"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability
 of the human mind to correlate all its contents."  
                                             - H.P. Lovecraft

"O, there has been much throwing about of brains."
                                             -Guildenstern


Jameson W. Walker, Part III
___________________________


     There is a road.  

     It's dusty, but this can't be helped -- so many travel here,
there is no way it can remain a weed choked path.  No roots trap the
dirt.  No one can or wishes to afford paving it.

     After a time on this road, the dirt works its way into everything
-- every crease and fold of your clothes, your skin.  Every bite of
your food.  Those who travel on foot understand this.  To be without
this layer of anonymity means you can afford to be above the dirt, on
a horse, or protected in a carriage with heavy curtains.  If you are
rich, you are dismissed from thought or robbed.  If you are on foot,
you learn to read eyes.  Eyes are the only things that remain
expressive above dust masks called faces.  In the blended camouflage
of brown dirt streaks, friends or foes are determined in a moments'
glance.

     The end of this road, the very end before it touches its
destination, is paved with cobblestones set in a kind of cement.  But
still, travellers bring the dust into the city with them, to be
brushed or washed off into ... sewers?  How interesting.  Levels of
development definitely skewed here.  Relatively sophisticated road
building and sewers.  Wooden buildings mixed with stone buildings and
beautiful works of architecture?
     
     Jameson strained to see more of the interior of this city,
looking around and over her fellow travellers.  They were making slow
progress through the gates, as a guard on either side recorded the
name and business of all who passed through.  She examined closely the
workmanship of the gates and compared it to what she could see within.

     Possibly a cross-over city?  She mused.  The guard at the gate
looked bored.  He barely glanced up at her, saying,
     "Name?"
     It was fortunate that Common was one of the easier languages.
Probably why it was common.
     "Jameson W. Walker."
     "Occupation?"
     "Student."
     The guard's eyes flickered.  Not an adventurer, not a patron
desperately searching for help from adventurers, nor a beggar, nor
even a trouble-maker.  Slightly out of the ordinary.  He shrugged
mentally and waved her in.
     
     A highly stylized sign, complete with illustration, announced to
her that she was standing upon Dragon's Lane.  The crowd of tired
people and piled-high carts was pushing in this direction and she
allowed herself to be led.  She stayed on the right hand side of the
street, on the fringe of the people, glancing into shop windows and
observing architecture.  The buildings on this side of the road ended
abruptly to reveal a large open air market.  It was obvious that most
of the crowd was headed here.

     Even as she noted the various stalls for foods and wares, her
proximity detector went off.  She silenced it abruptly and moved
quietly, but now purposefully through the crowd.  Nothing special, she
goes largely unnoticed except by those eyes that notice all.  On the
other side of the marketplace, there is a huge queue around a red and
white tent.  Mostly young, ragged men with hopeful faces.  In this
exposed location, Jameson doesn't want to pull equipment from her bag.
She makes a mental note to return here during quieter hours.

				 -*-

     Fiero nearly belted an old man in his way, but slammed his fist
into his other palm instead.  The guards were acting tight assed these
days, with the weirdo shit goin' down in the city.  Everybody's a
little on edge.  The Press is leakin' into everything, everybody.  It
wouldn't take more than a wink to get Fiero thrown in the lock-up.  He
folds his hands and flexes the muscles under the flame brand on his
upper arm.  Teeth flash as he smiles quietly, noticing the shakes his
scar gives the old people.
     
     He's been looking for a decent mark all day.  Just a quick grab
and flash.  He could use some cash to pick up some more Joystix.  It
was getting expensive these days, and Karry really didn't like it when
he came back without her fix.  She really REALLY did not like it.  Or
him.  He hated working the market.  He's not a pickpocket, just a
brute force grabber.  It's tough getting out of this place when you
can't slip through, but he usually manages, shoving folks left and
right and back into the guards' way.  But most of the padded merchants
were bodyguarded, all tense and unhappy.  The jewel dealers 'been
hiring watchers to keep open eyes on the stock.  Everybody's tense,
nobody's letting his guard down.  What Fiero needed was a newbie.
Letting his eyes do a slow travel across the crowd he sees the surge
of dusty newcomers entering the market.  Most of them are looking in
all directions at once.  A few aren't.  One's crazy, looks like he's
about to start yelling prophecies or chants or something.  One's big.
Too big.  One's ... dirty, but ... carrying a bulky bag and holding it
pretty tight.  He?  No, she.  About average.  Looking across the
market, not paying attention to anything around her.  He lets the
current of people draw her nearer and he wanders into the stream
himself.  They drift closer and he can see she has brown hair and
sturdy clothes.  She doesn't look particularly intimidating, but her
bag does certainly look full.  He smiles.

