Fortune's Fools

by Paul Tomlinson

  “Aaaargh!” Meg screamed, her pride the only thing injured. She pulled off a boot and hurled it at Anton. He ducked, and the boot went sailing out from the stage and disappeared into the shadows. “That was just a warning shot!” Meg said. She got to her feet and adopted a half-crouch like a carnival wrestler, hands extended before her as claws.

  “Meg, please, this is most...” Anton took a step towards her, palms upraised.

  Meg took this as an act of aggression and lunged forward. She wrestled the stunned Anton to the ground and sat on his chest. She took hold of his ears and used them as handles to bang his head on the boards.

  “Stop this!” Varian croaked. He staggered to his feet, vision blurred by tears. There was a sickening, throbbing ache between his leg and in the pit of his stomach. He stood swaying, trying to blink away the tears.

  Anton shifted his weight and rolled to the left, catching Meg unaware and tumbling her off. Meg scrambled to her feet and looked around for a weapon, but Anton knocked her legs from under her with a sweep of his leg. Anton crawled away from her and got to his feet.

  Cursing, Meg got to her feet, and she had the empty rum bottle in her hand. She hefted it in her palm, then sent it spinning through the air towards Anton. He caught it and quickly hurled it back at the amazed Meg. Meg ducked, and the bottle whistled over her head, missing it by only the width of a hair. The bottle slammed into Varian’s forehead and bounced off. His eyes crossed, then rolled until only the whites showed. He pitched forward, unconscious.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Meg said.

  “Me? If you had not ducked... Varian, are you all right?” Anton ran to him and knelt, cradling Varian’s head in his lap.

  “I’m not done with you!” Meg said, grabbing Anton’s already glowing ear and dragging him away.

  Varian’s head fell to the boards with a thud.

  Meg pulled Anton’s ear. His fingers found her ponytail and pulled at that. They stomped around the stage in an ungainly dance.

  Varian’s eyelids fluttered open. He blinked his eyes to clear them, and then – when the world stopped spinning – he carefully raised himself to a sitting position. Seeing he was somewhat recovered, Meg and Anton let go of each other and moved towards him. He held up a shaky hand to stop them.

  “Stay away from me,” Varian said.

  “He means you!” Meg and Anton said simultaneously.

  “I mean both of you,” Varian said. He made shooing gestures to get them to back off. “I am going back to my room. I am going to soak my stones in a pail of cold water, and then I am going to sleep. Captain Meg, I bid you good night. Anton, I will see you at breakfast. Now, if you don’t mind...” He made more shooing gestures.

  Meg and Anton backed away, recognising that – between them – they had done enough damage for one night.

  “Ladies first,” Meg said, indicating Anton should precede her down the steps from the stage.

  Anton cast her a withering glance. He glanced back, thinking he should stay, but decided to respect Varian’s wishes. He walked down the steps to the courtyard, and vanished into the darkness.

  Meg, wearing only one boot, walked unevenly down the steps. She thought about seeking out her missing boot, but decided it would be more easily found in daylight. She wandered back to the rear door of the inn and went inside to rejoin the party, which still showed no signs of abating.

  On the stage, Varian sat clutching his groin and groaning.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Anton came to the entrance of the courtyard behind the Siren’s Head and stopped. It was early morning, and he had not expected to find anyone in the yard: actors are rarely morning people. Edric Edison had sent a message, asking him to meet here so that they might thrash out their differences. Anton hoped he hadn’t meant it literally. The two men he now saw standing close to the stage were not actors. The two uniformed Guardsmen were looking around, obviously seeking something. Or someone. Anton ducked out of sight behind a stack of empty barrels and watched. Edric Edison appeared and spoke to the Guardsmen. They were too far away for him to be able to hear what was said, but he tried to read their expressions. Anton wondered if Guards were seeking him. Had Sheldrake decided to send them out after the man who had played Lord Eòghan’s fool? It was possible that these men had come to the theatre for some other reason. Perhaps a complaint had been made because a cut-purse had worked his way amongst last night’s audience. But as he watched the men look around the yard once more, Anton’s instincts told him to flee. Waiting until their attention was turned away from, he slipped back out into the street behind the inn.

