I'm still a bit too chicken to try playing at dinner. The prospect of a lot of drunk nobles lashing out at me is still one I'm not too keen on, even though in deference to my new role as castle narc, drunk people are more likely to blab about their illicit activities. I'll have to think of another way to initiate interactions with the ministers and nobility.

My first idea is to wander the castle with my lute, waiting to encounter someone of some political standing so I can strike up a conversation with them, offering my musical services as pretext. It would be a great way to practice getting talked down to without lashing out, while not being subject to a large group of people who hate me all at the same time.

This has mixed results. On one hand, I get talked down to a lot. About one hundred percent of the time, actually.

On the other hand, the conversations aren't very long. They only last as long as it takes for the person to give me a very disparaging "no", then walk away. This isn't much use if I need to practice my ability to suppress my emotions over time. I'm getting nowhere with this tactic.

I’m laying on a couch in some drawing room complaining about this to Vizsla one day, watched by the ever-present Rhys standing in the corner, and she suggests something I hadn’t thought of.

“Why not just play in the main dining hall at lunch?” she says.

I break my staring match with the ceiling and look at her quizzically.

“I didn’t know the main dining hall gets any use at lunch,” I say. “Don’t most people eat at different times in their rooms or offices, or in the smaller dining rooms?”

“A lot of people do, yes, but a modest spread gets put out in the dining hall every day, and a decent amount of people take their lunch there. Not nearly as many compared to dinner, and they come and go between eleven and two.”

I’m fairly certain it’s around three-thirty now, so it’s too late to try today. Khysmet had something to do that took him out of the castle this afternoon, so I’m on my own for the rest of the afternoon and evening. If I want to plan on trying it tomorrow, I should spend the rest of my time today making sure I have some of the new songs I’ve learned down pat, because I know if some uppity aristocrat makes a specific request and I get even one line slightly wrong, I’ll be mocked relentlessly.

I sit up abruptly, making Vizsla jump a bit.

“Do you think,” I ask her, “you could help me roleplay? I would follow you around while you work and you would name songs for me to play, then belittle me if I fuck up.”

Vizsla giggles.

“I don’t know if I could be mean enough to make it feel real,” she says, “but I’ll try my best.”

I run off to grab my lute.

True to her word, her insults aren’t very cutting. They’re too general; she mostly just tells me that I'm horribly untalented and makes some digs at my being human. I’ve heard the actual slights people make against me, and they’re a lot more subtle and specific. As much as I appreciate Vizsla’s help, it’s not going to prepare me for the real thing.

I instead turn, eager and hopeful, to Rhys. He is standing in the far corner, pointedly looking away because he already knows what’s coming. I approach him slowly with the biggest puppy dog eyes I can muster, getting as close as I can without causing him to run away.

“No,” he says before I’ve said anything.

“Please?”

"Absolutely not."

It takes a lot of cajoling, but he reluctantly, yet inevitably, agrees to try and help.

I start playing, mentally preparing for the verbal attack I have explicitly requested.

But when I mess up the first time, he comes at me with an insult so specific and cruel, delivered with such derision that it makes me forget this is pretend. I feel my heart jump into my throat and genuine tears beginning to bud in my eyes.

“Rhys, you…” I say, my voice cracking. “You don’t really think that about me, do you?”

“What?!” He physically recoils as though touched by a hot coal. “Of course n– You asked me to say it!”

“I know, it's just…” I shiver. “It felt so real.”

“I would never, ever say that, Miss Catarina, I swear!” he insists, gesturing emphatically. “I heard someone say it one time, and it stuck in my head because of how terrible it is, that’s all!”

I sigh in relief, then clutch my chest as my tears transform into those of joy.

“Rhys, that was incredible!” I say, voice thick with emotion. “Your delivery was filled with such passion and force. You’d be an amazing actor!”

The gray scales on his face flush into a bright red and he turns his head away.

“I’m just around the nobility a lot, so it’s not hard to copy their mannerisms,” he mutters as explanation.

“Don’t be so modest, Rhys, you’ve got real talent!”

He refuses to respond or even look in my direction. Mentally, I’m planning on introducing him to Suzanne next time the Warblers come back to Dimos, but I can sense that such an offer would be unwelcome right now, so I’m not going to push the issue.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together, then picking up my lute. “Do it again just like that. It caught me off guard last time, but I’m ready for it now.”

“Fuck no.”

I spend like fifteen minutes trying to convince him to fake-insult me again, but he won’t budge. Vizsla, whose jaw dropped at his initial fake insult and hung open for a full minute after, even helps try to talk him into it. I’m pretty sure any compliments on his acting ability end up taking us further away from the goal, so eventually we give up.

Ultimately, I settle for just practicing the songs themselves. I’ll work on reacting to mean comments when I’m in the actual trenches tomorrow.

