3 Martius 1754
Today was an exhausting day, 3 Martius 1754. I had just secretly opened a book from the Academy Library. Of course I had arranged quiet meetings with a few people involved, like Professor Gunder. I got access because my alibi was to discuss the "Book of Mathematical Equations" since almost nine years ago my discovery about Euler's Identity had been published under the name Dales Verneth.
Inside, I read a journal by Professor Herry Medington who wrote about his research with colleagues, people skilled in many fields, calculating and concluding that perhaps the inhabitants of a certain dimensional plane could survive when entering multiple additional or indefinite dimensional planes, both within and outside the given space-time continuum, and that the opposite might also be true.
An indefinite dimension? That is fascinating, but who would be insane enough to attempt something like that? Clearly this is only a theory and a theory can only be true if proven, so this is better called a hypothesis for now.
...…
Now, in the late afternoon, at 16:45.
I am standing in the main square of Clockthon's Entertainment District. The air here feels sweet and sticky, filled with the scent of roasted sugar, cheap perfume, and the sweat of the crowd. My goal today is specific, which is to catch the attention of noble children. They are the least guarded gateways into their family estates. And to do that, I need to become something they want. Something entertaining.
I am wearing my full Motley costume. A patchwork suit of colorful fabrics, boots with curled tips, and thick white face paint with a forced red smile and two blue teardrops under my eyes. The personas I create truly help me. If I am caught in one persona, I can use another or create a new one. That is an advantage for me.
A small group of children, with a few bored-looking governesses, has gathered near my tiny stage.
"Children, who wants a trick?" I raise my voice higher, brighter, a tone that even feels foreign in my own throat.
Some of the children cheer. I smile, Motley's smile, not my own, and begin the show.
I do not start with juggling or card tricks. That is too ordinary. I begin with shadows. The afternoon sun casts long shadows from a stone wall behind me. I lift my hands and with a little manipulation of invisible Void Essence I start shaping the shadows slowly, of course faking it as always with my aperture.
Not a rabbit or a bird. I shape the shadow of a tiny dragon flying, then a griffon chasing it. The shadows are not flat like normal ones. They seem to have volume, moving so perfectly they look truly alive. The dragon exhales shadowy smoke and the griffon flaps its wings, making the shadows of nearby leaves tremble.
The children gasp. The governesses who had looked bored now lean forward, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out how I did it. I do not use projectors or mirrors, obviously I am an Evolver, and a real Evolver cannot be obtained that easily since it requires a significant cost and its existence is never broadcast publicly.
After the shadow story ends, I bow. The applause I get is more polite than enthusiastic. They are impressed but not yet entertained. I need participation.
"Now," I say, "I need one brave volunteer."
My eyes scan the small crowd. I pick my target. A little girl about eight years old, wearing a pale blue silk dress and blonde hair tied with a satin ribbon. She is the daughter of Baronet Willowmantle, the sister of the fool who once tried to rob me back when I was at the academy. I know from Magpie's network that she is a shy but very curious child.
"How about you, young miss?" I ask, pointing at her. "Don't worry, I don't bite."
She hesitates, glancing at her governess who reluctantly nods. The little girl steps forward shyly.
"May I borrow your ribbon?" I ask gently.
She nods and carefully removes the blue satin ribbon from her hair, then hands it to me. I hold it up for everyone to see. "One beautiful blue ribbon. Now, watch closely."
I roll the ribbon up in my palm. I perform a series of unnecessary, elaborate hand movements, a classic misdirection. When I open my hand, the ribbon has vanished.
The children gasp again. The girl's governess looks slightly worried.
"Where is my ribbon?" the little girl whispers.
I smile and point upward. "Look."
Everyone looks up. There, wrapped around the highest branch of an old oak tree in the middle of the square, a branch at least fifteen meters high, the same blue ribbon flutters in the breeze.
Total silence.
Then, applause much louder than before. They have no idea how I did it. I barely know myself. I simply channeled a little Void Essence into the ribbon, making it "ignore" the law of gravity for a moment, then guided it slowly upward with the strong breeze that was already blowing. It was a trick that drained my energy but the effect was worth it.
Now for the finale. The main act.
I return to the center of my small stage. "Thank you, thank you," I say. "For my final trick, I will tell you a story. A story about a king who lost his kingdom."
