Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

Angrily, Edison pulled his blade. Anton chose this moment to release it, and Edison staggered backwards, almost falling. They stood at opposite sides of the stage. Anton cool, poised.

  Edison’s breath came in noisy gasps. He bled from a dozen minor cuts and scratches, sweat stinging his wounds. Edison’s vision filled with Anton beckoning to him, asking him whether he was ready to admit defeat. The blood pounded in his ears so that he hardly heard the roar he realised to be his own. He sprang forward.

  Anton staggered back under the attack, forced up against the side of the stage. Swords locked at their hilts, Edison forced the blades closer to Anton. Their faces were inches apart. Anton’s knee found Edison’s groin. “There are no such things as unfair blows in a life or death struggle,” Anton said, grinning.

  Edison straightened, beyond feeling now. He glared from beneath ridged brows. “A desperate and angry opponent becomes unpredictable and, ultimately, more dangerous,” he quoted.

  Anton fell back under another hail of blows. He managed to turn before he was backed up against the wall. He too was breathing heavily now, and his shirt clung to his back. Edison pressed on, and Anton was forced to give ground, backing in circles around the stage, trying to keep his balance. A jab pierced Anton’s shirt, grazing his side and drawing blood. Anton thrust too quickly: Edison side-stepped easily and used the butt of his sword to club Anton behind the ear as he passed. Anton staggered, his vision clouding. He fell to one knee, turning instinctively to parry Edison’s next blow.

  The blow struck Anton’s sword from his grasp and sent it skittering across the stage. Edison retrieved the sword, and approached his kneeling opponent, the two blades flashing back and forth, a blur of scintillating steel. Anton slumped, seemingly resigned to his fate, then as he rose again to face his opponent light flashed from his right hand, a dazzling bolt flying towards Edison.

  The dagger cut the muscle of Edison’s shoulder and embedded itself in the wall behind him.

  A woman in the audience screamed.

  Edison stopped short, he dropped one of the swords, which clattered on the stage, and clutched his shoulder. He retreated a step, tripped and fell backwards into the wings.

  Hands caught Edison, preventing him hitting the ground, restraining him and stopped his return to the stage.

  The audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering, relieved that the fight was over.

  A young actress hurried onto the stage, her face contorted in exaggerated worry. She knelt beside Anton’s prone form. “What has happened here? Has there been a fight?”

  Laughter from the audience as they regained their seats. There had most definitely been a fight.

  “My lord, my love, are you slain?”

  Chapter Thirty

  The first-night party had begun as soon as the actors took their final bows, and showed every sign of continuing until dawn. Every window of the Siren’s Head was lit by a warm orange glow, and the sounds of voices and music could be heard at the end of the street. The rear door opened and the noise spilled out like a tide, until the door was closed again, stemming the flow.

  Anton stood and stared at the empty stage, and then walked across the courtyard and out onto the dark empty street. The elation he had felt at the end of the play, when they took their bows, had been intoxicating. He wished Varian could be there to share the moment with him, but the guardsman was on duty, and would not see the play until the final performance on Sunday evening. There had been a few minor gaffes, and the performance was sure to become more polished over the next few nights, but the energy between the performers and the watching crowd tonight was unlike anything he had experienced before. The party had been one way to celebrate this, but now he needed some peace in which to savour the feelings, before they faded and became part of the commonplace. Already, in a shadowy corner of his mind lurked the dark cloud that followed such an emotionally uplifting event as tonight’s performance.

  Anton had consumed enough wine to give the world a clear, brittle aspect. His surroundings were shades of night-blue, with splashes of orange where torch flames reflected from rain-slick stone.

  “What figure is this I see before me? What foul visage lies within the deep darkness of that cowl? What hideous form within the folds of that cape?” Anton paused, peering more closely at the figure he imagined before him. He drew back in horror, gasping. “It is the shadow of Death itself. Are you here about your business, or would you pay a social call? Business, of course. And that business is I. Am I dead yet? True, I feel the energy draining from my limbs. My breath is drawn now only with effort, and my heart does beat with a most irregular rhythm. Tell me fiend, is this my final moment? Do I breath my last? Do not stand there grinning, let me know!