  Walking quickly, but being careful not to draw attention, Anton pulled up the hood of his cloak to conceal his features. As he walked, he considered what course to take. If the Guard were seeking him, it would be foolish to return to his lodgings. There was nothing left there of value, except for his sword, tucked safely under his bed. But even that was not worth risking his liberty for. Thinking only in terms of self-preservation, his wisest option was to leave Sangreston immediately and not give the place a backward glance. But there was more than his own safety to consider. Anton had recognised one of the uniformed men back at the Siren’s Head: it had been the lieutenant who had hammered on his door on the night that Eòghan’s fool had first been branded a murderer. The night that Varian had provided him with a false story so that he might avoid arrest. If the Guard knew Varian had lied that night, then he was in jeopardy too.

  At the first opportunity, Anton changed direction and headed back towards his own lodgings, where he had left Varian still asleep. He kept to the smaller lanes and alleys, which meant it took longer than usual to get down to there. And when he got within sight of the Unicorn Inn, Anton cursed himself for being so cautious. He could only stand and watch as the front door opened, and Varian stepped out into the street with one Guardsman in front of him and another close behind. It was obvious that his hands had been bound behind his back, and that he was under arrest.

  Anton stood in the shadows, and the trio walked down the street towards him. Others in the street stared, but moved quickly out of the way of the uniformed men. Anton’s thoughts raced as he tried to conjure some plan that would enable him to rescue Varian from their clutches. There were only two Guardsmen, the same two he had seen at the theatre, and with a suitable weapon, he felt he ought to be able to engage them both. He might not defeat them, but he could distract them long enough for Varian to make his escape. Again, he wished that he had strapped on his sword-belt that morning, but if he was going to resort to wishes at this point, he might as well pray for a pair of loaded pistols. He did not dare go up to his room, in case another Guard had been left to wait for his return. He looked around, but there was no one in the street wearing a sword that he might borrow, and nothing that might be turned into an improvised weapon. Perhaps the best he could hope for was to cause a distraction: get the two Guardsmen to come after him, and leave Varian to save himself. He drew his dagger from its sheath.

  As the three men passed his hiding place, Anton saw Varian glance quickly in his direction and mouth the word ‘No!’ and then look away, so as not to alert his escorts to Anton’s presence. There was no question of abandoning Varian to his fate. He knew that Varian would never willingly betray him, but he also knew what methods would be used to force his friend to give up what he knew. He would not allow Varian to be disappear into some dungeon to have a board placed on his chest and rocks piled onto it until he could no longer draw breath or his ribcage burst. Clutching his dagger, Anton fell into step behind the three.

  He overtook the men, coming up on the left side of the lieutenant who was leading them. He reached for the man’s arm and pulled on it. Half-turning him.

  Lieutenant Walcott snarled and turned on the peasant who had dared to lay a hand on him. His expression quickly changed from anger to surprise as he recognised the face in the shadows of the hood, and saw Anton Leyander wink at him. Before Walcott could draw hi
s sword, Anton leapt forward and wrapped his arm around Walcott’s neck and pressed the edge of the dagger against the man’s throat. Varian and the other Guardsman had to draw up quickly to avoid colliding with the struggling pair.

  “If you are looking for a fool, you should have looked in the mirror,” Anton said, close to the lieutenant’s ear.

  The other Guardsman released Varian and drew his sword, but held back, not knowing what to do. He looked to his lieutenant for guidance.

  “Release him, or I will slit your throat,” Anton said to his captive.

  “Sir?” the other Guardsman said.

  “Tell him to cut the prisoner’s bonds,” Anton said.

  “My men will be here in less than a minute!” Walcott said.

  “Then you have less than a minute to live,” Anton told him.

  “You will never...”

  Anton’s blade passed across the thin flesh over the lieutenant’s Adam’s apple, and blood began to flow.

  “I’ll have you skinned for that!” Walcott said.

  Anton made another small cut with the knife.

  “Let him go!” Walcott croaked.

