Rimbaud absorbed the information quietly. There were plans within machinations here. He would need to collect the trusted to him. He mused.
* * * * * * * * * *
Concentrating hard on the stories, the crowd let the evening draw on. The fire started to fade and the night drew in around the white Inn. With a start, Rimbaud broke from reverie.
"This is no good!" he cried. Clapping his hands in the familiar way, he rose and strode for the kitchens, thoroughly disturbing the tellers of the story.
"Pray, what ails thee, Grey Rimbaud?" questioned Estelyn.
He turned at the kitchen door, one hand resting on the frame.
"Only this, your Highness," he proclaimed. "It is much past dinner, and I have been neglectful! Musicians!" He barked at the drowsing lute-players, who were shocked into wakefulness.
Rimbaud pushed hurriedly through into the kitchens. Behind him, music started up again, and the other patrons, freed briefly from the enchanting spells of the Tales, grinned sheepishly at each other. There was a small stampede for the bar and the waiting staff were hurried off their feet as the crowd realised the dryness of their palates...
[ January 27, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]
__________________
And all the rest is literature
|