  “But how is it that I die? I have no wound but a scratch from Lemarchand’s sword, and that gained from a playful bout. A scratch only, but it burns so. Poisoned, perhaps? Lemarchand’s blade anointed with a deadly venom? The merest scratch fatal? Lemarchand, that I called friend. Lemarchand, who sat at my table even tonight. Plotting my murder.

  “Betrayed! Hear me? Murder!” Anton leaped onto the wall of the little bridge that spanned the stream, telling the night of his cruel fortune. “My ending draws near. My time all but spent.” Anton fell from the wall, staggered, clutching his breast, gasping and rolling his eyes in a grotesque manner. The veins of neck and temple stood out alarmingly, his complexion flushed a horrid purple-red, agleam with sweat. A deathly smile. Anton fell to his knees. “Too soon, my life not yet lived. Too young, my lips barely kissed.” Anton fell forward, his palm slapping the cobbled street and barely saving his face from similar fate. He pushed himself up, straining to get out a final word. “Murder!” Anton gasped. He sagged forward, his life spent and his body still.

  And that was only the first act. Escorted by the skull-faced figure of Death, Anton descended into Hell, battling ghosts and wyrms and fire-spitting demons – courtesy of the theatre’s resident fire-eater – until he finally confronted the Lord of the Underworld. The Dark One taunted him with visions of the world his character had been forced to leave: Lemarchand had him branded a traitor, a coward and a murderer, his name forever blackened and his soul condemned to eternal torment. But Anton bargained with the Dark One, tricked him into allowing him a brief return to the world, long enough to confront Lemarchand and save his name.

  How the crowd had cheered when Anton reappeared – the vengeful spirit – the stage aglow with ghostly green light. Seeming to float above the head of the terrified Lemarchand, Anton had him cowering and crying, confessing his treachery and begging forgiveness. Then the explosive finale: Lemarchand burning with green flames, screaming in agony, and throwing himself from the balcony to the stage, where he seemed to burn to nothing: a clever substitution of flammable puppetry that the audience did not even suspect, to judge from the cries of shock.

  Anton stood, the echo of applause still ringing in his ears. It had been a remarkable first night. He whirled again and again, enjoying the sweep of his cape behind him. This was that wonderful sense of loneliness, that brief period of melancholy between the fantastic and the mundane. Between merry drunkenness and sickness.

  “Such a fine performance!” The rasping voice was accompanied by slow applause.

  Anton looked up, startled. Before he could utter a thank you, he was hit suddenly from behind and fell to his knees, struggling to remain conscious. As his vision cleared, a face came into focus, peering down at him. Bryn Fairfax, ex-slayer of dragons turned assassin. There was a sound behind him, Gosling presumably, and a noose was slipped over his head, and drawn tight around his neck. Anton reached up to loosen the rope, but the assassin was holding the knot tight.

  “Tonight, you will die one more time,” Gosling said, “but this time there will be no returning. Any last requests?”

  The rope was tight and Anton’s face was already a dark red and his eyes bloodshot.

  “Nothing?” Gosling asked.

  “A final meal, perhaps
?” Bryn asked. “One last taste of a man’s meat?” He unbuckled his belt and pulled down the front of his breeches. He thrust his groin towards Anton’s face. “What do you say?”

  “I say your balls will probably drop when your voice breaks,” Anton croaked.

  Behind him, Gosling chuckled. The little assassin had taken a length of twine and was binding Anton’s hands behind his back.

  Gosling watched, shaking his head as Bryn fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches. “If you really want a man’s lips around it, I would ask that youth in tight breeches at the tavern: the way he stared at you, I’m sure he’d be up for it. And it probably wouldn’t even cost you.”

  “I do not need you to seek sexual favours for me: I can handle it myself,” Brun said.

  “I don’t doubt it. But sometimes it’s nice to involve another person. The youth at the tavern, I’m telling you...”

  “The thought of two naked men entwined in the sweaty writhings of passion does not excite me,” Bryn insisted. He snatched up the rope and began dragging Anton towards the tree.

  “Sometimes I think you protest too much,” Gosling said.

  Bryn stopped suddenly. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  The little assassin smiled. “I said only that I thought you did too much complaining,” he said. “What did you think was my meaning?”