				 -*-

     Tearing her attention away from the tent, Jameson all at once
felt the people crowding around her.  She was tired.  Settling her bag
firmly on her shoulders, she began to turn, to fight through the crowd
back to the lane when something bright jumped up in her face.  She
started and the figure laughed raucously and backed away flinging
colored bits of paper at her.  Orienting herself, she realized his
face was a rainbow of make-up and he was juggling painted wooden
balls.  Coming up from behind and beside him, another clown began
stealing the first's juggling tools.  They mock-fought back and forth,
juggling between each other's hands, becoming more and more frantic.
Jameson grinned.  Coming through the crowd, yet another clown, more of
a raggedy man standing over a foot taller than the other two, cut
through their act flipping pins from hand to hand.  The first two
turned, stumbling and seeming barely able to continue juggling, each
about to drop any moment *four* balls where there had been only three
between them to start.

     Suddenly, a small child streaked under the tall man, followed
(around) by a frantic mother.  The tall man stumbled and dropped a
pin.  Jameson caught it and flipped it back into his pattern before he
lost the whole thing.  He grinned and flipped her another.  While she
caught it, he added another pin from his huge pockets.  He repeated
this until they had six pins going back and forth between them.  The
crowd cleared around them a bit, whether from fear or amusement was
uncertain, but it made it easier to breathe.  The other two clowns
began prancing around the people at the edge of the observers,
tripping and catching themselves, juggling madly and holding out their
hats for donations.  The man began to bellow in a resonant voice,
     "See here, ladies and gentlefolk.  Drummer the Magnificent can
teach even the lowliest of low how to juggle in mere moments..."
     "Low only from thy great height, oh mangy master," Jameson
retorted.  Drummer grinned wickedly.
     "Look, the bit of dirt speaks!"
     "Better than you ever shall, my fond fool."
     "Drummer the Magnificent deigns to speak with dirt clod only
because it has exhibited a penchant for the oldest and greatest art in
the world."  Rising to the bait, Jameson laughs.
     "Does your title recommend you for talents in the oldest
profession, Drummer?  And is it true what they say about men with big
feet?"
     "What do the people say of men with big feet, little dirt clod?"
     "Why, they wear big shoes of course!"
     The crowd laughed, and many walked on.  Bowing and scraping, the
other clowns collected what they could and returned to Drummer.
Catching all the clubs and stowing them in his pockets, the afore
mentioned gentleman glowered down at Jameson.
     "Would you like a job, little dirt clod?"
     Jameson smiled.

				 -*-

     Fiero cursed twenty-some-odd gods while he watched his prey slip
from his grasp.  Especially frustrating since he'd already signalled
Markli to be ready to run interference and Chone to do distraction.
He cursed a few more gods and made a decision.  Glancing around at the
encroaching twilight, he nodded purposefully to Markli and Chone.
They looked at him in disbelief, but resumed position when he
threatened with a clenched fist against his jaw.  

     Jameson and Drummer both noticed the Flame Brands at about the
same time.  Drummer flicked his fingers and the two young clowns ran
off, tripping and jumping over each other toward a guard at the edge
of the crowd, near the lane.  Drummer shook his head and glanced down
at Jameson.

     "Ready little dirt clod?"  Without waiting for an answer, he
began juggling his clubs and turned away from Jameson.  

     Jameson stepped left, back and over from Drummer, toward the edge
of the stalls.  From between two stalls, a thick-set youngish man
headed toward her purposefully.  She spun on her heel abruptly and
caught the three pins coming at her from over Drummers shoulders.  He
still faced away.  Juggling, she took a quick step back and let her
foot land squarely on a loose board that had been laying atop a brick.
The other end of the board flipped up and nailed the gang member
firmly in the crotch.  Behind Jameson, Markli's eyes bulged as he
quietly curled up on the ground.

     In the next few moments, Jameson's juggling moves became more and
more exaggerated and on one pin catch, she swung it back to nail Chone
between the eyes without breaking pattern.  She got him twice more
before his body figured out to fall down.

     Turning slightly to the right, she saw Fiero coming at her, eyes
angry and mouth set tightly.  As he concentrated on her, he did not
see the pair of clowns concentrating on him.  One jumped in front of
him to juggle three heavy balls off his chest.  Before Fiero could
shove him out of the way, the other jumped on his back and brought him
down to his hands and knees.  The clown then leap-frogged over him and
landed squarely on his right hand.  Fiero howled, holding his hand to
his chest and attempting to get to this feet.  One of Drummer's pins
caught him under the chin and he flipped back onto his ass.  Dazed, it
only took one of the clowns' wooden balls landing on his head to put
him completely out.  The clown caught it on the bounce and danced over
Fiero's inert form.

     The guard following the clowns did not look happy and the troupe
melted into the crowd, becoming invisible surprisingly quick for a
group so brightly attired.  Frowning, the guard settled his gaze on
Jameson, zeroed in, and began to ask questions.

				 -*-