The fellow who’d been near to back-stabbing me stood, wiping blood from outraged face. In return Anger barked laughs, drew rapier. Cheering sounds. I moved beside him. Bravely we stood two against a host of foes.
“We run now or die,” whispered Anger. Not so cheering; yet sound math. We turned and ran for the shelter of the open sepulcher. Leaped within. I whirled, slammed the oaken door with a ‘boom’ that echoed. Convenient bar ready to hold the door? Excellent: I thrust it through iron rings. No pause to appreciate the foresight of whoever expected me to take refuge within. Assuming this for my benefit. Why not? All the night’s madness stood designed for Rayne Gray.
I waited for fists to pound, voices shouting ‘come out, face slaughter like a brave clay-man’. There should sound curses, challenges, threats. Nothing. No clatter of feet, not even the mutter of sinister plans just beyond hearing. I considered the fast-barred door. The entrances to graves, coffins, sarcophagi, tombs, sepulchers, mausoleums and other corpse-closets are traditionally designed to be locked and sealed from outside.
I sighed. I’d just been chivied where I was meant, sly fox into slyer fox trap. Now I would turn, find myself sealed within a death chamber with some fiend grinning welcome. I did so turn.
Well-lit for a tomb. Empty but for Anger, who leaned against shadowed wall, arms folded, hat low over eyes to sign he rested in deep thought. I looked from him to the room’s center. A long stone altar, each corner set with candle. Upon it rested a dead form shrouded by thin silk. Grotesquely large, and the face beneath the cloth rising up as though the dead man had muzzle, not mouth. I knew this shape; the same corpse within the hearse today, centering the piper’s funeral march.
Best get it done. I took breath, shook head, walked to the altar. Pulled away the shroud. Prepared to leap back when it rose roaring at eternal rest disturbed.
Behold… a suit of armor. Familiar seeming, as all mad things in my life. No ancient pot-iron suit proper to a rich man’s hall corner. Here lay armor never depicted by heroic song or painting. Nothing heroic about it. This was a suit for butchery. A metal shell stained with blood and fire, scarred as warrior’s flesh after a thousand battles. A sword upon its breast; an ugly blade near thick and squat as butcher’s axe. The edge jagged as teeth of fish from sea depths below light and naming.
A helmet in form of dragon’s face. So giving the shrouded form its bestial look. But what face waited beneath? I reached, lifted. No face at all. Mere shadow and dust.
“I’ve seen this before,” I informed the tomb. “In the basement of the Hall of Wonders.” And before as well. When? Lost in the memory fog, the magic box.
“Ah, Teufel’s mad hall,” sympathized Anger. “Wouldn’t catch me within if life and shadow hung upon it. Don the armor now, man. Time’s passed you gave over dithering.”
I turned to the door. Still no sound, no rattle nor clamor. Did the entire harlequin host stand in silence, circled about the tomb? A disquieting thought.
“Why aren’t they attacking?”
“Ach, not their way. If they cannot sly upon a body, it counts for naught in their eyes. Twisty things. Hark to them now?”
I listened. A faint scrape, thump, scrape beyond the door. Anger shook head. “Behold their style. They seal us within, by mortar and brick.”
“What?”
“God’s truth,” affirmed the man. “I know the sound of a grave sealed so. Best kill the candles. Air will last a bit longer.”
I declined this sensible surrender to dark slow death. Searched the room. No reason why a tomb shall not have a back door. Well, yes there is but still.
“Rayne!” shouted a voice beyond the grave. In more ways than one. “Don’t come out. They- “. Dealer’s voice. Cut off before saying aught else. I wondered how they silenced him. They could hardly cut his throat.
Then another spoke. Close and clear, just beyond the door. They’d be standing in the way of the bricklaying. A deep tone, yet dry and whispery as desert wind. And, of course, familiar.
“Come out, Gray. Your reckoning time is come.”
“Is that you, Gould?” I asked.
“It is. Indeed, you have an appointment with death tonight.”
“It’s you that’s late,” I pointed out. Anger laughed. I paused to wonder why, gave it over. Everything amused the man. Was that deep madness within him, or stark sanity?
“Poor form to pound the door now you’ve scraped up courage,” I added, coughed. Was the air going thin? Candle flame tips showed a bluish tinge.
