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The boy. What would he do?

Roark wished he could show them.

In Kre'ya, midsummer nights were as precious a commodity as Tzah root. It was a rare time of rest for the citizens. The fields were fertilized and crops were well on their way to fruition. Farmers had nothing to do but tighten their plows, straighten scarecrows, twiddle their thumbs and wait for harvest. The women, too, had a lessened workload. It was in this atmosphere that the villagers would gather, nightly, to the town square.

Loot was the main attraction. He was a one-man show; twanging at his lyre, dancing about under the moonlight, sharing grins and trading songs. Despite his affinity for music, though, his real talent was in drama.

Once the sun went down, there was no more Caluet Skitterson. In the drop of a hatchet the youth could take on any character. No epic in spoken lore was safe. With his voice as his only prop and the fire as his only backdrop, he would holler and howl, creep and cajole through scenes of Ilenian history. At every turn, the audience reacted appropriately.

His Laxton of Almary was so spot-on belligerent that the women hissed in disgust. When he projected Lord Dashow Thousand-Eyes, children clapped their hands over their eyes, and huddled closer together. The thick Northernman accent of his Caius Nielzen was so flawless that the men shook their heads and wondered at it.

The performances were so gripping, no one thought to look up. From his keep window, Roark always heard the cheers, the groans, and the laughter from the audience below. He watched on occasion, as thoughtfully as his hidden features would allow.

The Death Faced still wore that pensive expression. Ah! Roark realized that he must have been stewing in memories for the last thirty seconds or so. Now, that simply wouldn't do! He snapped back to attention, his slate-gray eyes alive.

"The boy takes on characters. Voices. Personalities. He watched Aeferth. Learned."

Miles assumed his fellow knights would recognize the name of Ilena's most celebrated gleeman. After all, the man was responsible for many of their personal endeavors being put to song.

"Not just a weak psyche. Thinks fast. Adopts mannerisms, traits. Perfect spy."

Roark listened to Avark's proposal, and nodded just a fraction.

"Good. I will work on my end for you. Confirm story. Plant rumors. We part ways? Will think of method to contact."

If Avark was uncomfortable with Roark's breezy discussion of spies and secret networks, he was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. The Death Faced was no fool. The knights trusted each other on a level of principle, but Roark still wondered what Avark thought of him.

Doesn't matter.

"Have business to finish in Ayia. Will look out for you. Maybe even send Loot on, once made proper spy. Meet you at Royal City. Boy is best choice."

There was a great clamor from out-of-doors. Once more it seemed that Avark's mount was not taking well to his quarters. With a vivid stream of curses, Caluet Skitterson practically fell out of the stables straight onto his behind, the doors swinging shut behind him. In a telling display of poor cordination, He tried to get to his feet three times. The first he stepped on his own foot, the second he lost his balance, the third he simply plopped over backwards.

Roark hardly blinked.

"Trust me."