  Bryn frowned, unsure, then shrugged. He started dragging Anton towards the tree again.

  “Well, well, doesn’t this look like fun?” A voice in the darkness ahead.

  A tall silhouette in a heavy travelling cloak stepped out from behind the tree, hands concealed behind the cloak. The shadow regarded the two assassins and their victim. “But it seems that my friend has had more than enough excitement for one day. Release him.”

  One hand came into view and drew back the hood, revealing the face of Captain Megan Jarrett.

  “You are in error, madam: the excitement is only just beginning.” Gosling’s voice was quiet, warning her to withdraw.

  “It is you who is in error,” Meg said, bringing her other hand into view: it held a loaded crossbow, which she pointed at the little assassin. “Why do you do this to my friend?”

  “It keeps us away from trouble,” Gosling said.

  “Will you withdraw and leave Leyander here?”

  The two assassins exchanged glances. “No,” they said simultaneously.

  Gosling drew his sword.

  The cloaked figure raised the crossbow. “I give you one last opportunity to release your prisoner and walk away unharmed.”

  Bryn drew his sword, and took a step towards the shadow.

  The crossbow bolt whistled through the air and embedded itself in the blond assassin’s thigh. Bryn let out a deep scream and fell to his knees, clutching the protruding shaft of the bolt.

  Meg drew back the crossbow’s string and fitted another bolt.

  Gosling halted his forward move as the crossbow came up, aimed just below his chin.

  “Your move, I think,” Meg said.

  “Why do you risk your life, madam?” Gosling asked. “What is this youth to you?”

  “I’m bleeding,” Bryn complained.

  “Perhaps I intend to kill him myself,” Meg said.

  “Let us save you the trouble,” Gosling said.

  “It will be no trouble.”

  Gosling took another step forward, then cast a glance toward his injured colleague. The little assassin sheathed his sword and went to his friend’s side. Keeping his eye on the crossbow, Gosling helped Bryn to his feet. Together, they made their way awkwardly down the street, casting wary glances behind them, the injured assassin whining and complaining.

  Anton sat cross-legged on the ground, working the knot loose, then pulling the noose over his head. “I am pleased to see you, Captain Jarrett,” Anton said, “and I thank you.” He got to his feet. “How did you come to be passing this way, armed with a loaded crossbow?”

  “I was out hunting,” Meg said.

  “In the streets of Sangreston?” Anton asked.

  “Rats,” Meg said, “we get a lot of them down near the docks.”

  “Evidently,” Anton said, looking towards the two assassins, who now turned a corner and disappeared from view.

  “When you left the inn, I saw them get up and follow you,” Meg said, “so I followed them. And now here we are.” She moved towards him, leaning in close.

  “Here we are,” Anton said.

  “I just saved your life,” Meg said, her lips close to his ear. “How will you thank me?”

  “Perhaps one day I shall repay the debt,” Anton said.

  Meg took his arm, and they turned back towards her father’s inn. “You might pay off some of the interest tonight.”

  “Rumour has it that I have already given you a deposit,” Anton said, “standing upright in the sand.”

  Meg did not even blush. “Wishful thinking on my part. Aren’t you flattered?”

  “Did you give no thought to my reputation?” Anton asked.

  “You are an actor – you have none.”

  They stopped. The tavern lay at the end of the street, and sounds of merriment were carried on the breeze.

  “Will you come upstairs with me?” Meg asked.

  Anton shook his head. “It is not me you want there. And I have no wish to be Edric Edison’s understudy.”

  “Why would you think this has anything to do with him?” Meg asked.

  “You have hardly concealed your motives,” Anton said. “How much longer will you make him suffer these humiliations?”

  “Men have humiliated women for centuries,” Meg said, “I think I am allowed to enjoy this a little while yet.”

  “I would advise caution, lest you drive him away altogether,” Anton said.

  “Spoken like a typical man.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know how men think. I am not proposing a commitment, only a tumble – what better way to end this evening?”

  “Meg, I couldn’t...”

  Meg sighed. “Keep playing the ingénue, and I just might lose interest.” She winked at him and set off back towards the Siren’s Head.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sheldrake threw open the door without knocking and entered Lord Eòghan’s private chamber. Eòghan turned, startled, his face clouded with annoyance: he had been dressing for bed. Sheldrake was flushed and breathless.