******

“I’m a little hurt that you didn’t ask me to help you roleplay,” Khysmet says over breakfast the next morning. "I can do a very convincing impression of cruel aristocracy."

I snort. "Impression?"

I push the food on my plate around with my fork. When I told Khysmet about my plans for lunch today, he was very supportive of the idea. This, however, is too supportive. The thought of him just openly insulting me, fake or not, makes me cringe. The usual relentless teasing is bad enough as it is.

"I promise I won't mean it," he reassures me. "I know you care deeply about my opinion of you."

That makes me smirk. It also reminds me that I do not, in fact, care about his opinion. It was hard to hear it from Rhys, who I actually want to like me, but it actually probably wouldn’t be so bad coming from Khysmet.

I close my eyes and take a breath to help me get into character, sitting up straight, clasping my hands, and putting on a saccharine smile. When I feel ready, I open my eyes and start the scene.

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“Hello, sir,” I greet brightly. “Would you like to listen to some music while you eat today?”

Khysmet is looking at me with amusement and flicking his tongue.

“Very well,” he says in a rather convincing bored drawl, “but don’t sing while you play. I’ve heard screaming cats with voices better than yours.”

I’m a little impressed. That’s definitely something I’ve overheard in a hallway before, almost verbatim. My grin does not falter, and I summon the spirit of vapid obsequiousness to respond.

“Of course, sir," I say as genuinely as possible, "I wouldn’t want to disturb your meal in any way. What would you like me to play?”

Khysmet flinches and makes a face like he just tasted something horrible.

“What,” I say, “no good?”

He shakes his head emphatically. "Way too convincing. Definitely say that to the people you see at lunch, but never speak to me like that again."

I grin. Whatever I might think about Khysmet, at least he doesn't want me to be a simpering yes-man. He genuinely seems to appreciate my back-talk, which is perfect, since I delight in talking back.

"How about this," I suggest, "you say something mean to me, and I'll respond with what I would really say to that person if I could get away with it."

"Sounds fun," he says, then he sits back in his chair and affects an air of faux scorn, waving his hand in exaggerated dismissiveness.

"I'm amazed that you're able to play your instrument effectively with those fat human fingers of yours."

"My human pinky finger is twice as fat as your dick, dipshit, and you can't do anything effectively with that."

Khysmet chokes loudly. He puts an elbow on the table and holds his head in his hand for a while. I think I see him shake a little in silent laughter. After a beat, he emerges more composed.

"It's a bit crude," he says, voice froggy, "but I'd pay good money to hear you say that to a couple of my more arrogant advisors."

I make a request to leave the great hall fifteen minutes before eleven today, which he willingly grants, telling me to meet him in the library when I’m done. It gives me a chance to grab my lute and get in position, and also to compose myself. I don’t exactly know why I’m so nervous about this. It’s not as though I’ve never been insulted before. I haven’t been heckled that much on stage, but it has happened. I've also had some encounters with exceptionally rude people in the street when we would be trying to drum up interest for a show. It’s unpleasant, but I know it’s survivable.

Perhaps it’s because there’s no one backing me up here. I have lots of friends in the castle, but no one who could come to my defense without fear of excessive retribution. I can’t even come to my own defense.

It occurs to me now that I should ask some of my friends in the castle staff what goes through their heads when they’re talked down to, especially the attending servants who I know end up bearing the brunt of many nobles’ wrath on a regular basis. I feel insensitive for not thinking about this before now. I can’t believe I was asking Vizsla to roleplay scenarios with me before just asking how she personally handles the exact same situation, which I have no doubt she has many times before. I’ll apologize to her about it later.

For now, I just take a deep breath and walk into the dining hall.

There’s a wide assortment of foods put out across several of the tables, but significantly less than there was at dinner the one time I went, where nearly every table was overflowing with platters, bowls, and pitchers. There are proportionally fewer occupied seats as well, and the people are mostly separated into smaller groups. For my purposes, it’s an ideal situation.

I’m determined not to think too hard about it. I pick the group closest to the door I just entered through, consisting of four women of various ages, and walk right up.

One of them notices my approach and speaks up before I have a chance to say my opening line.

“Oh look, it’s the king’s little pet,” she remarks in an amicable tone that’s at odds with her words. “Is there something you want, dear?”

I put on my nicest, most innocent smile. “I was just wondering if you wanted to listen to any music while you eat, ma’am.”

The older woman to my right, who I recognize upon seeing her face as Lady Hoskhana, one of my more vocal detractors, scoffs derisively.

“I can’t see why I should willingly choose to listen to the music of my people rendered so poorly by the incompetent, fleshy hands of a brainless ape,” she says haughtily.

