The murder at the market, the mystery of the Mirror of Ulthar, and the shadow game with The Consortium and Fravikveidimadr, all of it was a heavy weight pressing on my mind. My chessboard was becoming more and more complicated, and every piece seemed to move with its own hidden agenda. I needed a break, an escape, and to fulfill all that, I had to become Motley.
That night I left my cold and lonely skyloft and walked toward the Entertainment District. The night air of Clockthon felt thick with the smell of coal and mist, but here in this district, that smell was covered by the sweet scent of baked sugar and cheap perfume. Colorful gas lanterns hung along the streets, reflecting light on the wet cobblestones, a scene both festive and melancholic in its own beautiful way.
I arrived at the traveling circus where I had been welcomed just a few days ago. Its large main tent looked like a ragged cathedral of cloth beneath the night sky. I did not go straight to the main stage. Instead, I went around back, to the performers' area, a place filled with small tents, wooden wagons, and piles of stage props.
There I began to prepare myself. I applied thick white makeup, drew on a forced red smile. This process was a ritual and a way to strip away the identity of Welt Rothes with all its burdens and put on the mask of Motley, empty and free.
Tonight was Sunday, the busiest night of the week. The audience would be larger, their expectations higher. René, the androgynous circus administrator, had given me a prime performance slot on the street stage. I realized it was a promotion after my strange audition.
As I walked to my stage in the district's main square, I saw the crowd had already gathered. There were wealthy merchant families, off-duty military officers, and a few low-ranking nobles, all seeking entertainment to forget their dull lives. Their silk-clad children with shining eyes were my primary targets.
I stepped onto my small wooden stage. I brought no props except a stack of cards and a few juggling balls. My performance tonight would not rely on tools but on the realm of perception.
"Good evening, dreamers of Clockthon!" I called out with Motley's cheerful voice. "Tonight, I will not show you magic tricks. Instead, I will show you what already lives inside your own heads."
I began with a simple trick. I asked a little boy to think of a number between one and ten. Before he could say it, I took a blank piece of paper, wrote the number '7' on it, folded it, and gave it to his father.
"Now, young master," I said to the boy. "Say your number."
"Seven," the boy replied.
His father opened the paper in amazement. The crowd applauded. A basic mentalism trick, of course. I simply used subtle suggestion and read the boy's body language that unconsciously revealed his choice. But to them, it was magic.
I continued with something more complex. I called for three volunteers from the audience. A fat merchant, an arrogant noblewoman, and a young soldier who looked nervous that night.
"I will tell you a story," I said. "A story about three travelers lost in a forest."
I did not use shadows this time. I used words and my Motley Fool ability to manipulate emotion. As I told them about the travelers' fear in the darkness of the forest, I saw the fat merchant start to sweat. As I described their arrogance that led them astray, I saw the noblewoman unconsciously touch her jewelry, anxious. And when I spoke about their courage to keep going, I saw the young soldier straighten his shoulders.
I did not limit myself to storytelling. I made them feel the story. By the end, the three volunteers looked shaken, as if they had truly just returned from a real journey.
Now, for the main act. Something they would never forget. Something that would plant the name 'Motley' in the minds of every important person watching that night.
"For my final trick," I said, my voice now calmer, more mysterious. "I will show you a secret, a secret about this city."
I raised my hand toward the crowd. I did not focus my Essence to create an illusion. I focused it to sense and then spread a subtle web of perception across the entire circus grounds, reading the emotional traces left in the air, on the stones, on every face.
"Every city has its own ghosts," I whispered. "I do not mean the ghosts of the dead, but the ghosts of lost hopes, failed ambitions, and buried secrets."
Then I began to speak. I pointed at a merchant in the front row. "Sir," I said. "I see the shadow of a deal gone bad, cargo that never arrived at the port. Gold lost at the bottom of the sea."
The merchant's face turned pale.
I turned to a noblewoman. "Madam, I see the shadow of a love letter burned. I mean a promise never kept by a man who could never truly be yours."
She gasped, her hand covering her mouth.
