the wolf drew his attention back to the ring.

“It has to be a wolf. Look at the proportions, the muzzle… It’s not a well-kept wolf,” he added dubiously. “It’s too thin. The coat’s unaffected, but I’ll bet you that whomever has been keeping it underfeeds it to make it a better hunter. That never works,” he added with disgust. “Hungry animals don’t function any better than hungry humans. But it seems good-tempered enough, maybe a little too playful–someone should–” He rose, meaning to say, “–drive it from the ring,” but the baiter landed with a thud. Celino sucked air through his teeth. That was broken ribs for sure. He felt for his purse. “Do they have real doctors at this thing, or just those bloodletter people?”

Then Tourmaline made to go, and the wolf aimed itself at the box. Celino watched it, blinking with bemusement. “Madam, is that your wolf?”

—–

Swift was definitely a dose of honey amid a plethora of salt. While her flattery played a role in Tourmaline’s continued friendship with the woman, her business helped a great deal too. Tourmaline could not help but wish she’d spent the evening there and forgone this whole silly nonsense. Damnedable brandy-inspired congeniality

“It’s not a wolf,” she snapped, causing Swift to jerked her gaze up from the nut tray with a look that was profoundly ‘kicked puppy’.

“No need to get your nose out of joint darling. Perhaps dinner didn’t agree with you?”

Happy enough to take the excuse offered, Tourmaline dragged on the fur-trimmed cloak and flashed the woman a small apologetic sort of smile. “Entirely possible. I’m sure a few hours of rest will put me to rights again. My apologies Swift. Some other time, when I’m not
out of sorts.”

Rest, yes, good idea. Throttle him first, and then rest. Mistress Swift to her credit took this all in stride, and waved pleasantly to her companion as she trotted hastily down the short set of stairs.

She’d reached the platform which connected all the boxes by the time Celino opened his fool mouth. Tourmaline lifted her gaze, and gave the man a look that would have splintered the tree of life like a brittle matchstick. “Certainly not. I don’t keep wild animals-”

The wolf’s nails clicked musically against the wooden platform. Polite as can be, the leggy canid sat down at Tourmaline’s ankles, and turned an immense toothy grin complete with lolling pink tongue at her.

It would not have been amiss to suggest the woman looked as if she were trying to set the wolf on fire by will alone. After a moment, when it became apparent the wolf intended to do nothing more than smile up at her doggishly, she cleared her throat.

“Whoever owns you should have had you neutered a long time ago,” she hissed.

The wolf’s ears twitched and it cocked its great head.

“Oh yes, very funny. I suppose you think that was helpful do you?”

A blink. The pink tongue rolled up long enough for the wolf to swallow, then tumbled down again.

“Go away right now.”

—–

Celino gave Mistress Swift a “what can you do?” shrug and frown, and sat down with his elbows on the railing to watch the show. He’d seen the kind of beasts she kept around her house. The notion that she had a free-ranging pet wolf was natural, even to be expected.

—–

There were a few disappointed jeers directed at the baiter, who was laid out on a long board and carted off by a pair wearing the white arm bands that designated them healers of an ‘official’ position. Whether their haste was inspired by the man’s injuries, or the taunts of the money-losing crowd was a subject open to debate. Mistress Swift sighed dramatically as Tourmaline, apparently choosing to now ignore the creature paced off in an easterly direction, parting crowds with the force of her expression alone. The wolf capered about a bit (making the monkey scale his handler shrieking bloody murder), played a brief game of chase with a small dark haired boy who made a bold attempt to grab its tail, then set off at a mile-eating trot after her.

“She has a way with beasts you know. I’ve seem all manner of them come to her out of the blue. Great big stag,” here she mimed a spread of antlers with her hands, “once came upon us while we were having lunch in the park. Birds and cats too.” Giving Celino a friendly pat on the shoulder (careful not to ruffle any feathers) she set the remaining box of nuts aside. “But I’ll be late if I don’t dash. Lovely making your acquaintance. Come see me sometime darling,” the thick red lips pursed then parted in a brilliant smile, and then she was gone, bustling off in the direction of a giant spring-box carriage.

—–

“My,” Celino assayed at Mistress Swift’s description of Tourmaline’s talents, then got in a hasty nod and the politest farewell (”Goodbye, thank you, enjoy your party, a pleasure, I will”) he could slip into the few moments he had. Snatching a handful of nuts from the box, he hurried after Tourmaline. HERE was a woman who knew how to make crowds give way.

