The soup is to be served in roughly forty-five minutes, Kitty explains, at which time any unserved petitioners must take their grievances elsewhere for the night so King Saul can dine.
You put your hands on your hips and scan the room. It's clear you're expected to perform once the meal begins; the question is, what to do before then.
You pull out your ankle bells and penny-whistle (for a true fool is always prepared) and straighten your clothes. "Wish me good fortune," you tell Kitty with a wink.
She nods, a curious smile on her face, and steps back to the doorframe to watch.
You hear conversation dip lower as you blow the first plaintive note. Dozens of eyes turn to you—including, you note, those of the King, on the far side of the room. You close your eyes and focus on the music, stepping out the beat with your shoe and bells.
In due time, the volume of conversation builds up again and your efforts subside into the background. You alternate between whistle-airs and mellow songs in foreign languages, so your lyrics will not distract the Courtiers. Your extensive repertoire gives you plenty of material to draw from.
The longer you continue, the more you feel eyes lingering on you with curiosity. The occasional soul even applauds or taps a stein against the tabletop in between songs. When you notice the serving staff bringing out soup bowls to each table, you breathe a sigh of relief; you had the skill to make it through without incident. [+Surety]
A Fanfare Rings Out