TIME July 10th, 10:20am (continuing) LOCATION The Regent Theatre, Chuza
BACKGROUND:
Sanchez had claimed a second stolen note as the sixth round began, the audience still scrambling for envelopes under their seats and the Jongleurs still moving through smoke and chaos on the stage above.
WHAT HAPPENED
Booznayha stopped mid-beat. The drummer’s wild elation curdled into confusion, then plain anger, as it finally registered the blood on Raven’s swords.
“Huhh, what is your problem, lady? Stop jabbing me with those! You cut me? What, huh, bit deaf!”
Booznayha
It sniffed at her, decided this whole business smelled wrong, and bounded off the stage toward the foyer without waiting for an answer – done with the humans, still bickering, still not making any sense to it.
A figure stepped out from behind the scenery and Raven found herself looking at her own face. Not a trick of the light – a Jongleur, wearing her exactly, speaking in the same fast monotone the whole troupe shared.
“Griffiths has lied about his intentions. Our contract is complete. We did not know of his violent nature or true intentions. It is not our way. We cannot be a part of this.”
TeeCruise, wearing Raven’s face
It offered what looked like genuine help – the entertainment illusion was broken, and the charm on the crowd could maybe be walked back, though Booznayha itself would carry more weight toward that than the Jongleurs could alone.
From somewhere below, a heavy thump and a familiar, delighted cackle carried up through the floor – Pitr, sounding thrilled about something no one upstairs could see yet. TeeCruise’s doubled expression flickered.
Someone else had just arrived down there.
That, it said, was not supposed to happen.
Above, the crowd had stopped being an audience and started being a mob. Someone in the back rows found the courage to shout first.
“They’re not Agents! Look at their clothing – they must be brigands, I’ll wager. We won’t stand for it! Lady Victoria has the right idea – actions, not words! We must act! Get them!”
an audience member
A knot of theatregoers rushed the stage and grabbed for Krusha; his mace caught one with a glancing blow that did more to make a point than any real damage.
A man in field armour marched up the centre aisle demanding to know what the trouble was, introducing himself as Agent Fessen of ‘Section Fossen’ in a mumble that didn’t survive close attention – another Jongleur, playing the part it thought would calm things down fastest.
Sanchez answered a shove from one over-eager patron with the flat of his baton and dropped him where he stood, while Raven’s double slipped round to the front of the stage and began to sing, low and reedy and strangely calming, buying Krusha and Sanchez a little more room to work the crowd back.
Below the stage, Raven found the stairwell down and got her first look at what Griffiths had actually brought with him – a Vessentaag cleric, scythe in hand, gaunt and hunched in a way that stopped her cold for a second.
Something about him was uncomfortably close to the man who’d killed Hawke below the decks of the Sunset Ray, though a second look said it wasn’t him – couldn’t be. She took cover behind a stage flat as his scythe came round anyway, catching her hard.
Griffiths himself was already firing into her from across the understage floor, and Pitr had arrived at his side with a sparking sap and a laugh that didn’t belong anywhere near a fight.
Ash reached the bottom of the stairs behind Raven and threw up another illusory double of herself before wading in.
The Vessentaag – wounded badly, calling on his own dark power for one last push – traded blows with Raven toe to toe until Ash’s missiles finally dropped him into the shallow water pooling near the doorway.
Upstairs, the combination of song, intimidation, and the flat crack of Sanchez’s kemercannon was finally getting through to the crowd – though not fast enough.
Four members of the audience were still on their feet with envelopes in hand, the clock very much still running.
