Ah, street theatre. How utterly ... charming. It was so very filled with ... gaity. And music. And people. And sweat.
Looking at the musicians puffing and blowing and coating their instruments with juices far more ... palatable ... on the inside than the out made Havelock shudder delicately, so he moved away, walking easily through the crowd in that manner of a man so dignified he parted the crowd before him without the crowd being aware of the person for whom it was parting. It was something in the bearing and the faint limp and the way he relied, ever so slightly on the right side of 'injured veteran', on his cane with every step.
It wasn't that Havelock disliked parties. He enjoyed parties, as a matter of fact. It was so very ... illuminating, the things one could hear at a party. Particularly once the wine had begun to flow. But this wasn't a party; it was a festival, where people weren't so much interested in politicking as they were in having fun.
It was a problem. Not much of one, but even so; and only so because at times like this people had no concept whatsoever of 'personal space'. Or 'hygiene'.
But that was alright. Not for nothing was Havelock the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork; there were very few things which could take him off guard.
"Hey, Mister! We need another for the dance! Wanna come?"
--Children, every so often, were one of them.*
Havelock turned to lift his eyebrow at the group of seven hopeful pre-pubescent and barely pubescent locals. Some of them looked like perfectly ordinary humans. One had long scaly ears. Another had a feathered tail. A third had claws she was quietly trying to shrink down to nubs--so she didn't, presumably, trip or accidentally lacerate her companion. They wouldn't have looked out of place in Ankh-Morpork.
They wilted slightly under his impassive gaze, even though Havelock knew--by now--that no one here had the slightest idea who he was. It was, after a fashion, quite as invigorating as riding the steam train high in the avalanche-prone mountains while it was being attacked by regressive and repressive dwarves.
Havelock broke into an abrupt bright smile and bowed. "It would be my pleasure."
He handed his cane off to one of the bemused local guards and let the grinning children take his hands and tug him into the circle. It was an unexpectedly complicated dance--consisting of eight people, quite a bit of clapping, spinning and an awful lot of weaving in and out with other circles. Still, Havelock had been an assassin, one of the best, and the dance was repetitive--it wasn't long at all before he was clapping, spinning and weaving with as much skill as the energetic children who'd been doing it all their lives.
When the music ended Havelock stepped out of the circle, his face slightly more coloured than it had been--though by no means enough to call it 'flushed'. Excusing himself from the disappointed children, he smoothed his faded black clothes back into place and took back his cane with a nod.
[*People frequently said that children were born innocent. Havelock knew this was not so. Children were born psychopathic, and that made them difficult to predict even for him.]
OPEN;
Looking at the musicians puffing and blowing and coating their instruments with juices far more ... palatable ... on the inside than the out made Havelock shudder delicately, so he moved away, walking easily through the crowd in that manner of a man so dignified he parted the crowd before him without the crowd being aware of the person for whom it was parting. It was something in the bearing and the faint limp and the way he relied, ever so slightly on the right side of 'injured veteran', on his cane with every step.
It wasn't that Havelock disliked parties. He enjoyed parties, as a matter of fact. It was so very ... illuminating, the things one could hear at a party. Particularly once the wine had begun to flow. But this wasn't a party; it was a festival, where people weren't so much interested in politicking as they were in having fun.
It was a problem. Not much of one, but even so; and only so because at times like this people had no concept whatsoever of 'personal space'. Or 'hygiene'.
But that was alright. Not for nothing was Havelock the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork; there were very few things which could take him off guard.
"Hey, Mister! We need another for the dance! Wanna come?"
--Children, every so often, were one of them.*
Havelock turned to lift his eyebrow at the group of seven hopeful pre-pubescent and barely pubescent locals. Some of them looked like perfectly ordinary humans. One had long scaly ears. Another had a feathered tail. A third had claws she was quietly trying to shrink down to nubs--so she didn't, presumably, trip or accidentally lacerate her companion. They wouldn't have looked out of place in Ankh-Morpork.
They wilted slightly under his impassive gaze, even though Havelock knew--by now--that no one here had the slightest idea who he was. It was, after a fashion, quite as invigorating as riding the steam train high in the avalanche-prone mountains while it was being attacked by regressive and repressive dwarves.
Havelock broke into an abrupt bright smile and bowed. "It would be my pleasure."
He handed his cane off to one of the bemused local guards and let the grinning children take his hands and tug him into the circle. It was an unexpectedly complicated dance--consisting of eight people, quite a bit of clapping, spinning and an awful lot of weaving in and out with other circles. Still, Havelock had been an assassin, one of the best, and the dance was repetitive--it wasn't long at all before he was clapping, spinning and weaving with as much skill as the energetic children who'd been doing it all their lives.
When the music ended Havelock stepped out of the circle, his face slightly more coloured than it had been--though by no means enough to call it 'flushed'. Excusing himself from the disappointed children, he smoothed his faded black clothes back into place and took back his cane with a nod.
[*People frequently said that children were born innocent. Havelock knew this was not so. Children were born psychopathic, and that made them difficult to predict even for him.]