  “Sir?”

  “Cut him free!”

  The Guardsman hesitated for several seconds, and then drew his knife and cut through the ropes binding Varian’s hands.

  “Run!” Anton urged.

  “What about you?” Varian asked.

  “Against these two? I’ll be fine!” Anton caught sight of more red uniforms coming towards them as he said this. “Go!”

  Varian looked from Anton to the approaching Guards and back, and then turned and headed away from the approaching men.

  Anton leaned closer and spoke quietly in Walcott’s ear. “If you would find Lord Eòghan’s murderer, you should look closer to home. I gain no benefit from the killing; but your Captain aims to do very well out of it.”

  “Sheldrake?” Doubt flickered across Lieutenant Walcott’s face.

  Anton took his blade from Walcott’s throat and took hold of him by the shoulders; he shoved him towards the other Guardsman. The two collided, and in this brief moment of confusion, Anton turned and ran, downhill towards the docks.

  “Get him!” Walcott roared.

  The Guardsmen all set off in pursuit of Anton.

  Anton raced down the steep cobbled road that led down to the harbour. The only plan in his head was to lead the Guardsmen on a merry chase, and give Varian sufficient time to get to safety. The water was filled with boats now, most of them fishing boats that had returned at dawn to offload their catches. With the fish ashore, every inch of the docks and quays and jetties was covered with people handling them. Women stood or knelt over boards where fish were gutted and filleted. Buckets of shellfish were weighed on balance scales. And huge crabs and lobsters had their claws bound with stout string. Over this, and drowning out the shouting of the people, gulls screamed as they swooped and circled, trying to snag themselves a free breakfast.

  Anton could hear the boots of the Guards who ran down the hill behind him. Seeking to lose himself in the throng, he headed along a wooden walkway that ran close to the water. A cry went up as one of the Guardsmen spotted him, and Anton picked up his pace. He wanted to get far enough ahead so that he could duck out of sight and change his appearance by casting off his cloak. If that did not throw off his pursuers, he could take to the water and swim, hiding out among the boats that filled the middle of the harbour. But he found his progress suddenly impeded as he came upon a series of poles laid across his path with pieces of herring pegged onto them ready for smoking. Anton adjusted his stride and hurdled the poles one after another. He could tell by the sounds behind him that at least one of the Guardsmen was doing the same. Clearing the last of the poles, he sprinted off again. He dodged sideways to avoid a frame where a net had been strung up for repair. He heard the Guardsman behind him curse, and risked a look back: he had not changed course as swiftly and had blundered into the net; the more his limbs thrashed, the more caught up in it he became. Anton laughed and raced away. People were shouting all around now, as the chase disrupted their work.

  The wooden walkway ended, and Anton had to climb the stone steps up to the harbour road. He turned to the left and saw the way blocked by a two-wheeled cart laden with buckets and barrels of shellfish. He leapt up onto the low wall that ran along dockside at this point. Another of the Guardsmen followed him up onto the narrow wall. Turning, Anton snatched a bucket of whelks from the cart and began hurling them, one after another, at the Guard. The man raised his arms to try and ward off the incoming projectiles, and lost his balance, tumbling from the wall into the water below. Anton leapt from the wall, and made his way towards the stone quay that jutted out into the water.

  Another Guardsman took up the chase, following Anton up onto the stone quay. Hoping to slow him down, Anton seized the rim of a barrel as he passed it, overturning it and spilling hundreds of small purplish squid across the stones. The Guard’s boots slid on this rubbery wetness and he windmilled his arms as he tried to stay upright. Anton paused again and picked up a bucket of fish-heads and guts and hurled the contents towards the guard, who raised his arms and tried to duck: he finally lost his balance and fell to the ground. The Guard made several attempts to push himself to his feet, but hands, knees and boots slid on the slick of blood and oil. He made it to his knees, the front of his uniform slick with slime and silvery fish scales, and then, just as he was about to gain his feet, a huge gull swooped down screeching and packing at him with its blunt yellow beak. It was quickly joined by other seabirds, attracted by the fishy scent. The Guard went down, trying to protect head and eyes with his arms. As Anton moved away, a gang of feral dockside cats were slinking towards the fallen man. In an attempt to avoid further attack, the Guard threw himself over the side of the quay into the water.

