A Matter of Taste

By: Phaelix Posted on: August 27, 2010

Gunther Arngrim was staring icy daggers across the Market of Ashtan. The tailor in the southern stall was daintily arranging dozens of brightly-colored garments within a vast wardrobe, softly singing nonsense syllables as he worked. Gunther squinted at the contents of the shop, carving deep furrows in his brutish, sloping forehead. He had never seen so many sequins in his life. His mouth scowled invisibly underneath a vast, coniferous beard.

Gunther glanced protectively at at his own wares. Several sets of black sealskin gloves. A dozen black sealskin coats. Three pairs of oily black sealskin boots. Half a dozen pairs of black sealskin trousers. One pair of brown sealskin trousers, pre-owned but presumably, at time of purchase, black. Last owner's present whereabouts - disemboweled, dismembered and washed up in three separate places along the banks of the Urubamba.

"Well met, old bean!" The other tailor was approaching Gunther's stall, fussing with a frilly garment of lavender satin. Gunther attempted to guess at whether the clothing was intended for a man or a woman and soon determined it to be a fruitless venture. The tailor himself was an infuriating combination of tall, slightly built and redheaded, and was wearing a skintight, multicolored sartorial abortion that sported lace and embroidery in every crevice. A rapier lay at his hip and a tiny Siroccian fighting kitten with a torn ear and calico coat followed at his heels.

"Bought out the abandoned stall across your way; hope you don't mind the competition. Quite a stroke of luck for me, in fact. Gods know how impossible it is to find real estate in this part of town. I was so surprised to see this little gem empty and waiting for my high fashion! Anyway, the name is Myles Forsythe - that's the Pash Valley Forsythes, not the western Forsythes; we don't speak of them." Myles waved one frill-encrusted hand dismissively. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is Jumbles," he said, gesturing towards the kitten. Say hello, Jumbles!" Jumbles hissed.

"Gunther," grunted Gunther.

"Ah! Charming, charming. Have you had this store long?"

"Years."

"Years! What a surprise! I had no idea this clothing -" Myles gestured towards Gunther's wares "- was so popular around here. You must have run the people across the street out of business." Myles was grinning slightly.

"They come and go," said Gunther

"I see, I see," puzzled Myles. "And where are you from, old lad?"

"Ashtan."

"Of course, of course, my apologies." laughed Myles. "Originally, I mean."

"Kamleikan."

"Bloody cold up there, what?" Myles laughed. "You are a tailor as well, yes? I was a Bard before this, a rather good poet - perhaps you've heard of me? Pity. At any rate, the money in that racket is miserable. The tailoring license costs a fortune, but they say crafting pays for itself quickly enough - and you know, I do believe I've an unusually gifted eye for style! How long have you been at it?" He glanced briefly at the assorted sealskin garments and winked knowingly at Gunther. "You can confide in me."

"I have always been a tailor. I made clothes in Kamleikan. I left. Now I make them in Ashtan."

"An interesting choice of profession for a man of your, shall we say, stature." Gunther was the approximate height of a Troll and the approximate proportions of an anvil. Myles pressed on through Gunther's blank stare. "And frankly, I've never heard of a Kamleikan tailor. Aren't you people of the persuasion that animal furs need no altering before use?" He tittered foolishly. "But I am curious, my good man. How many other Kamleikan tailors are there? I always strive to know my field of work."

"None." Gunther grunted.

"None? This is the height of tailoring in that cold wasteland?" Myles glanced skeptically at the oily sealskin clothing, appraising the somewhat pungent smell. "Hey, where are you going?" The big man had turned to leave.

"In," said Gunther. Myles was struck by a sudden afterthought.

"Why did you leave Kamleikan?" He called after Gunther.

"They said I dressed like a whore," growled the northman, as he trudged away in his coat, trousers, boots and gloves of old black sealskin.