I continued moving through the crowd, pointing to people one by one, revealing tiny fragments of their deepest fears and regrets. I did not reveal names or exact details. I simply voiced the emotion, becoming a mirror for their hidden souls.
The once lively crowd fell silent. They no longer saw me as a mere street clown. They looked at me with a mix of fear and awe. I had shown them that I could see through the social masks they wore every day, and that was dangerous for them.
Finally, I stopped in front of a man standing at the edge of the crowd. He wore simple clothes, but I could sense the aura of controlled strength around him. Most likely an agent of The Consortium assigned to watch me but perhaps here just to enjoy himself or something like that.
I looked straight into his eyes. "And you, sir," I said, my voice now barely audible, just for him. "I see the shadow of a loyalty divided. It is clear that you serve a master, but you are starting to question his purpose. You are afraid of what will happen if the machine you serve spins out of control."
The man did not move, but I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten.
I had pushed too far. I knew it, but the urge to perform, to push the boundary, was part of the Motley Fool's curse.
I returned to the center of the stage. "Do not be afraid," I told the frozen crowd. "This is all just a performance. These ghosts are only shadows. They cannot harm you unless you allow them to."
With a single clap of my hands, I released every emotional connection. The tense atmosphere broke instantly. People began to whisper, a few laughed nervously.
I bowed low. "Thank you, Clockthon. Do not forget to tip your clown."
I turned and stepped off the stage. I did not look back because I could feel hundreds of eyes on me. I knew tonight my name would be the talk of every tavern and every noble's parlor.
I walked over to my hat lying on the ground. It was overflowing not just with copper and silver coins but also a few gold gryn coins and even some small pouches of gems.
As I was counting, a voice stopped me. "An extraordinary performance, Mister Motley."
I looked up. William Salwors stood before me. He was not wearing his academy uniform tonight but an expensive gray wool suit. Beside him stood Irene Cheva as usual. Maybe it was Irene who brought him here, who knew what her motive was.
"Did you enjoy the show?" I asked in Motley's voice.
"It was more than just a show," William said, his sharp eyes analyzing me. "Quite remarkable. You truly played with perception in an astonishing way. I am impressed."
"I am just good at guessing," I said with a shrug.
"You were not guessing," Irene interjected, her voice calm. "You knew all of that. The question is, how?"
I laughed, Motley's slightly mad laugh. "A magician never reveals his secrets, Miss."
I finished counting my money. The total was almost twenty gold gryn. A new record, no, my highest ever for working alone on the street.
"Well then, I must excuse myself," I said. "I have an appointment with a cheap beer and a hard bed."
I was about to leave but William stepped forward, blocking my path. "We have an offer for you," he said.
"I am not interested in offers," I replied.
"Even if the offer comes from House Salwors?" he continued. "My father is interested in employing someone with your 'unique talents.' For entertainment, of course."
This was a move I did not expect. William had not just watched me perform. He had come to the circus like this and tried to recruit me, to pull me into his family's circle where he could observe me more closely.
"I am a street artist, Mister Salwors," I said. "I am not used to the luxury of noble houses, though I have been invited before."
"Anyone can get used to luxury," Irene said with a faint smile. "Especially if the pay is worth it."
They were pressing me, one with rational logic, the other with charm.
I was in a tight spot. Rejecting outright would raise suspicion and accepting would mean walking willingly into the lion's den.
I looked at both of them, then at the thinning crowd. My mind searched for a way out, a narrative that would buy me time.
"I will consider it," I said at last, an answer that bound me to nothing. "Give me your card, Mister Salwors. I will contact you if I am interested."
William handed me a card made of thin ivory, his name engraved elegantly.
I took it, bowed once more, then walked away, this time without obstruction.
As I walked away, I felt no sense of victory. Instead I felt the pressure building even more. My game was becoming more complicated and unpredictable. Every move I made, every performance I gave, seemed to pull me deeper into this city's web of intrigue.
I returned to my simple inn in the Entertainment District that night with a heavy purse but an even heavier mind. I stared at my reflection in the dusty window mirror. Motley's smiling face stared back. But in his eyes, I saw no joy. I only saw exhaustion.