Then he felt sickened and could not stop apologizing. He insisted on taking me to where I was due so that I would not have to walk. I was relieved at this offer, and so I allowed him to drive me back close to the witch Lucia’s. He was thrown when I asked to be let off near a hut in the woods, but I told him it was necessary for the safety of the local Dulcinian cell, and he believed me. The amount of time we had spent traveling a great distance by cart was about as long as I would have hobbled a short distance with a lamed foot. This made my false story plausible to DODO.
I do not know what they will say about my performance record there. I will certainly be off duty until my foot heals, which is a relief. I will possibly be fired, and that will complicate my siblings’ situation.
I’ve been told that the Chronotron changed the number of Strands this must happen on from many dozens to just one, which is very confusing, but I am grateful for it. Even if I am Sent back again, I know what I must do. I feel my balance restored.
And so I conclude what I hope will be the final Strand of this benighted DEDE.
Exchange of posts by Dr. Roger Blevins, LTG Octavian K. Frink, and Dr. Constantine Rudge on private ODIN channel
DAY 2038 (26 FEBRUARY, YEAR 6)
Post from Dr. Roger Blevins:
Good day to you both,
Writing to give you an update on the interesting results of the 1397 Florence DEDE you had each expressed concerns about. I recall the two of you objected that this was happening under Gráinne’s aegis, which meant that the housekeeping elements were not up to snuff, to say the least, as she is something of a self-acknowledged Luddite.
Want to reassure you and give you some good news. DOer Chira Yasin Lajani returned from her most recent Strand, reported in, and—SOP—her data was entered into the Chronotron to fine-tune our calculations. As you know, the introduction of new data points (such as a DEDE report) will sometimes shift the Chronotron’s calculations by a few Strands. In this case, the required number of Strands decreased dramatically, from 87 to 1. (I will write that out so you know it is not a typo: from eighty-seven to one.)
This kind of shift is extraordinary and supports my confidence in Gráinne’s handling this DEDE on her own. However unsatisfactory I have found DOer Chira’s work in many ways, in the end, they have proven to be a good team and have gotten the job done.
Hope this will set your minds at ease, gentlemen. Have a good weekend.
—Roger
Reply from Dr. Constantine Rudge:
Dear Dr. Blevins (and LTG Frink),
This strikes me as a worrisome anomaly. Even if all the clerical “housekeeping” was in order, the outlier quality of this shift deserves scrutiny from a Chronotron sysadmin. The fact that we’re not even sure what to scrutinize should cause even more concern.
I would like to ask, for the fifth time, what is the point of this DEDE and how does it fit into the DODO charter? My clearance level entitles me to a response, but every communication I’ve attempted over the past few weeks has been deflected.
—CR
From Dr. Roger Blevins:
Dear Dr. Rudge (and LTG Frink),
Sorry, it’s a simple answer, not sure what has prevented you from receiving it. This was simply a campaign to counteract some mischief that the “vigilante” gang led by Tristan Lyons was up to.
—Roger
From Dr. Constantine Rudge:
Dr. Blevins (and LTG Frink),
I am aware that LTM Lyons et al. left DODO suddenly under suspicious circumstances. Their activities are monitored with some interest by the Fugger family, with whom, as you may recall, I am an intimate. If they are committing treasonous or “vigilante” acts, I need a full accounting of it for IARPA. I will have my secretary reach out to Gráinne for a deposition.
Gráinne had been very effective on those nascent psy-ops projects in the ATTOs—why have those all been mothballed? IARPA is very interested, of course.
From LTG Octavian K. Frink:
Not mothballed, just put on hold for now. The CDC had to come in and hose down the ATTOs after some Anachron Vikings arrived here from the tenth century. There are bio-containment issues in mobile units, so that has to be rethought.
I agree with you about Gráinne, though. Blev, put her back onto some of the psy-ops experiments from early winter. That will keep her busy.
Good afternoon, gentlemen.
ROBIN’S AFTER ACTION REPORT, STRAND 2, NEW PLAN (CONT.)
The other actors poured out onto the stage as a piper and drum began a martial-sounding Scottish flourish at the back of the house.
