“Did he?” Green showed surprise. Well, it would not have been a thing for Black to brag upon. Less heroic than setting pork barrels alight.
“He did. In full portrayal of ‘Jeremiah Black, Lord of Evil’. Using that faint lisp and limp, the menacing politeness he practiced upon servants and dogs.”
Green shuddered. “That performance always made my teeth ache. Not… the black velvet cloak?”
“Oh yes. With the collar turned high. And a crossbow bolt for my head. But his hate was no portrayal, no act of show. He wished to see me die, Green. Die in despair, every hope and comfort heel-crushed by his boot. I saw a man completing a long labor of hate.”
Green took more snuff. Shook head. “I remain unsure hate or love need great reason, Rayne. These things have their own purposes, oft never put to words.”
Father Bright coughed, in sign he wished to share from his plate of wisdom. “You have lived a violent life, Mister Gray. Perhaps you killed some brother or father to him? Slew some family member with face and heart like to his, and so earned this dark enmity.”
I considered taking offense. But I am former soldier, former duelist, present spadassin on sabbatical. I have slain many who remained unintroduced as corpse. Who knew but one or two held last name ‘Black’? I stared at the priest, who returned gaze, hand to tinted spectacles, peering fascinated upon my tinted soul. Bah. He played a part, and did not hide it. And behind the portrayal of snide cleric he plotted mischief. Another soul who wished me ill, for reasons unknown.
We inched on, while I brooded on my mirror’s flaws. Till from outside the carriage came a rough howl, a throaty growl. We approached the intersection of wolf and tiger. I opened the door, leaned out again.
By the roadside waited a stranded wagon. Parts of the right rear wheel lay loose; several figures argued how best to put the pieces together again. All the back of the wagon was a great iron cage. Within sat the rumored tiger and wolf. They seemed wonderfully at ease with one another. But whenever horse or wagon tried to pass by, the creatures roared. Horses shied, scattered to the curses of rider and waggoneer.
Something false about the animals’ ferocity. The tiger raised both front paws, took dramatic breath and released a roar, waving unsheathed claws. The wolf yawned, snapped at a fly. Then a cart approached. Tiger settled its fur while Wolf sat up, raised paws and howled, white teeth flashing, red tongue no war banner but simple handkerchief, good for wiping the day’s work from muzzle. The cart horses went wild, veering away, the wolf nodded satisfied, left the next carriage to the tiger.
The traffic circled round across a ditch, through a muddy field. Where wheels sank deep in mud, building a wall of wagons against the sea of traffic. I opened the cupboard beneath the seat, withdrew the blanket kept within for cold rides. Jumped from the carriage, pushed past spectators, approached the beast wagon. The name of some circus writ in faded letters. Perhaps some act contracted by Teufel for the fair of wonders. Hellfire, this violation of civic order could be my fault.
The men struggling to build a better cartwheel ceased at my approach. I ignored them, walked up to the cage. Tiger and Wolf considered me, heads tilted as though I were the exhibit. We studied one another through the bars. Who knew that tigers had whiskers drooping like a retired major-general? That wolf ears twitched so? The tiger’s eyes shone liquid and green, kindly eyes that would weep as the beast devoured you. The amber wolf eyes contained all a forest of shadow and menace. One could lose oneself in those eyes. The wolf teeth were yellow-white stone spikes marking a cave of wonder and death…
“Shut up the both of you, else become rug and coat,” I snarled, raising my hands for claws. Tiger blinked, Wolf grinned. I tossed the blanket upon the bars, hiding these ferocious beings.
“Roar,” tried a voice behind the blanket.
“Growl,” agreed a second.
“Right,” I said. I felt an urge to say more. I could think of nothing. There was nothing. “Right,” I repeated, and walked back to the carriage, slammed the door. Green spoke not, nor Bright. Wise of them. And thus we trundled along a full two minutes before slowing to our crawling, drawling, dawdling stop-start pace again.
“Phineas?” I inquired.
“Funeral procession, sir. So they are saying ahead. Might be in our way till we reach Widegate.”
