The Foolsman wandered the rooftops, amiably stepping over treacherous drops, hopping from gutter to gutter, their walking cane tapping against the tiles, their whistle of a certain vexing melody echoing through the Flit. The Pale Dancer followed in their wake, holding an umbrella over the strange figure to catch the falling raindrops. For all the strangeness of this arrival, the two of them might have been taking a stroll in the Palace gardens, rather than preparing to kidnap a Master.
The most remarkable fact about the appearance of The Foolsman was that they seemed to be entirely unremarkable. To look upon them was to reveal nothing at all. Not a mark, not an expression, not the colour of their eyes. Not even an indication as to whether they were male, or female, or something else entirely. It was as if one could not retain even the slightest memory of what The Foolsman looked like. Here was a book without a cover.
‘There is a man with gun, and he sits upon that rooftop!’ whispered the Pale Dancer in their ear. The excitement almost overwhelmed the poor girl. ‘Shall I kill him now?’
‘No, my love,’ replied The Foolsman, ‘for I believe that fine gentleman marks our rendezvous.’
They looked to the stars, and waved. A bandaged raven caught the signal. The weapons would come soon. The Foolsman carried on to the shack, pretending all the while not to notice the sniper above.
‘Hello?’ They rapped upon the door with their cane. One knock. Pause. Three. Pause. ‘I am a Greek bearing gifts.’ That was the password. Wonderfully chosen. They could learn to love any conspirator who knew Homer.
[li]