The next day, Myles began advertising hourly on the telepathic Market channel. "Myles' Styles: fresh, fantastic fashion that you want - no, that you NEED. Come to my store in Ashtan and let me show you what to wear. Free demonstration of what not to wear included, gratis, across the street at Gunther's. Ad 351."

A month went by. People were arriving in hordes to Myles' shop. Gunther could hear their voices yelling all the way at his stall.

"This is perfect. I've been looking so long for something that says, 'I'm not just a clown! I'm a -Jester-! You know? Ridiculous, but with gravitas."

"Lovely, the mother-of-pearl really brings the color of your scales!"

"I've never seen glitter on a pair of tube socks before."

"You know what I like about Myles? He's edgy. Not afraid to push the limit. And those ads - hilarious! It's all true, I get to see the very latest Kamleikan fashions for free, every time I come to Market Street!" The man laughed and gestured to Gunther's stall.

Three days later, Gunther arrived at the Market District to find that someone had put up graffiti on the wall next to Myles's shop. In huge, loopy red letters, it read:

Thither - a shop run by Gunther,

Your lady-friend ought not to shop there,

No matter how charming,

She'll look so alarming,

The moment you see her, you'll punt her!

On that day, Gunther decided he'd had enough.

Myles Forsythe staggered into the vestibule of the shop, fumbled with his keys, tripped going down the stairs, hit his head on the storeroom floor and realized belatedly that he was very, very drunk. Gods, what a party. He'd left Jumbles at the store and had gone out to celebrate the smashing success of his new tailoring venture. Having spent most of his money betting on all the wrong roulette numbers, he had taken temporary leave and vomited his way across Ashtan to his shop to gather some of the day's profits. If yesterday's haul was any indication, he'd made at least ten thousand that day on crotchless lingerie sales alone. Aside from the fact that his name was a devil to rhyme with, Gunther was otherwise completely inept at the art of marketing - or, for that matter, tailoring. With only that Kamleikan simpleton for competition, business had no place to go but-

Myles screamed.

Jumbles - most of him, anyway - was all over the floor, the walls, the wardrobe, a jumble of blood, bones and gore not even remotely resembling a Siroccian fighting kitten. The disassembled bits of the animal had been tossed haphazardly about the dimly-lit storeroom as though the kitten had simply exploded, or somehow ripped apart by some unspeakably savage force. Blood dripped slowly off the table where the kitten's tail had landed, trickling slowly onto a huge, gleaming pile of gold sovereigns below. Myles blinked back tears, all thoughts of debauchery forgotten. Jumbles was dead; the dear little cat was where only the Great Mother could reach him.

Most of him, anyway. His skin was missing.

"New design for the season?"

Gunther looked where Myles was pointing. Next to the sealskin boots was another pair identical in style, but made of some completely different material - furred, with calico patches.

"Yes."

"How unusual. " Myles wore an easy smile, betraying nothing other than an odd stiffness about the lips. Gunther, watching him, considered the possibility of a misunderstanding.

"I made them out of your cat. I killed your cat. That is your cat's fur."

The smile on Myles's lips stayed admirably motionless as a single mutinous vein throbbed violently in his temple. "You don't say," he finally managed. "I think I shall bid you adieu, sir."

Gunther spent the rest of the day as was his custom, looking into the middle distance while sitting in front of his stall. After several hours, he got up, unlocked his storeroom, and went inside to take stock. He tapped a firefly tattoo once for light, took a step forward, and stopped. He rubbed his eyes with one brick-like fist, wondering if he was seeing things. Something unspeakable had happened.

Bits of sequins, lace, silk trim and sewing needles lay everywhere on the floor. The sealskin coats had been covered in several dozen coats of glitter; slashes had been cut in the sleeves and sides and the waists had been cinched to the dimensions of a corset. Great swathes of white lace radiated from the wrists of Gunther's sealskin gloves, while the fingers had been cut off entirely and the palms smothered in embroidery. The stout black boots had been cut down into spats and sewn back together with silk wingtips, ermine trim, stiletto heels, spurs and tiny little papier-mache wings. And the trousers...no, Gunther couldn't bring himself to look at the trousers. No two garments had been vandalized alike, each one a unique snowflake of poor taste.