“Tilney’s coming!” I squeaked to Ned and Will, louder than I’d meant to.
Knight stuck his head backstage and hissed, “Be quiet!” just as the music stopped. Then he did a double take, as Edmund Tilney pushed past him into the backstage space. Tilney glared at me in the torchlight.
“What do you onstage?” he demanded.
“Master Tilney, please,” urged Knight. “Your voice will carry—”
“What do you onstage?” Tilney repeated in a fierce whisper.
“Our boy player fell ill,” said Will, putting a reassuring hand on Tilney’s shoulder. Tilney furiously shrugged it off.
“This is mischief,” he hissed. “I’ll stop the performance right now.”
“Oh, Edmund,” said Will in a chummy tone. “You don’t mean that. Do not deprive Their Majesties of this most excellent presentation you’ve devised for them. Robin knows the correct lines, we have made sure of it.”
“The redeemed witch from James’s court is in the audience right now . . .” Tilney began. Will—the man who hadn’t looked startled after surviving an attack by a fucking bear—looked startled now.
“Emilia Lanier?” he asked quietly. “Redeemed? You mean—”
“Keep up, brother,” Ned said cheerfully. “’Tis been the gossip of the town. It means she renounced her witchiness and now she has to rat out all—”
“Quiet,” ordered Edward Knight, despairing.
“Do you understand now?” whispered Tilney in clipped syllables. “If you utter witchcraft on the stage, Lady Emilia will alert the King, and before the show is over you will, all of you, be in chains. And I do not think she’ll mind that.”
Will collected himself, then smiled at Tilney. “Then we will not utter witchcraft,” he said.
“You do not know what is witchcraft and what isn’t, for you yourself have been bewitched!” hissed Tilney. “I am trying to save your skins. Speak the words as I reformed them, else you will be performing magic right under His Majesty’s nose, and you will burn for that!”
“Master Tilney, please,” begged Edward Knight from the side curtain.
I whispered, leaning in toward Tilney, “Sir, you do know that all witches are women, do you not, sir? Three men on a stage, by the very nature of magic, cannot be performing magic.”
“In that case,” he said, glowering at me, “you alone will hang.”
I opened my mouth but shut it without speaking. Tilney turned on his heel to leave. He saw Edward Knight holding the playbook and paused.
“Give me that manuscript,” he ordered. “I will act as the prompter for the rest of the show.”
Knight looked in confusion at Will. Will grimaced. “There’s no need for that, Edmund,” he said. “I’ll give Lady Emilia no reason to throw me to the dogs. We’ll say the proper lines.”
“Excellent,” said Tilney. “Then there will be no need for me to show His Majesty the actual script, with my reformed lines, which, if you are lying to me now, will exonerate me and damn you. After the play is over, if your behavior does not force me to show the King the script, then I will hand it to Mr. Knight. But right now, Mr. Knight will hand it to me.” His attention pivoted back to the prompt man. Knight glanced unhappily between Tilney and Will and then ceded Tilney the manuscript. Tilney took it, gave Will and me both warning looks, and went back out into the audience.
Knight was stricken. �
�Mr. Shakespeare—”
“’Tisn’t your fault,” Will said, holding up a hand.
“We say a spell in this next scene,” whispered Ned. “But then we have an hour till we’re on again.”
“So?” I asked impatiently.
“That gives us an hour to get the promptbook back from Tilney and destroy it.”
“He’s sitting in the middle of the audience, we can’t simply walk out and pull it from his grasp,” I said.
He grinned and mouthed, Watch me.
The army-camp scene ended, and our next bit followed on its heels. This second scene lacked the backlighting effect, but there was still cacophonous Hell music, still thunder, still the resin powder flashing in the candle fire. This time the effects startled the audience but no longer awed them. They muttered happily and applauded a little in anticipation. The cauldron was pushed back onstage as the smoke cleared, and we hovered over it, cackling and boasting about how badass witchy we were. The drummer very softly began a military beat at the back of the house, which signaled Macbeth was about to enter.