Yeah, that’s pretty much what I expected. Apparently, the fortunate thing about worrying about this all yesterday afternoon and this morning is that the real thing doesn’t have the same impact as I thought it would. I’m about to bow out gracefully and try my luck elsewhere, when the first woman, to my surprise, speaks up.

“Oh she’s not so bad,” she says. “I quite like her on the harp in the mornings. Sometimes I go to the hall just to sit beside the windows and listen.”

“Th- Thank you, ma’am,” I stutter with a slight bow. “I didn’t realize that anyone besides his majesty liked my playing.”

“Don’t be silly, little pet,” says a third woman with a dismissive wave. “If your music was truly disliked, not even the king’s favor would be enough to keep you around.”

This is much better than I could have even hoped for. I happily play a couple of their requests while they eat. Hoskhana doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way the whole time, which is perfect. In fact, I am mostly ignored except when they pick a new song. I’m not a fan of how they talk to me like I’m a simple child, but since they’re not deliberately mocking me about it, it’s a bit easier to stomach.

It’s a good place to start, but if I’m not feeling bothered and tested, then it’s not good practice, is it?

After a few songs, none of them has requested a new one. I think they might have actually forgotten that I’m here. In this lull, I hear a male voice speak up from one table down.

“Hey, little mouse. Over here.”

I look in that direction and see, amidst a group of six men, one of them waving me over. I bow to the folks at my current table and thank them for allowing me to play for them. Not one of them even looks in my direction, so I take that to mean I’m permitted to go.

As I approach this new table, I have an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. The man who called me over is the only one even looking at me, the others talking amongst themselves, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that I don’t like. He waits until I’m right in front of him to speak up.

“Why haven’t I seen you here at lunch before?” he demands.

Cue my vapid smile.

“I wanted to learn a lot of Veilsung’s music before playing at meals,” I say sweetly, “and it took me a while to get a good repertoire.”

“Aww, how thoughtful of you, little mouse,” he says in a croon so sickly and simpering it makes goosebumps erupt on my skin. “Why don't you sing Sons of the Desert for me, and we'll see how well your 'repertoire' is coming along."

Aha. Here it is – a challenge. The start of my real practice. I can feel from the air quotes he put around "repertoire" that this man is going to push the limits of my resolve.

I haven’t even made it through the first verse before he interrupts.

“No, no, it’s ‘of all the seasons’, not ‘all of the seasons’,” he says testily. “If you don't know the lyrics to something, just say so, little mouse, so I can request something else."

My hackles rise instantly. I feel my left eye twitch. Not because I'm being corrected so rudely, which is already irritating in and of itself, but because I said it right in the first place. He either heard me wrong or he intentionally corrected me on a mistake I didn't make.

I can’t say that, of course; I can’t say anything against him at all. That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. So, I’m going to grin and bear it.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” I say, hoping he can’t see how hard I’m clenching my fist. “Thank you,” I get out with difficulty, “for correcting my error. Is there something else you would like to hear?”

He proceeds to request three other songs, and he corrects me on a nonexistent mistake for every. Single. One.

After the first time, the other men at the table start to snicker and add little comments when he interrupts me.

I’m beginning to hyperventilate with suppressed rage. My eye won’t stop twitching. I’m trying to say as little as possible so I don’t have the opportunity to tell him that if he wants a song performed right, he should pull his head out of his ass and sing it himself.

I have no doubt that he would just keep going, asking for song after song until the exercise starts to bore him, but I cut him off at four, giving the excuse that Khysmet requested my presence at a certain time, and I need to get going.

“I feel sorry for the king,” he muses before I can take my leave. “I don’t know how he tolerates so much incompetence from someone with such a simple and pointless role. When you see him, give him my sympathies.”

I feel a vein pop in my forehead.

“Of course, sir, I’ll be certain to relay your concerns in full.”

I manage to walk out of the dining hall, but once in the hallway and out of sight, I break into a run. I fly down the corridors and into my room to start beating the ever-living hell out of my pillows. I scream and curse and pick up whatever unbreakable objects I can find and hurl them violently across the room. I even pick a chair that looks like it has enough padding to survive the fall and flip it over with all my might. When I’m finished with my tantrum, I throw myself bodily onto the bed and lay there face down for a while, intermittently screaming.

When I’m all screamed out, I get up and start putting the room back in order. I push the chair back up on its legs, pick up all the socks and towels from disparate corners of the room, and put everything back into place. No matter how pissed I am, I’m not going to make more work for Vizsla when she comes to tidy up.

This isn’t going to work. I need to find a way to keep my anger in check. Practice will help, but I’m lacking any sort of strategy to even make it longer than a couple minutes. Next chance I get, I’m going to tour the whole castle asking every single member of the staff how they handle dealing with assholes day in and day out. There must be someone with a method that will work for me.

For now, though, I need to head to the library to meet Khysmet.