  A Guardsman armed with a sword advanced towards Anton, grinning. Anton looked to left and right, seeking some weapon to defend himself. A basket of larger fish offered the only possibility for defence, so he snatched up a big, ugly dogfish, its skin rough in his hands, and swung it by the tail. The Guard parried the blow with his sword. Anton swung the fish again, and the Guard slashed at it, opening a wound in its belly. As Anton tried to shake off the entrails that tumbled out of his fish-club, the Guardsman pressed his advantage, raising his sword. As the blade arced downwards, Anton raised the fish to protect himself. The sword bit deeply into the carcass and became lodged in its spine. Anton shoved the fish towards the Guard, releasing his hold on it. Unable to dislodge the fish from his blade, the man staggered backwards. Anton rushed forward and gave the Guard a push that sent him falling backwards into the sea.

  Three more Guardsmen had reached the quay and came towards him. Looking down on the water, Anton saw a line of row-boats tied side by side below him. He jumped down into the first of them, hoping the bottom wouldn’t splinter when he hit it. The boat swayed wildly and the wood creaked, but the hull didn’t rupture. Anton’s arms flailed as he tried to stay on his feet. Aware that the Guardsmen were leaning over the quayside to look down at him, he leapt to the next boat, and then the next, to get away from them. The boats rocked madly, the whole line of them set to bobbing as his progress disturbed the water under them. Anton was almost thrown into the sea as one of the Guards jumped down into a boat behind him. He glanced back and saw the man struggling to stay upright, arms outstretched like a ropewalker. Then came a splash as the Guard disappeared from view. Anton quickly stepped through the rest of the boats, and launched himself towards the stone steps that would take him back up to the dockside. Above him he could hear voices yelling: Guardsmen alerting their fellows to Anton’s progress. It was going to come down to a fight, he knew, and he was hopelessly outnumbered and unarmed.

  Anton clambered up the wet stone steps and reached the dockside path. He saw a flash of red from the corner of his eye, and half-turned towards it. A Guardsman had been waiting for him. Dripping wet, the man was twisted at
the waist, with both hands somewhere over his left shoulder. Anton couldn’t see what he was holding. The Guard began to swing the weapon, and too late Anton saw it was an oar that was sweeping towards him.

  The oar hit Anton at the side of the head with a hollow crack! and the sound of rattling teeth. It lifted him from his feet and sent him backwards, where he hit the harbour wall and then slid down and lay still. Red uniforms closed in around him like sharks sensing blood.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Lieutenant Walcott strode through the marketplace. Behind him, two Guardsmen marched with Lord Eòghan’s murderer between them, holding his arms, urging him to keep pace. A second pair of Guards brought up the rear, armed with sword and crossbow: their uniforms were still wet.

  It was almost a week since Eòghan’s body had been found. Every day, the town crier had stood in the market place and announced that a reward was offered for information that would lead to the assassin’s capture. And every evening, Walcott and his men moved through the dockside bars questioning known thieves and informants. But despite all this, there had been no word about the fool’s whereabouts. Until this morning, when a boy came pounding on the Guard House door.

  The boy had been given a silver coin to deliver a message to the Guard, giving the name of Lord Eòghan’s murderer, and telling them where he could be found. Who sent you here? the boy was asked, but he had been promised another silver piece if he did not say who sent him. And a sound thrashing if he did. Neither veiled threats nor bribery would loosen the boy’s tongue.

  Lieutenant Walcott had been annoyed at having been called from the bed he was sharing with one of the tavern wenches. Dressing quickly, he had called together a dozen of his men. Four were sent to search the murderer’s rooms; and the rest went with him to the spot where they had been told Anton Leyander himself would be found. Walcott had suspected there would be an ambush waiting, so he and his men had walked with swords in hand. But the courtyard behind the Siren’s Head and its new-built theatre had been all but deserted.