So: time to set a spell. Make that a non-spell. We recited Will’s actual words, which are all about the number three (FTR, that’s pretty much a guarantee it’s not actual magic, because Erzsébet told me that most magic doesn’t bother with regular integers, but even if it did, “three is boring”).
As we chanted, “Thrice to thine and thrice to mine / And thrice again, to make up nine,” Tilney coughed, once, from the audience. We raised our voices to make sure the words could still be heard clearly. I could almost hear him clenching his teeth. Gráinne must have been seething, but I didn’t risk searching for her.
Then Burbage and John Lowin entered (Macbeth and Banquo), and we, the witches, predicted the future: Macbeth will be crowned king—but so will Banquo’s descendants. This was received with a splattering of applause that Banquo’s descendant, King James, responded to with a smug little wave.
We cackled upstage and off, past the lords awaiting their entrance.
And then Ned pushed me toward the door, gesturing me to exit the building.
“What are you up to?” I demanded sharply, shirking away from him. I couldn’t leave the hall with Tristan and Gráinne inside, especially now that Gráinne knew what we were doing.
“We must wrest the manuscript from Tilney,” Ned said. “I’ve the perfect plan, ’twill keep him from troubling us until we’ve destroyed it. I’ve sorted it all out. Will, take Robin and meet me at the Little Revels.”
“This already strikes me as too complicated,” said Will drily.
“I know what I’m about,” Ned insisted. “’Twill take but a moment,” he assured me—and then ran past Edward Knight straight into the hall.
“Ned!” hissed Knight, and went after him.
Will made the sort of face only made by sensible older brothers when their younger siblings are being impetuous (not that I would be familiar with that look).
“You needn’t come,” I said.
“’Tis my brother, not yours,” he said in a resigned voice. “I will not abandon you to his antics.”
“Then why not you go alone, and I’ll stay behind to keep an eye on Gráinne,” I offered, but he shook his head.
“Whatever he does, he does it in care of you. He gave you instructions. Follow them.”
So we hitched up our witch robes to keep from tripping and exited the postern door, nodding to the guards. It was dark now, and torches were flaring around the palace grounds. We trekked across the topiary garden, up the tower stairs, and along the gallery, to the royal apartments. Intermittent torches failed to make up for the sunlight that had lit the gallery earlier.
There was a surprise awaiting us at Her Majesty’s door. The guard was not the archetypal Yeoman from my prior visit here with Tilney.
“Name yourself, sirrah!” Andrew North cried, brandishing his lance. Then he squinted in confusion. “Mr. Shakespeare?” In the dull illumination of the torches down the gallery, two other guards turned toward the fuss.
Will took a moment to recover from his surprise, and then a knowing smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Well met, Andrew.”
North relaxed and signaled an all clear to the other guards. He waved a finger at us. “What have you done to your faces?” he asked, chuckling. “You’re more hideous than Queen Bess on her deathbed, save her soul! Are you trying to drive His Majesty wild with desire? I wot he fancies some strange things, but I daresay you’re off the mark here—”
“Andrew,” said Will, “how came you to be a Yeoman of the Guard?”
“’Tis a fascinating tale, as a matter of truth, sir,” declared North, looking somewhere between Will and me, as if he couldn’t quite find either of us. “Let me but tell you every detail of my martial past, and you will find it so compelling that you may wish to write a play about it.”
“I look forward to hearing it at a time more meet, Andrew,” said Will, “but not tonight. We are only here upon the express orders of my brother, who said he’d meet us at the Little Revels. Know you why he summoned us here?”
Andrew gave us a waggish wink. “I’m not sure there’s room enough for the three of you in there.” He looked harder at me. “Is that my lad Robin? Just in time for a song—”
“Not tonight, Andrew,” said Will.
“No? But the acoustics in here are splendid. Ho, men!” he called down to the other guards. “Men, we’ve a most honored visitor! Come and meet the creator of tonight’s revels in the Banqueting House!”