He was as inconspicuous as a flock of quetzals in a sparrow-cage as he followed in her wake, feathers a-flutter. He wished briefly that he hadn’t dressed up. Ignoring giggles and comments, he strode through the crowds until he found a place, if not at her side, then at the wolf’s side. He looked down at it. “Needed to stretch your legs, did you?” he said. “Do you often take part in sporting events?”

—–

By the time Celino caught up, the wolf was pacing along at Tourmaline’s heels, shoulders rolling liquidly beneath a thick ruff of wheat coloured fur. The crowds were thinner here, composed mostly of family groups kindling bonfires over which to burn their offerings of thanks to the growing gods. Thick sheaves of wheat were hung from almost every lintel, tied with coloured yarn and thread, or ribbon in the case of the grander homes and fat little gourds sat on steps and sills, some sporting candles that would be lit once proper darkness had fallen.

Tourmaline threw a look over her shoulder; first at Celino, then at the wolf. “Don’t talk; you’ll just encourage him.” Why Celino was following her at all might have been a prudent question, but Tourmaline was too busy fuming to make practical inquiries. The wolf gave the hulking lion statue a sidelong glance as they passed, and came to a bouncing halt at the gate. Tourmaline patted herself down for pockets in which the keys might be hidden, growling under her breath in frustration when her search yeilded none.

“And now I’ve forgotten the keys somewhere.”

While a second search of her various pockets was conducted, the wolf sidled up to the gate and gave it a good prod with his nose. The latch slipped, and he slithered through without waiting for Tourmaline, who simply sighed and raised her hands vaguely at the sky as if begging divine intervention.

—–

Celino sidled up beside her with his hands in his robe slits. “It’s a useful servant,” he said, “if a bit insubordinate. Maybe if you denied it doggy treats…” He pondered. “Or had it fixed…”

The situation was slowly creeping past “I have no earthly idea what’s going on” to “I have no earthly idea what I’m doing here.” But Tourmaline hadn’t chucked him yet, and it was still more interesting than the festival. He glanced around–no blue–then back at Tourmaline. “What can I do to help?”

—–

She seemed to shed some of her pique once the gate was closed safely behind her. Down the street, someone had made a great pile of brush and garden rubbish in the center of the street in preparation for later fireside festivities. Tourmaline spared a thought for several plans that were now shelved, while a pair of gargantuan hounds came trotting around, only to slink away with their tails tucked up to their bellies. The wolf ceased hackling, sneezed, shook himself out and then thrust his nose at the door which popped open obligingly.

Seeming to collect herself mentally again, Tourmaline blinked sideways at Celino as if only having just realized he was there at all. “Great gods what are you wearing?” This came out almost as one word. “It looks like seven peacocks exploded around your head, and all their shiny bits just started orbiting
”

The house was dark inside, the servants having been dismissed to their own gatherings earlier in the afternoon. Tourmaline swore softly as her fingers grazed the table in the foyer, only to be rewarded by the jangle of her forgotten keys.

“You better not have put those there just now,” she mumbled, jerking the heavy cloak free as she wound her way between items of furniture. Discarding the voluminous paprika coloured thing over the back of a sofa, she made her way through three rooms and a hall before reaching the solar. Having so titled it had been a bit of a joke; the fact that two entire walls were glass allowing the sitter to take advantage of sun without the bother of the actual out-of-doors had as much to do with its title as privacy. Potted trees in miniature decorated the floor space, while other plants ran riot across eleven different kinds of shelf and stand. Small green sprigs sprung up from the most unlikely vessels; alchemical crucibles housed cacti of various bristling personalities, vines curled lazily out of soup bowls, and tea cups filled to the brim with rich black earth sprouted green tipped bulbs.

Jareth taunted a small cactus with a gloved fingertip, brushing the spines sideways that they could find no purchase.

“Very clever. Productive use of your time too I’m sure. Did you think that was funny?” Tourmaline was a steaming teapot, and all evidence suggested there was a tempest within.

Jareth did not look up, but chuckled, moving his attention to a white-throated orchid, its spindly stem sured up by a reclaimed wooden spoon and some thread. “Rather, yes.” The grin he flashed her was all white and wolfish, despite having abandoned the guise. “You might be grateful; you would not have won the bet otherwise.”

“I’m sure you did it out of sheer altruism,” Tourmaline snorted and tossed herself into a chair with a little huff. “Celino!” A finger stabbed at him, then a chair. “Stop hovering like a floating damned peacock.”

[Once more called off on account of sleep. Tourmaline and Jareth got into a fight, and Celino got shooed out into the harvest-night streets to search for blue.]

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