“I return from death,” informed the voice. Impressive words that yet echoed hollow. Thin tin claims of a ghost stamping foot for significance. Perhaps he felt so too. He tried again. “From death! A journey to freeze the marrow, white the hair, fright the soul. You tremble alive within a tomb. But man, I have lain dead in mine, eyes open to the dark, to eternal loss, and seen only an abyss of hate.”
Dark speech, that. I would have shivered but time pressed. I turned back to the armor. Gave it a rap with knuckles. The breast plate rang; not as bronze bell but crystal chime.
“We no longer fight in these things,” I complained. Pointless plaint for Anger; he wore clothes-style of a century past. “Armor weighs heavy, to no purpose. A bullet or crossbow bolt will pierce the plates. Unless a thin bit of steel slips ‘twixt joints while staggering about.”
Anger shrugged. ““Then go front that crowd of dead men and lunatics with your thin bit of steel, before the mortar sets, light and life cease.” He leaned back against the wall, smiled to welcome the dark. “Else wear it. I promise if you so do, ‘twill surprise the crowd of murderous fools awaiting.”
“I would surprise them rushing out naked singing ‘Vivre la Rose’,” I countered. “But it would not make sound strategy. When they ceased laughing they’d –“
“Put. On. The. Armor.” growled Anger. Finally earning his name. Then shook himself free of wrath, and laughed. “Thou’rt the most stubborn creature yet met, by dark or light, by day or night.”
I circled the altar, considering the hellish construction. If I left the tomb wearing this, it must shock. What good that? I couldn’t run far in it, nor face a competent mob. And yet, the idea had appeal. God, that sword gave shivers no ghost’s words could match. Each stain upon the blade was a grin for a past slaughter. How pleasant, to front Gould and Father Bright in this hell-forged horror-shell. I began to smile.
Anger, of course, began to laugh.
“You promise it shall surprise?” I asked.
In reply he bowed, doffing hat to sweep the grave-dust floor.
Chapter 20
Pray you, love, remember
I’ve fought in helmets, though nothing covering the face. Tried a breast plate for battle. Also a charming Italian coat of fine steel rings. But fashion in war always returns to the choice: prepare for taking a blow, or avoiding one? I prefer to move fast before a strike. Better yet, strike fast and first myself.
I have even worn suit armor. A castle in the Spanish Alps, captured in a night, held half the winter. Boring; but holding plentiful wine and a hall of hollow metal men. Inevitable that we soldiers tried them on. Damned petite, our ancestors. The edges poked, and even oiled the knees and elbows limited movement to a chess player’s consideration. Acceptable when the other man is equally encumbered. I took an axe and shield, faced a fellow with heavy sword. Blades rang, shields burst, the tourney crowd cheered…
Artifacts old as Anger’s hell-armor should have hosted spider kingdoms. The leather fastenings should have fallen to shreds. Yet no spiders; and the fastenings buckled tight. Breast plate, cuirass, greaves, gauntlets…No padding within; but tailored for my size. How convenient. Anger assisted, as my valet had wandered off. I wondered if Phineas gibbered outside now, part of the mad harlequinade. I doubted it. Entirely beneath him.
“And last the helm,” Anger declared, presenting it as crown for coronation.
From outside, Gould shouted. “Gray! Come forth, you coward!”
“I’ve not told all of this armor,” he declared. “Not sure what counts for rules or no. ‘But ‘tis a famous thing among the family. A sign of office, and holds more benefits than stopping grandfather’s arrows.”
“I shall pretend to be their great grandfather,” I declared. “Screaming in anger for the sins of this wicked generation. Should set them running.” An amusing idea, but unlikely. My real hope lay in brief surprise, quick flight. I’d rush out roaring, slashing the great butcher knife. They’d back away, then I’d retreat into the night-maze of graves, shedding ancestral ballast along the way.
Anger lowered the helm upon my head. I set the visor down, took breath. I peered out at the wicked world as I’ve done from bushes and bulwarks, tavern table and mountain cleft. I bent knees, waved arms. No hindrance to wear this fort. Hindered? No, I felt… freed. As if I’d walked in cold rain for days, too numbed to count the miles. And at last found shelter within this butcher’s armor. My turn to laugh.
