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King Jareth raised a brow.

“Well, run along,” Salas said. “I thought you said you had a meeting to attend to.”

“I do,” Jareth said ruefully, setting Newt down and moving to rummage through the drawers of his desk. “Just came to get my seal.” He grabbed what he came for, and left the room promptly.

“Fatherlikesyou,” Newtalia crooned in a sing-song voice, once the ‘father’ in question was officially out of ear shot.

“Of course he does!” Salas placed the book down, his mind reeling as he internalized the new information. He should ignore it. He shouldn’t bother himself with matters of Malthens and war. He was just a bird, after all. A kitchen hand now, he supposed. Not good enough yet for the King.

Yet Salas remembered how, in Suscon, he was able to maneuver himself into talks of politics and social disputes. He was able to make demands, give suggestions, if just occasionally to the emperor. He hadpower, there.

Why not try to claim it here?

“I shall attend the meeting,” he announced grandly, to his audience of one, the child who simply blinked up at him as though he were mad.

After shooing the protesting young girl from the room, Salas got to work, though only after tearing apart the room and testing the quality of every textile available, even the curtains, he realized that there was very little to work with.

It was of not matter. He would simply hunt down the textile workshop and see what fabrics they had available and go from there. Though he did enjoy his time in the kitchen, once he discovered that the palace had its own textile room, complete with monstrous looms, elaborate spinning wheels, and a rack of threads in an array of every color the naked eye could calculate, it had become his new self-proclaimed place of work.

He had shown up one day, ready for employment, much to the bemusement of the head tailor, who had set him up on some cushions with knitting needles, and wouldn’t let him touch the larger equipment until he’d commenced proper training. Salas had surprised even himself with his own patience. Since he saw himself frequenting the workshop, he would allow his progress to be a steady incline.

He headed there now, and upon arrival, stepped over to the deep shelves housing long spools of fabric, his eyes hunting as he sought lighter material. The supply contained heavy wools and linens in abundance, but anything delicate and silken was nearly absent.

Save for a quaint selection.

Once Salas had spotted a velvety emerald silk, he pulled the spool out greedily, turned to get to work, and ran straight into the head tailor.

“Salas! What are you doing?!” the man barked, taking Salas in with an acute mix of exasperation and buried fondness; a look that he was growing closely familiar with.

“Something very important!” Salas barked back in Diagorian, moving to step around the man.

The man was old in his years, though still a Diagorian beast, and he easily took the domineering stance in their standoff when he grabbed Salas’ shoulders so Salas would inevitably further explain.

Salas growled, knowing fair-well that he sounded more like a peeved barn cat compared to when the Diagorians released their own guttural, ferocious noises, yet uncaring. “I have to go to…” he thought back to the word Jareth had used for the gathering he was attending, “a meeting! It starts now. Must be quick!”

The tailor raised a brow. “You’re taking cloth to a meeting?”

“Wearingcloth to meeting.” Obviously.

“What? Why?”

Salas sighed, internally fuming at this new obstacle knowing that the war meeting must have already gone underway and he had neither the time, nor the vocabulary, to explain his plan to this man.

Yet with no other option, he tried. “I go to meeting, serve at meeting, make men happy and…entertained.”

The tailor blinked in confusion, dropping his hands. “Serve?”

“Oh!” Salas explained quickly. “Not serve, like…” He reiterated a number of colorful, illicit verbs he had picked up from other birds and passing guards, depicting a number of ways to commit sexual debauchery.

The tailor turned bright red and held up a hand to signal that he understood.

“Not serve like that. The King…doesn’t like that. Serve fruits and snacks,” Salas explained.

“And you need special clothes for that?”

“Of course! It is the Susconian way. The meeting people will like it,” he gushed earnestly, growing more sure of himself in the resolve of his plan. “The King asked me to serve,” he added, lying openly and hoping that this inclusion would settle the matter.

It was the tailor’s turn to sigh, yet his release of breath was in defeat. “Come,” he beckoned, turning away, “Put that away. I have a few pieces already made that you might warm to.”