Tilt of shadows declared the time: past noon. Enough. I climbed out, slammed carriage door. “I shall meet you at the cemetery,” I shouted to those within, and walked on. The roadside stretched cluttered with carts attempting to pass one another. Resulting in further confusion and delay. Horsemen hurried in and out, paying little regard to those afoot. I considered leaping upon a rider, stealing his horse. I did not, I am no brigand. Well, not when I can help it. It felt good to walk. I prefer my feet to hooves or wheels.
Music ahead. Bagpipes, wailing lament. I shivered. If angels lurk in bells, there are devils in the pipes. At length I sighted the funeral procession. Riders on black horses, carriages with somber faces. The horses proceeded in absurd measure. A step. A pause. A step. Those to the roadside had no choice but to halt, doff hat, look solemn. I pushed past, came to the hearse. Paneled in glass. Within lay a shrouded figure of giant girth. The outlined head misshapen, as though beneath the cloth lay no man’s face but the muzzle of a beast. I hurried on, quickly came to the front. There marched the piper, kilt red as blood, his half-steps leading the funeral. And holding up every last carriage twixt Widegate and High Street.
Tall as I, if of thinner girth. Long hair, horse’s face and a dreaming look, for all the thought and breath set to piping dirge. If I say he seemed familiar, the observation sums to nothing. My mind now sensed secret connection with bells and barristers, tigers and toy puppets.
But was he not the same guard who’d fenced me while Black’s warehouse burned? The one who’d carved the tabletop with face of a girl. The very art piece that now hung above my mantle. I felt urge to tell him of the bells of the cathedral. Combined with my urge to tell him he held up a thousand carts and carriages.
I drew rapier, approached. The man’s eyes dreamed of far things. The girl Kariel, no doubt. I felt I knew this man better than from a night’s fencing. He gazed upon my approach as he would a cloud passing in the quiet sky. Sight of my sword did not slow or lessen the piping by a quarter-breath. How very like him, I thought.
I made slow delicate thrust, piercing the leather heart of the bagpipe. It expelled a dying bellow that sighed to flat fart. The piper opened eyes wide at this murder of music. He tried a few further puffs, achieving dismal groans from the thing. All the funeral procession halted. A few shouts from spectators.
The piper sighed, laid the bagpipe corpse reverently upon the ground. Stood again, drew the saber at his side. I recalled all of our previous fight; the man’s speed and reach, the glory and the flame.
For which reason I turned and ran like hell.
Chapter 17
Robin’s Men Seize a Downcast Knight
I have known proud thieves. The best served as scout to my regiment. Professor Brock, we called him, for he taught any willing to learn. His tutelage kept men alive as they fled through forest, crept across field. Our Badger was past master of slinking, of hiding, of patient observation for a target’s weakness. He taught of lock and shadow, of the ways of guards and tricks of eye and ear that revealed movement or disguised it. Explaining as he went how he learned this trick, that secret while removing property in another’s possession, thus making it his possession. He stole my best boots and the commander’s silver watch; and who could quarrel?
But most thieves I’ve known disliked honest labeling of a mirror. As cheats, murderers, liars, cowards, cutthroats, degenerates, slavers, usurers, wastrels, hypocrites, tyrants, traitors, trimmers, slatterns, bullies, whoremasters, pharisees, pirates, flatterers, fools, footpads and fops disliked the naming of their tribes. This folly of mankind amused me when I was member of the triple clans Proud, Callow, Ignorant. I recall sitting at table arg
uing the naming of crime.
“Say a man puts knife to his neighbor’s throat, demanding coin or chicken,” I explained. “Why, he’s a common, dirty, petty thief. But should he join with the neighbor and they shout together ‘stand and deliver’, behold your poetic highwaymen. And if they gather a band of fellow souls and plunder across the hills, they become brigands. Now let them hire out to plunder for another, suddenly they rise in title and honor to mercenary. And let the leader have thread and ambition to sew his own name upon a cloth, waving this rag as he robs and rapes, we promote him to war captain. Planting banner upon enough corpses, he shall achieve immortality in song and statue: conqueror.
“You ignore historical impetus,” grumbled Green.
“And good for him,” retorted Black, refilling my cup with agreement in claret. “Raise high the thief’s banner, I say. Why steal chickens, when the wide world waits its plucking?”
Green snorted, forced to pour his own cup of agreement. “Well, but suppose Rayne now pulls knife, demands your purse? The celebration of heroic amorality falls apart when the point is jabbed in one’s own throat.”