  “Apologies my lord,” Sheldrake said between gasps. “It is the fool.”

  “The fool?”

  “He has climbed the east tower,” Sheldrake said. “He is standing on the window-ledge.” Another gasp. “If he were to slip and fall...”

  “Then haul him back inside to safety,” Eòghan said.

  “He will allow no one to approach him, my lord,” Sheldrake said. “As I reached for him, he moved closer to the edge. I ordered him back inside, but he said to me that he takes orders from no man but his lord.”

  Lord Eòghan smiled and shook his head. “He vies with you for the honour of most loyal servant,” he said. “Very well, lead on, captain.”

  Sheldrake reached the top of the stairs ahead of his master, and paused outside the door to the tower’s top-most room. He placed a finger to his lips when Lord Eòghan appeared: “It would be better not to startle him, I think,” Sheldrake said. “Any sudden move might cause him to fall to courtyard below.”

  Eòghan nodded.

  Sheldrake slowly turned the handle and pushed open the heavy oak door as silently as he was able. He gestured for Lord Eòghan to precede him.

  The small room was unlit, with only moonlight from the narrow unglazed window picking out shadows in the darkness. Eòghan moved cautiously towards the window.

  Behind Eòghan, Sheldrake slid a hand inside his uniform tunic and gripped the handle of a dagger.

  “I do not see him,” Lord Eòghan whispered over his shoulder. He was close to the window and could see that no shadow obscured the night sky.


  “He has not fallen?” Sheldrake’s voice was over-heavy with concern. He drew the dagger and held it behind him, out of sight.

  Lord Eòghan rushed to the window, desperate to learn the fate of his fool. “He is not on the window ledge.” He leaned out to look down into the courtyard below.

  Sheldrake came up behind him, leaning close to try and look down over his master’s shoulder, but the window was too narrow. “Do you see him?”

  “It is too dark below,” Lord Eòghan said.

  Sheldrake leaned closer, placing an arm across Eòghan’s shoulder, apparently for support.

  “We will have to go down,” Lord Eòghan said. “The fool may have fallen from the window.”

  Sheldrake felt Lord Eòghan’s shoulders stiffen under the weight of his arm.

  Lord Eòghan had felt something sting his throat. He pushed Sheldrake away and turned.

  Eòghan stared at him, and Sheldrake doubted for a moment that his blade had found its mark. Then a black line spread across the man’s throat like a fissure opening in the ground and blood like black oil began to flow. Lord Eòghan’s mouth opened to speak, but dribbled gore instead. A slight sideways movement of his head seemed to result in the final rupturing of the artery, and dark spurts of hot blood fountained into the darkness. Sheldrake stepped back, not wanting to be stained by his victim. Lord Eòghan’s hand went to his neck to try and stem the eruptions, his eyes never leaving Sheldrake. His breathing became a gurgling choke, and he sagged back against the wall.

  Sheldrake watched, fascinated by the steam rising from Lord Eòghan’s blood-soaked robes. The smell of the abattoir filled the tiny room, and combined with the rush of fear and excitement to leave Sheldrake giddy.

  Lord Eòghan’s eyes bulged as he tried desperately to draw breath but filled his lungs instead with his own blood. He choked and slid down the wall to sit beneath the window. He knew as the red clouds drifted in around him that his life was all but spent. He watched Sheldrake lean close, his face distorted as through the glass of a bottle. His murderer was smiling, wanting to observe the moment of death. There was a sudden shift in perspective: had he moved, or had the room? His cheek was now against the cold stone floor. Or was it the wall? The grinning goblin leaned in close again and placed something in the pool of blood close to his face. Lord Eòghan had to force his eyes to focus on the object. It was a short staff, about the length of a man’s arm, with a pale carved knob on one end. The carving slowly emerged from the haze, revealing itself to be the beaming face of a fool. And Eòghan became afraid then – not for himself, for his life was gone already, but for his poor fool. Sheldrake would have the fool blamed for his master’s assassination, and the little one would be hunted down, and then tortured into a confession. Eòghan closed his eyes, too weak for any further influence in the mortal world: he mouthed a prayer in the hope that the gods might protect the little fool.