Gunther stood there, frozen. After a while he gingerly began gathering up the fallen clothes, cradling them like a mother holding an injured child. He took them to the nearest humgii and let it devour them one by one, brushing the tears away as quickly as they came.

"Take back your clothes. I don't want them."

"Ah, wonderful," beamed Myles, pausing from making haphazard slashes in a new set of shirtsleeves to look up at the interruption. The Kamleikan's colossal silhouette blotted out the doorway of the shop entirely. "I'm rather proud of how I managed to work some fashion into those atrocious designs you peddle. You're sure you wouldn't rather put them on sale? I daresay you'll make a tidy profit from it, and I won't ask a sovereign for my commission."

"I don't want them. Take them back."

Myles sighed. "Fine, fine, though you're only taking money out of your own pocket." He got up and followed the Kamleikan out the door and across the street. He paused for a moment at the entrance to the storeroom. The door opened of its own accord, and Myles stumbled as Gunther's boot propelled him headlong down the stairs. Three shadowy figures clad in scalemail emerged from all around him, each holding a whip on one hand and a dagger in the other.

Myles had only the briefest instant to wonder at how Gunther had possibly been able to afford to hire assassins - and then they were upon him. One of them snapped his fingers in the air in front of the tailor and attempted to prick him with a long, needle-pointed dirk; Myles drew his rapier swiftly, only to loosen his grip and drop the rapier gently into an assassin's waiting palms. Hypnosis, he realized. How long had Gunther been planning this? All of a sudden, Myles Forsythe's mind was a roiling mass of insanity - mental afflictions bubbled to the surface of his consciousness; he found himself trying and finding himself unable to move or act, trying to reach for a curative herb only to be sickened at the thought of eating anything, trying to reach for something and forgetting what it was he was reaching for, trying to duck and somersault out the door and succeeding only in squawking like a chicken. He fumbled again and again to touch the curative tree tattoo on his arm and suddenly discovered he was completely paralyzed. The world went dark, and Myles realized he was blind. Again he tried to speak, only to somehow choke and stutter on the words as his hypnotized subconscious rebelled against him. The serpents pricked him over and over with their poisoned dirks, again and again and again, moment by moment imprisoning Myles Forsythe ever more deeply within his own body.

All was still. Myles heard someone approach. Someone large, smelling faintly of seal blubber.

"We Kamleikan," Gunther rumbled, "Have our own sort of poetry. We call it the 'haiku.'" I will give you an example:

'Foolish man.

You are stuck.

I win.'"

Gunther locked the door on his way out. In the endless silence he left behind, the rapidly deteriorating mind of Myles Forsythe could think of only one refrain.

Five...seven...five...

Half flying, half sprinting, the Atavian rounded the corner of Merchant Street at a desperate pace, shirt unbuttoned and cravat askew. He collapsed in a feathered heap before Gunther Arngrim's little shop. Gunther looked up and noted that he wore nothing below the waist.

"Pants...emergency..." the Atavian gasped, chest heaving.

Gunther apprised the situation. There was a man without pants. Here was a man who made pants. This was a shop that sold pants.

"You want to buy my pants," Gunther decided. He brushed off a downy white feather where it had settled on his shoulder and shook out a pair of black sealskin trousers.

"You could say that," panted the Atavian, tossing a hefty bag of sovereigns at Gunther and yanking on the trousers. He paused to catch his breath. "Any idea what happened to Forsythe? I used to buy from his shop all the time when he was here." He glanced at the now-empty stall. Loud, angry voices were yelling something indistinctly from the direction in which the Atavian had arrived, getting louder and angrier by the moment.

Gunther's beard twitched almost imperceptibly, his expression invisible underneath. "A victim of fashion," he said as the Atavian turned and fled in his baggy new sealskin pants, half sprinting, half flying, trying futilely to hold them up with one hand.