I stared at Jeremiah Black, he at me. I reached a slow hand towards my knife. He hefted the bottle, considering. Then he laughed, same moment as I, as Green. We clinked cups. Friends weighing the world’s worth, but never the wine’s.
* * *
“Stand and deliver,” declared a voice. Two figures seized the path before me, scarves covering lower faces. Green capes billowing in joy for the dramatic moment. Out from shadows stepped the rest of the brave robber band, weapons at the ready.
I halted on road now more dirt than cobble. Trees and ruined houses shadowed the way, the remains of an older township not yet overcome by the exploding bounds of the city behind. I sought to recall: of all the roads I’ve traveled, had any thief, cutthroat or conqueror ever uttered those famous words: ‘stand and deliver’?
What did they even mean? I stood already. Deliver what? Coin-purse, no doubt. But suppose I pretended to misunderstand? I might deliver a speech. Something upon Wealth of Nations. I glanced behind. I’d lost the funeral procession, the vengeful piper. I hoped. At one point I’d looked back and glimpsed a pursuing host of kilted persons waving ceremonial sabers, fronted by a tiger and a wolf. But the road had been crowded. Perhaps I’d seen only shadow and dust-shimmer. No matter. The sight spurred my pace. Widegate could not be a mile ahead.
I considered those about me. Children playing robbers. Not a one with head high as my chin. Lower faces masked by paisley-print rags torn from their mother’s kitchen apron. Eyes staring wide and wild, bare feet stamping impatient for purse or blood. Or rope-skipping. Willow-sticks stringed with yarn for bows, river reeds for arrows. Only the Robin Hood before me held real weapon. Pistol. Box-lock, Belgian make. Dangerous toy to point at strangers. Twice dangerous to point at me.
The brigand-leader and I considered one another. Combed-down hair, in contrast to the ragamuffin rest. Two moons for eyes peering above the mask. Green cape catching river-wind. A steady hand on the pistol. A girl, I decided; for all the lack of woman in the skinny chest, the slender hips. Next to this young Robin stood a boy in green cape, dandelion-fluff hair beneath grown man’s hat. He peered out from mask, hair and hat brim as sly scout from deep shadow.
A taller boy stood to the back, and called in high voice. "What art thou, friend, who dost travel in this manner upon his most gracious Majesty's highway?"
“Don’t you mean ‘who art thou’?” asked a boy beside him. Of similar build, which was damned skinny. Both wore tall hats crushed flat, as if it were the style to stomp upon them before donning.
The taller shrugged. “Who, what, where, when. Still must come to coin or death for end.”
The band shivered appreciatively for the worth of those dramatic words. Then turned to me. My turn to do or say or be something dramatic. I searched, found nothing in my head but economics and labor laws. What of that? I consider tax reform and worker rights damned dramatic. I bowed low, cleared throat.
“Rousseau speaks of a contract that unites. He declares that a man walks the street in obligation to those who placed each cobble. Passing strangers in agreement they shall not leap upon him as wild animals; nor he upon them.”
The moon-eyed Robin Hood considered, exchanging glances with Boy Marian. Then spoke, voice muffled by thin cloth. “Peut-etre, non, messieur.” I blinked at that. She continued en anglaise, quoting Rousseau precise as schoolmaster with notes before him.
“In truth, laws are always useful to those with possessions and harmful to those who have nothing; from which it follows that the social state is advantageous to men only when all possess something and none has too much”. Her turn to bow, keeping eye and gun upon me.
“That means deliver your money,” added the taller boy. Wide crystal eyes peered over the rag-mask; wrists thin as ivory rods.
“Doesn’t,” countered his shorter version. “Just means how those with lots of coin use law to steal, and those with none use knife or gun.”
“You miss Jean-Jacque’s point,” replied a girl. Unlike the rest of the band, she wore dress, bore no weapon. Rag mask hid face but she pulled it down, the better to speak.
“Society descends to robbery when there is too great an inequality between rich and poor,” she declaimed. “The agreement not to plunder one another must be based on a system minimally fair to all.” She tossed head, gave me wink warm as a pat between the legs.
