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Sliding the green fabric back into place, Salas followed the tailor curiously until they stopped before a rack hidden beneath a linen draping. The tailor pulled the draping away, revealing a full wardrobe of decorative garments. They were surprisingly fine pieces, dainty and elegant, made up of all kinds of gauze and lace with wispy silhouettes that were certainly unlike anything Salas had seen Diagorians wear.
Salas’ eyes widened in delight. “Why do you have this?” he demanded, rather rudely. He felt somehow cheated that such a selection had been withheld from him for all the time he had been in the palace.
“It is my little…gallery, as I like to call it. Tailoring is an art, and every once in a while I like to get my brush wet and paint colorful pictures, not just the boring brown landscapes that are required of me.”
Salas nodded at the analogy, already sorting through the rack.
The tailor chuckled. “Go ahead and pick what you’d like. You have a passion for the art as well. Maybe you can convince the King to throw a ball one day, as I have not had much success in that department.”
Salas picked out an outfit quickly, noticing that one in particular had been made in the same green silk he had warmed to earlier. He changed behind a dressing curtain, as he had seen others do on errands to the tailor. Then, he had the tailor swiftly pin the sides and shoulders with quick, temporary stitches so that the garment would fit his frame, smaller than, of course, the average Diagorian’s.
Finally, he was able to peek in the mirror at his new appearance.
The outfit came in two pieces. The top was brazenly short and sleeveless, the head-opening wrapping around his neck in a tight collar, appliqued with gilded chains that hinted at secret sensuality. The skirt was fashioned in the Susconian style, with airy flaps that hung in alluring streams from the beaded waistband down to his ankles, floating about like falling water as he moved.
It was more than he could have imagined, and the feeling of familiarity momentarily left him speechless with gratitude. He finished the look by pulling out his few pieces of jewelry that he’d had tucked away, earrings and a few bracelets.
After thanking the still-bewildered tailor, he stopped by the kitchen, stole a stack of cups and a water pitcher, and went to search out where the meeting took place. He had a vague idea that it would be in the stuffy, elongated room off to the side of the throne room, as he had seen it once before, and knew that it contained a round table, enough to seat around twenty or so Diagorians.
There were some nerves paired with his confidence, though he was mainly excited to do something that he knew he could do well, and that others would appreciate. It was Susconian custom for birds to serve refreshments during gatherings such as these, dressed in the typical bird attire, and Eldron said they were said to bring joy and vitality to the lengthy conversations.
Salas had not been able to service the King in any way thus far, but perhaps he could serve him in this. He could finally show Jareth how good he could be.
As well as find out what was happening in Suscon with the Malthenians.
When he approached the meeting room, he was greeted by the bickering voices of its occupants.
Head held high, he pushed into the room.
The voices carried to him first before he aligned the figures to their rightful identities. He already figured he would have his work cut out for him if he were to understand the snapping rushes of the other language.
But the talking stopped the moment he entered the great room.
As expected, leaders of the Diagorian court, advisors, captains, and other officials were all gathered around a round table, with King Jareth stationed furthest from the door, his large, strapping figure framed by an arched window behind him.
All heads turned to the intrusion, taking in the spectacle with various non-verbal reactions.
Jareth shot to his feet disruptively, his chair crying its protest of the mishandling, and stared incredulously, mouth parted, at Salas. He looked positively ready to burst at the seams, but something else kept the dam from collapsing, restraining him just barely. It was Tarick, to his right, who grabbed the King’s wrist, halting any actions by the King that could have followed.
The King closed his mouth, momentarily stalled, though thunderous objections to Salas’ presence danced behind his eyes.
“Refreshments,” Salas announced to the empty air, heart hammering. Though he had expected attention upon his entrance, he had not accounted forallof it. During meetings in Suscon, birds could slip into a room and be noticed for a moment, like one admiring a pretty ornament with a passing glance before turning their attention elsewhere.
Here, it was as though he had shattered a beloved glass vase, an heirloom with sentimental gravity, and everyone was waiting for a sinister reaction.
The King narrowed his eyes, looking about to speak, though Tarick stood up, whispering something to him rapidly, speaking hushedly so as to not be overheard.
After a moment held upon the tip of a pin, the King and Tarick reclaimed their seats. The King’s fists clenched, though he kept his peace, his eyes forever remaining upon Salas.
Salas took a breath, his smile wavering though holding firm. He began to delicately distribute cups, circling the room languidly with practiced grace, slinking by so as to not draw too much attention.
The meeting continued. “You’re…that Victoria has…and joined the Malthenians?” a council member wondered, diving back into whatever had been discussed before Salas’ arrival.
Salas nearly dropped a cup as he worked out the bits and pieces of what he understood from what the man had said. This was news to him. So the Witch Victoria was now against Diagor?
“Yes,” the captain of the guard drawled, voice grim and expression drawn as he recalled past events. “Who knows what black magic the bitch is stirring up for us.”
Beatrice, near the King, cleared her throat, throwing the captain a harsh look. “I can…to Victoria’s magic, and… However, she is strong. Stronger than I am.” She looked to the King. “I do not say this to be…, My King, but if Victoria and I were to…in a fight, witch against witch, I would not win.”