I use no props. I simply stand there and begin to speak. I use my Motley Fool ability to sense the collective emotions of my audience. I feel the boredom of the governesses, the curiosity of the children, the faint arrogance of some nobles who have now stopped to watch.
I absorb all of that. And I project it back into my story.
I tell the story of an old king in a forgotten kingdom, whose palace was built from sorrow and whose throne was made from regret. As I speak, something begins to change.
My clown makeup seems to fade. My real face underneath appears to shift. Lines of weariness form around my eyes. My upright posture droops slightly, perhaps I now resemble the Titan Atlas. My cheerful voice turns a bit hoarse and tired.
"The king looked upon his ruined kingdom," I say, my voice now that of a broken old man. "Every building reminded him of the failures he had made and the king realized there was something wrong with the path he had chosen."
I can see it in my audience's eyes. They no longer see Motley the clown. They see a king. They feel his sadness, his regret. Some of the women's eyes glisten. The children who had been laughing now sit silent and transfixed.
I raise my hand and point at the sky as if cursing it. "But even in the midst of the ruins," I continue, my voice now carrying a faint spark of hope, "he found one thing that could not be destroyed. One small flower growing among the stones. And from that moment he knew his true kingdom was never the fortress or the gold. The true strength of a king is to make others happy through his deeds."
I finish my story. I let the silence linger for a moment. Then, I blink. The king's persona vanishes. I am Motley again, the clown with a crooked grin. I trip over my own feet as I bow, making the children laugh again, breaking the tension I had just woven.
The show is over.
I gather the copper and silver coins tossed into my hat. A decent haul, maybe around five grior, which is above average for a clown's pay. But then again, I am a Jester, not a Clown. As I am packing up my props, a liveried servant from one of the noble houses approaches me.
"Mister Motley," he says politely. "My lord, Count de Montfort, was very impressed by your performance. He would like to invite you to perform at his daughter's birthday party next week. The payment will be quite generous."
I take the invitation card he offers. This is it. The first door has opened.
As I walk away from the square, I feel that gaze again. Perhaps it is William Salwors. He is across the street, near a bookstore, pretending to look at the display in disguise. He saw everything. He is probably analyzing every trick, every audience reaction, trying to fit me into one of his boxes. I just give him my Motley smile from afar before disappearing into the crowd.
That night, I do not go straight back to my hideout in the Financial District. I go to a different tavern, this time in the Government District twenty-five kilometers away from the Entertainment District. This tavern is where bureaucrats and low-ranking military staff gather after work hours. I sit at the bar, still in costume but without the makeup, and order a glass of beer. I become Motley, the clown who is tired after a long day's work. People will not notice me. They will speak freely around me.
And I hear a few things.
"...General Gurdner is back from the northern border. His face looks ten years older."
"...rumors about tension between Fravikveidimadr and the royal council. Budget issues, they say."
"...they say the Moon God has not truly left. Maybe he will wait again, until his power is fully restored."
I sip my beer slowly, letting the information flow around me. My performance as Motley is not just for getting an invitation. It is a key to unlock doors to different worlds. As a clown I can be anywhere, hear anything. I am part of the background, unseen, underestimated. The perfect position for a spy.
My communicator, a long-distance device I have modified, buzzes softly in my pocket. It does not look like a phone, more like a plain rectangle that only displays text and cannot send voice or media. There is a message from Milverton.
"There has been a slight disruption in our sales operation. One of our men, working as an informant at the port, was caught. This is the government's chance to dig up information about us."
That is all? How foolish can he be? I barely recognize him as the Milverton from the fiction I remember. Maybe I should train him to be the true King of Blackmailers.
"No problem. Let him talk. If he really spills everything, he knows what will happen to his life the moment he gives up all the information he was given. No need to worry." I reply.
This communicator actually transmits through Essence. In other words, I only need to imagine what I want to say and it is automatically sent to Milverton. At least this works for exchanging information better than nothing. Ordinary letters take too long and are far too risky.
I finish my beer then pay about two grior, and leave the place immediately. Count de Montfort's estate is still along the main road, past Howard Saplings Street here in the Government District, exactly east for about two kilometers.
For now, I will go home first.
I find a carriage driver who is still around and return that night to the Financial District, spending another two gryn. Still expensive, even though at night the roads are emptier than during the day. No excuses for traffic or other delays. Huh.