“Sucks to your Frenchman,” snorted the taller boy. “That loon says wood-savages are sweet ‘n kindly. Hobbes has it right. Savages would eat you, wear your skin for a coat. Bankers do the same, just with nicer dividing of the labor.”
A great black dog pushed to the front. Ragged green cloth tucked into collar for robber’s cloak. Wagged a tail at me in greeting; then sat and scratched to show its opinion of fleas and philosophy.
“Society starts with savages agreeing not to eat each other,” replied the girl in the dress. Red hair wove to braids. Ears … pointed? I stared. Familiar seeming. She might be young sister to Sionnach. Had I not once seen her singing upon the Cathedral steps? With two older creatures. The three graces, I’d thought them. Forgot about the strange ear. How could one forget pointed ears?
The youngest Grace folded arms, not at my stare but in defiance of Hobbes. Obviously the liberal conscience of the robber band.
“Not how we started,” claimed another. “The family began one clan, one heart.”
“True,” said another. “Then we started eating each other.”
Laughter, and some hisses. More arguing. At last all the band turned to the quietest present, as to final authority. The dandelion-haired Marion next the moon-eyed Robin Hood. He stared dreamily at clouds passing tree tops, his willow bow pointing nowhere. Reminded me of the Piper. But each individual here reminded of another. Or several others. The damned dog sat familiar enough to near name.
Someone jabbed the cloud dreamer with arrow-stick. He frowned, looked about in surprise to find himself on the earth. Coughed, bent to scratch the dog’s head, explaining to it.
"In the beginning, so proud to be us. Measured by our eyes and no other. Peers we were each to each, and cared nothing for princes waiting at the door. The least of our blood was royalty in the measure of our love. We were the night sky stars, the storm wind, the winter geese folk flying free, free."
Dog, robbers and victim together stood in the road, considering these words. Then came shouts as a farm cart came rumbling, tumbling upon us. We leaped aside to save our lives. The horses thundered past, driver shouting curses. A savage farmer displaying no least social obligation to rescue me from highwaymen.
Enough. I shook head to wake myself. I’d been dreaming on my feet. Shadows were lengthening fast. I considered the bandit to the back, with crystal eyes, stick thin wrists, flattened top hat. I looked up at the sky, inquired of a cloud.
“Penn Zeit-Teufel?”
“No, sir I’m no
t,” stammered the boy, jumping. “Never heard the name in me life.”
The child beside him pulled down her mask in amaze and disgust. Behold the snake girl, amber of eye, wild of hair. She hissed something, gave Penn a punitive kick. He turned the willow-bow of war upon her.
“Don’t start again,” sighed the moon-eyed bandit queen. “You’ll be calling the lightning.”
“Enough,” I announced. The band glanced at me, puzzled what voice I had in the Robber’s Council. I eyed the bandit chieftain’s gun. Cocked. Very dangerous game. “I’m in a hurry,” I declared.
“No you are not,” argued another. “You want to slow down. A man your age has no business running down the road.”
“Could trip,” said a second. “Wander lost. Come upon bandits.”
“We are bandits, you pudding-head,” snapped another.
“See?” retorted the first, looking towards me for support.
“A great hurry,” I emphasized, staring into Robin Hood’s moon eyes. Boy Marian returned gaze to clouds; while the girl gazed straight at me; yet one felt they both considered things impossible to name. Perhaps I have clouds within me, passing this way and that as soul’s winds blow. Right now my inner wind blew damned impatient. I reached, pushed down the pistol. She made no argument, fired no shot.
“Ach, the road’s yours,” she sighed. “Else we’ll be debating wealth and law till fish learn to bagpipe.”
“They could an’ they wished,” said Penn. “Fish are wonderful clever creatures.”
“They haven’t hands, you tomnoddy,” said another.
Penn considered. “Squid do. Imagine a great big squid playing bagpipes beneath the ocean.”
We all stood in the road considering the idea. A great tentacled being floating in green sea-light, puffing into pipes while lesser fish stared goggle-eyed. It startled me, till I must shake head clear of undersea caves, eldritch sea-song. Just as well. Another cart near ran us over.
These children wielded magic power to keep a mind wandering. I took breath, nodded to robbers and dogs and strode straight through the band. None hindered my passing. I turned, walking backwards, bowed, waved farewell, turned and continued my way down the road without a stumble.
The Harlequin Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 15