“Do you feel aught different?” Anger asked. Enguerrand. Boot-leather face turned to something like concern. How very deep-set were his eyes. They lurked far, far within the skull of the man, pools of water past a cave entrance. Catching the dying candle light as cat’s eyes in a corner. I recalled the first we’d met. In the catacombs beneath the city. Ha, and he’d spoken to the sunbeam ghost Decoursey, while the Demoiselle lurked in shadows, prim puritan page then, not as rag-a-muffin Flower, nor Robin Hood bandit leader. And her slyly gormless companion Brick. And wise Lucy, Dog of Mystery. All the mad family. Wolves and aberrations, mermaids and vampirics. What had been the tiger-man’s name? Bram. Bram Mac Tier. And ox-headed cousin Bellow. Clan cousins to the Mac Mur and Clockmakers and Scalens and Harlequins. And always the menacing Mac Sanglair, so pale, so assured. Gathered at feast upon their island. The castle. Our castle. Our wedding present. Our wedding…
I remembered. I remembered. I remembered all.
* * *
I stood on the gang plank of the ship set to sail south. Leaving her upon our cold mad honeymoon island castle. She wore the same face I’d beheld upon raising the wedding veil. Resolute despair, painted upon pallor. Our wedding day she’d assumed she’d devour me in the wedding bed. So had the guests. So had I. Now she foresaw doom again. ‘You will go and not return’, said her eyes. ‘You will not wish to return’.
“Don’t be so, my soul,” I said, holding her tight. “I shall finish dreary duty and then take up the holy work of life, love and bed we’ve just begun.”
She returned wan smile, empty eyes. Blond hair hanging lifeless, cloth of a flag battle-lost.
“Go then, man,” she sighed. “Be brave. Do as you think your duty. All of mine, is standing on this stone shore awaiting your return.”
I needed to make her laugh. “You think this a stone shore?”
She looked puzzled.
“In my day,” I proclaimed, placing thumbs behind coat lapels as her Uncle Raven did, “In my day we had real stone shores. None of this hardened dirt set to hold back modern excuse for sea-puddles. Why, waves in my time were mountains of glass and wine, upon which –“
She burst into tears, pressed face to my coat, shaking. I felt a cruel fool. Well, what was I to do? Renounce my life’s cause? Apologize? Scold her to be brave? I patted her back for any comfort it gave. It gave none, to her or me. At length she began whispering to my chest, speaking to the drum-clock thumping within.
“You’ve had an adventure with mad Lalena, haven’t you, boyo?” she asked. “Remember how we met on a burning roof? You’d been shouting of tigers in the night. You looked mad and dangerous as any tiger. But courtly! No one ever spoke so to me before. I was quite smitten. And when I pulled you from that cell, you were just the same. Put a cloak about me, tied it beneath my chin. And oh, remember our kiss on the bridge after we slew the Harlequin? And the light pouring out gold for wedding present? I cannot walk in sun’s shine now, without feeling the warm wonder again. And how proud I was for my kin to see you ride that wolf. The very castle itself took to you, man. I hear it now, calling you to stay.” She trembled. “Stay.”
Seagulls shouts, sea wave splashes. Breathing in, breathing out. Why not stay? Better: let some magic of the family turn us to stone, so we stand between land and sea, clasping one another forever.
“You gave me knife for a wedding present,” I whispered to my wife. Ran hand along her yellow hair, petting it, addressing it. “I had no present but my hand to you. That for soul and body and heart, Lady Lilly Ann Elena Mac Sanglair. Not for a season but a life. If you will keep that hand, then keep trust that I will return.”
She took breath, stood straight. Ordered thoughts and face and hair. Behold the lady of a proud tribe. They watched now, faces grieving. For they were family, hearts to heart, and shared sorrow and joy alike for common feast. She nodded to the fair day, the sun’s weak shine, me her departing man. I turned and boarded ship. Stood watching the slow retreating shore. Where a figure remained, standing still as stone. Left behind, left alone.
“Lalena,” I whispered to the empty tomb, to the night. For months now I’d wandered in dim dream, gazing out windows for a face not to be found. Till last night. In my courtyard, naked and bloody; a creature mad with sorrow and despair. My wife Lalena. Why had she not spoken? Had she become as me; mad with longing for what she could no longer name?
