The beat was smooth and heady. I let it flow around me, through me, and out of me. I stepped and spun and swept low before coming up again and slapping the taut skin of my tambourine. The thump of the impact and jingle of the small metal plates fit perfectly into the medley coming from behind me.
Thall plucked a staccato of full-throated notes from his citar that wove delicately through the high notes of Renée's flute as they hung in the air.
We three made music, made beauty, and everyone sat in stunned silence. I swept my hands as I spun again, tapping the beat as I moved. The gold chains and small jewels hanging from my horns and wrists and tail would catch the light with each movement, and I knew that I looked like a glittering goddess to these people. That or a terrifying demon. In this low light my dark red hair would look almost black, and it flared out behind me as my body twisted with the song.
At this moment, I lived up to my name: Cadence. A measured beat of movement, or the flow of poetry.
The music reached a high crescendo, not fast but certainly tense and eager, until it finally came down and slid away. I stopped moving finally, head bowed, as the last few notes faded out.
There was scattered applause from the two-dozen or so patrons in the Scarred Dog. Having played for high priests and dukes, the small inn and pub was hardly what I would consider a glamorous set. Still, a girl's gotta eat, and sometimes that means playing a few nights in shitty little towns while moving between real gigs.
Renée got up from her stool to make the rounds, accepting what few tips this town could squeeze out for us while Thall settled in to play something a little more relaxed.
I set my tambourine on my stool on the small stage, and sashayed towards the bar. I knew without looking that all eyes would be following my every move. My red skin made me stand out in even the most cosmopolitan towns, and the smattering of jewellry on my fingers, neck, tail and horns only helped to increase the glamour. The piercings in my long ears, in my nose, and on the diamond-shaped tip of my tail made me seem even more exotic, and maybe a little dangerous. My appearance was carefully cultivated to draw attention, interest, lust, and even a little thrill of the unknown. It was wasted on these small towns we were stuck riding through.
I slid into a chair in a far corner of the main room. It was a perfect spot, just a bit out of the way but nestled between two lamps so I was in enough light for people to get a good look at me. And look they did.
The proprietor sauntered up, a big grin on his face. Thall, Renée, and I were staying here on what I've come to understand as the standard arrangement: we play every night, and in return our food, drink, and beds are on the house. The owner gets a nice little bump in traffic when everyone comes to see the performers, and we get paid in tips. It was a much better deal for him than for us, but the alternative was trying to convince someone to pay us to play, and then getting ripped off and overcharged by innkeepers who were not-so-keen on having "demon-touched" stinking up their little lobbies. At least this way we wouldn't be losing money.
"A fellow over there bought you a drink," the man said, beaming as he proffered a cup of wine. "And one over there, too."
"How many is that tonight, now?" I asked, accepting the smooth metal cup.
"Ah, that's five cups of wine, two beers, and a shot of the good stuff."
This was the part of the arrangement many people didn't realise: when someone asks the bartender to send a drink my way, most of the time I just take a cup of water, if anything. If a dozen guys slide a coin to their waiter to get me something nice and I only drink one or two of those drinks, the owners split the money with us at the end of the night.
Every night a handful of guys and even a woman or two will "buy me a drink", and maybe one or two will do the same for Renée. At the end of the night when the innkeeper splits the money with us, it's usually worth as much as the tips we earned that night. The patrons think they're wooing me, the owner gets paid to serve a drink he never pours, and I get some free coin at the end of the night. Win-win-win.
"Who is this drink from?" I asked, waving the cup of wine for emphasis before taking a delicate sip. The owner pointed a thumb over his shoulder at a couple of guys sitting at a table across the room, and I gave them a little nod and a wink. "Any for Renée tonight?"
"Just one, miss, but she drank it."
That figured. Renée was beautiful and all, every inch the willowy, lean, fair-skinned elf one might hope for. But she was quiet, shy, and usually perfectly happy standing behind me and letting me have all the attention. That arrangement worked well for the both of us.
No one ever buys Thall a drink, but I doubt he minded very much. Like the music he was playing now, Thall was good at staying in the background and being overlooked.
The old man hustled off to serve another table, leaving me to my drink and my thoughts. People had bought us eight drinks, minus the one in my hand. I'd have to keep that number in mind, lest the guy try and rip us off at the end of the night when it comes to splitting the profit. Lots of guys got distracted by all the glittering gems on my skin and the low cut on the front of my dress, and assumed I wasn't clever enough to keep count. That, or they just figured I'd hesitate to call them out on their bullshit for fear of getting run out of town. Again. So I had learned to keep a close eye on anyone who could rip us off.
One of the serving ladies buzzed around the room like a bee in an orchard, stopping briefly in front of me to lay down a plate I hadn't asked for. I'd already eaten supper, but the delicately sliced fruits were appetising enough that I picked at them anyway.
I was just lifting a berry to my mouth when a man sidled up to the table and sat himself beside me. He was half a head taller than me, broad both in shoulders and gut, the way that someone looks after years of real, honest work - the kind of work I did my best to avoid, whenever possible.
"Can I help you, hon?" I asked, then bit slowly into the fruit. His eyes were locked on the little berry as my teeth pierced its skin, a drop of dark juice sliding down my lip.
"Wasn't sure what kind of food you ate," he commented, chatting familiarly as if we'd known each other for ages. "Fruit seemed like a safe bet. Even a demon-blooded lady's gotta have a sweet tooth."
I paused, my fingers fork poised over a segment of orange, and raised an eyebrow. I was sure he wasn't here to discuss the eating habits of the fiend-touched, even if it was a question that had been posed to me many, many times over. The truth was that most people were right in their assumptions that we can eat many things that a human would never consider to be food, and we can draw nutrients from almost anything. Memories of a childhood spent scavenging for scraps with my brother, eating handfuls of dust and charcoal still warm from the fire, flashed through my mind.
I lifted the small piece of orange up to my lips without breaking eye contact, biting into it just as slowly as I had the berry. It was tart, out of season, but sweet compared to the phantom taste of ash in my mouth.
"It seemed a shame to leave you all by your lonesome over here," he went on. Here was a guy who liked the sound of his own voice.
