"All true, but such things don't mean much to fools, Milady. I know. I was raised here. Your reforms have won support among the small merchants, the artisans, especially the furriers, the guildsmen, and the more thoughtful laborers. All the worst victims of the old government and syndicates. But most of the people refuse to be fooled by your chicanery. And the rich, the crime-bosses, and the deposed Councilmen, keep telling them that's what it is. And, irregardless of programs, you're a foreigner and usurper." He grinned weakly, trying to make light of the matter.
But the cold still filled the room.
Nepanthe eased Rolf's nerves with one of her rare smiles. "Foreigner, ergo, tyrant, eh? Even if their ingrates' bellies are full for the first time in years? Well, no matter. Their opinions don't concern me-as long as they behave."
She thought for a moment. Rolf waited silently, ignoring the pain his remarks had caused. Finally, she said, "I remember the words of an ancient wise man, in one of the old scrolls at home. He wrote, 'Man is wise only when aware of his lack of wisdom,' and went on to point out that the masses are asses because they're ignorant to the point of knowing they already know everything worth knowing."
Rolf said nothing in response, seemed unusually thoughtful-perhaps because she was being unusually verbose... She jarred him back with a change of subject.
"Does this man make a habit of talking about me?"
"No, Milady. It's something different every day and, begging your pardon, always something idiotic. Far as I know, this's his first political venture, though it's hardly controversial."
The cold wind blew, gathering strength with time.
"Give me some examples."
Rolf, back on safe ground, relaxed, chuckled, imparted a bit of high nonsense. "Just yesterday he claimed the world is round."
Nepanthe, who knew, was startled into wary curiosity. "Another example!"
Without a chuckle, Rolf hurriedly said, "The other day he claimed the sun was just a star, only closer. Skaane, the philosopher, challenged his claim. They had a real madman's debate, with Skaane claiming the earth revolves around the sun..."
"What'd he say the day before that?"
Rolf could maintain only a minimal air of sobriety. "Something religious, something about every seventh rebirth of the soul being into the animal with a nature most closely approximating the individual's. His donkey, he claims, is Vilis, the last King of Ilkazar."
A ghost of a smile played across Nepanthe's lips. "Go on."
Rolf grinned. He had remembered an excellent example. "Well, the earth's changed shape since last week. Then it was a big boat floating on a sea of Escalonian wine, the vessel being propelled by a giant duck paddling in the stern. He was drunk that day, which's maybe why he saw the universe as a sea of wine."
Another of those rare smiles broke across Nepanthe's face. "Bring him here!"
"Milady, they'd storm the Tower if we stopped him now!"
"Well, wait till he's done."
"Yes, Milady."
She crossed the chamber to a northern window. The snow-topped Kratchnodians loomed in the distance. The north wind muttered, threatening snow.
Saltimbanco recognized the importance of Rolfs appearance the moment he came out the Tower door. Five minutes later his mad speech rolled to a hilarious conclusion. In a quarter-hour the street before the Tower was empty, save for his donkey and collection box. The box was overflowing.
Rolf asked the fat man into the Tower. Insides all aquaver, Saltimbanco followed. He reached Nepanthe's chamber puffing and snorting like a dying dragon. His skin had reddened, his face was wet with perspiration.
Nepanthe's door stood open. Rolf entered without formality. "The man whose presence you requested, Milady."
Turning from the north window, Nepanthe replied, "Thank you, Captain. You may go."
"But..."
"You said he was harmless."
"Yes, but..."
"I shall scream most loudly if I need your help. Begone!" He went.
Nepanthe faced her visitor, said, "Well?" When he didn't respond, she said it again, louder.
Saltimbanco hauled himself out of the wonder the woman had loosed upon him. She was beautiful, with raven hair and ebony eyes, a fine oval face-did he detect a hint of loneliness and fear behind the frown-lines he had more or less expected? He was amazed. The woman wasn't the aging Harpy he had anticipated. Getting on thirtyish, maybe, but not old. His innocent eyes insolently examined her body. He suspected this might be an assignment less unpleasant than expected.
At that point her voice drew him back.
"Yes, woman?" Playing his role to the hilt, he bowed to no nobility, accorded no superiority.
"Teacher, who are you?" she asked, granting him the title of learned honor. "What are you?"
An unexpected sort of question, but practice on the street enabled him to provide an answer that said nothing at all while sounding expansive.
"Self, am Saltimbanco. Am humblest, poverty-stricken disciple of One Great Truth. Am wandering mendicant preaching Holy Word. Am One True Prophet. Also Savior of World. Am weary Purveyor of Cosmic Wisdom. Am Son of King of Occult Knowledge..."
"And the Prince of Liars!" Nepanthe laughed.
"Is one face of thousand-faceted jewel of Great Truth."
"And what's this great truth?"
"Great Truth! Hai! Is wonder of all ages unfolding before sparkle in great and beautiful lady's eyes..."
"Briefly, without the sales chatter."
"So. Great Truth is this: all is lies! All men are liars, all things of matter are lies. Universe, Time, Life, all are great cosmic jokes from which little everyday falsehoods are woven. Even Great Truth is untrustworthy."
Nepanthe hid her amusement behind a hand. "Not original-Ethrian of Ukazar, five centuries ago-but interesting nevertheless. Do you always follow your creed, tell nothing but lies?"
"Assuredly!" He reacted as though his honor were in question.
"And there's one of them." She laughed again, realized she was laughing. It stopped, was replaced by wonder.
How long since she had laughed for no better reason than because she was amused? Could this fat man, who was hardly as foolish as he pretended, also make her cry? "Why do you preach such strange things?" Saltimbanco, thoroughly frightened behind his mask of unconcern, thought carefully before replying. A little half-truthful misdirection would be appropriate now. "Numerous be numbers of men who think me no more than big-mouthed nonsense pedlar. Hai! The bigger fools they. They come, enjoy show, eh? Also, after show, many come to poor fat idiot, give him monies to help protect self from self. Great Lady, think! Many people in throng before Tower this day, eh? Maybe three, four, five thousand. Maybe one thousand take pity on moron. Each drops one groschen-one puny groschen, though some give more-into basket watched over by very sad and hungry-looking donkey belonging to cretinic purveyor of preachments. Self counts up swag. Have now ten kronen and more, one month's wages. Goes on thus, every day of year. Self, being frugal, suddenly am as wealthy as wealthiest laugher at imbecilic preacher. Hai! Then self is laugher! But silent, very silent. Men are easily angered to kill."
Saltimbanco chuckled at his fooling those who thought him a fool, then realized he was growing too relaxed. He was revealing his penchant for the accumulation of money. Fear-wolves howled in the back of his mind. He was a professional, yes, but never had learned to banish emotion in tight situations. He did hide it well, though.
"Do you like having people mock you?" "Hai! Self, am performer, no? Multitudes laugh at fat one, true. No joy. But this one is known to enjoy gold thuswise wrested from unwrestable purses. Crowd and Saltimbanco are even, for fools we have made of one another."