What happened? Why did I stand here and now in a tomb surrounded by ghosts and lunatics, and not with her? The bloody night I’d killed Black and the main of my enemies... I’d determined to race back to her. Near rushed down the road on foot. I’d breathed only to return to her. What idiot purpose kept me back?
Dreaming of voices arguing as I lay in chains of sleep. No language I could follow. At length awakening by a dead fire beside a country road. Sitting up, head aching. Reached for blade first, looked about second. A small churchyard, peaceful by morning’s light. A body on the opposite side of the fire. I rose, studied it. Stephano, hands folded upon chest. Pale face, bloody shirt. Dead. By my hand?
No. We’d been attacked by, by highwaymen. Yes. He’d shot a fellow behind me. Saved my life, for all I meant to kill him. I stared about. There stood the horses hobbled, shaking themselves awake, helping themselves to grass and grave flower. My carriage beside the road. No one in sight. Had I tended the horses, lit a fire, and slept the night? Absurd actions.
But I recalled yesterday’s slaughter. Dealer’s decapitated body, blood seeping into the fire. Alderman Black. I’d shot him twice. Poisoned three of his guests. Put a bolt into the Pierrot. Killed Streng with rapier. Hard to count how many guards’ throats I’d cut. Then came here to murder Stephano? Too much blood, even for a spadassin. I’d near lost my mind. Best return to sanity and the city. I harnessed the horses to the carriage. Sighed, hefted Stephano’s stiffening body into the carriage. For a moment I felt a longing to urge the horses north. Absurd. I had no business there. Work and duty called me home to the city.
* * *
Stephano and I’d been attacked by Harlequins avenging the death of the Pierrot. The Mac Tier and Sanglair had sided with me; clan against clan. The Harlequin had retreated. Only to return later? What passed with the Mac Tier who camped beside me? Perhaps they also lost memory. Else, held back by some idiot rule of family Code Duello… While I’d awoken with no memory of my wife. No clear recollection of her mad family, or the last months of my life.
Sionnach. She’d led the attack. The damned fox-woman in my house, nearly in my bed, feigning my wife was Pierrot Decoursey’s widow. Determined to torment me and Lalena. Why
? Vengeance. Family quarrel, clan feud and rivalry.
“Harlequins,” I whispered. Always that rogue, petty, trouble making tribe. I reached down, picked up the butcher-sword. Heavy. A thing for sweeps through bone and armor, life and heart. “Harlequins,” I repeated. Turned to Anger.
“They came upon me that night. They stole all memory of Lalena, all the days we spent together.” Anger nodded. I suppose he’d known. He might have said. I wouldn’t have believed him. Kariel in the bell tower had stated it flat, and I’d not listened. I went to the door, thrust back the bar.
“They let Lalena believe I’d abandoned her,” I told the tomb. The tomb replied with a loud echoing abandoned. I opened the door. Bricks sealed more than half the portal. Beyond waited light; lamps set upon poles. They intended a party? No, theatre; so beloved of the family. I kicked at the bricks. Mortar still wet, they clattered away. “They let my wife believe I no longer loved her.”
In the lamp light beyond stood a well-dressed man, waving rapier to test how it cut night-air. Gould. Looking gaunt, pale, confident. Clearly he awaited our duel. For his attending second stood Father Bright. Ah, Harlequins: so fond of dancing before one while readying knives to either side. Just beyond the doorway, no doubt.
“Rule Twenty-one of the Code Duello,” declared Father Bright, to night’s dark audience. “Seconds are bound to attempt a reconciliation before the meeting takes place, or after sufficient firing or hits, as specified.” He cocked mocking grin. “Rayne Gray, will you grant pardon to Lord Gould?”
Figures stirred beyond the lamps’ light. Some in yellow kilt, others in shadow-black, faces painted lead-white for moon-pallor. A night audience, smiling for curtain-rise of the last act.
“Gould is nothing to me,” I declared. I spoke loud, so all might hear. “He may take his pardon and rot in peace. But no pardon for you, Harlequins.” Bright started at that, attempting to see within the tomb door’s dark.
The Harlequin Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 18