The two guards looked at each other, shrugged, and walked away from their posts. This is not as egregious as it sounds, because despite the dim, there was an unimpeded view of the full length of the gallery, and anyways, every resident of this wing was down in the Banqueting Hall. The two muttered to each other as they approached, their whispers sibilant with the word Shakespeare. They weren’t in a rush. Will and I glanced around, wondering from where Ned would appear.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” said Andrew heartily when they approached, and gestured them to pay courtesy to the famous man. The famous man acknowledged them in passing, still glancing around for Ned, impatience creeping into his usual placid affect. “And I, men, I have the honor of appearing in Mr. Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe,” thundered North. “Right up there next to Mr. Burbage.”
“In truth, Andrew,” said Will, “not precisely next to him.”
“Right,” boomed North complacently, “I was in his shadow, and for weeks after, people would say, Didn’t Burbage have an unusually compelling shadow in that last one? Really, everywhere they were saying it, taverns, at the market, I was a triumph.” He winked at Will.
A man’s voice cried out from the far end of the gallery, beyond the guards’ abandoned posts. Then a second voice over it. Both Yeomen beat tracks back that way—just as Ned erupted into view from a servants’ stairwell. Seeing the guards, he began to shout in a frantic voice for help, but as they approached, he hoofed it past them, toward us. With one hand he held up the hem of his witch gown. With the other, he carried the promptbook out before him like a relay baton. It was curled around itself, secured with a leather thong.
“Stop him!” shouted Tilney, coming in view a moment later. “Stop that man, he is a thief!”
The two guards, uncertain, turned toward Andrew for guidance.
“Andrew, tell them to protect us!” said Ned, reaching us. He struck an absurd spread-eagled pose, meant to suggest he was protecting us and yet was desperate for Andrew to protect him. Will made a sound that in yoga is known as ujjayi breathing, but in early-modern London might have been called I can’t fucking believe this.
“Take him, men,” Andrew called out as Tilney drew level with the guards.
Tilney was taller than either of them, but they were less than half his age and each weighed more than he did, so it took little effort on their part. One guard dropped his halberd to the ground and grabbed one, then the other, of Tilney’s elbows from
behind. He jerked them backward and pinned the Master’s arms behind his back. After a reflexive shimmy to try throwing him off, the Master went stiff, a dignified captive white with rage. Expecting a struggle, the guard shook Tilney roughly once. The other guard retrieved his comrade’s weapon and they moved to march toward us. Tilney refused to march, so his captor raised Tilney’s right elbow at an unnatural angle behind him until he made a small pained sound and started walking. I felt bad about that part.
As we watched the inelegant approach, Will murmured, “You knew Andrew would—”
“Of course,” Ned murmured back. “Wouldn’t have tried this otherwise.”
“How’d you get the script?” I whispered.
“Just as I said I would,” he whispered back. “Went into the audience and yanked it out of his hand. ’Twould be awkward for the Master of the Revels to disrupt the reveling, so he rose without speaking and pursued me. Precisely as I planned.”
“You, sirrah,” Andrew said to Tilney, as they reached us. “Why are you pursuing this gentleman?”
“Do not you sirrah me, sirrah. Release me. That scoundrel stole my property.”
“’Tisn’t your property,” Ned retorted. “’Tis the property of the King’s Men. Here’s a King’s Man.” With a flourish, he offered the rolled-up book to Will.
“Thank you,” said Will, taking it without a flourish.
“That fellow ripped it out of the hands of its owners, a company member named Edward Knight,” Ned told the guards. “I saw it with my own eyes. I’ve merely retrieved it from him on my brother’s account—as is only right,” he added in an encouraging voice. In his mind’s eye, this exploit must have struck him as dashing and dramatic in a way we weren’t playing along with.
“Only right, indeed!” said Andrew belatedly. The others made vague sounds of agreement.
“So you’ve a thief there,” concluded Ned. “Will ye not lock him up?”
“Indeed,” said Andrew, all business now. “Must secure him someplace whilst my fellows summon the captain.”
Will made the slightest noise of disapproval as he realized Ned’s punch line.
“Captain’s on outside rounds,” said the Yeoman who held the halberds. “If two of us circle in opposite directions, we might track him down within a quarter hour.”
Master of the Revels Page 45
