The Gimlet Eye qotlc-3

by James Roy

  ‘The usual. Hat with feather, velvet cape.’

  ‘The red one?’

  ‘No, the purple one.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Tab, surprised. ‘He is serious, isn’t he? The purple one? Well, at least we know what we’re looking for.’

  They continued along the rooftops, still searching the crowds below for the white-feathered hat and the purple cape with the gold braiding around the edge. Finally, just disappearing around the corner of a house, they spotted Fontagu, striding along, script in hand.

  ‘There he is!’ said Tab, pointing. Then she dropped off the edge of the roof, landing softly on a narrow balcony below, startling a reclining old man who was snoozing there in the sun.

  Philmon followed her over the edge, only stopping long enough to apologise to the old man.

  ‘Fontagu!’ Tab shouted, running across the street, through a group of children, and past a slightly nervy donkey.

  Fontagu turned around and gaped in surprise. ‘Tab?’ he said as she jogged up, breathing hard. ‘And Philmon? I say, children, to what do you owe this great honour?’

  ‘Don’t you mean -’ Tab began.

  ‘I know what I meant,’ Fontagu said. ‘Why are you here? I’m on my way to the Archon’s palace at Florian the Great’s behest.’

  ‘We know. That’s why we’re here. We think we should come with you.’

  Fontagu shook his head furiously. ‘Absolutely not! It’s out of the question! Why, the very idea!’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘Why not? Let me ask you a question in return, my dear young friend. What could you possibly expect to achieve by coming along?’

  ‘We can look out for you,’ said Tab. ‘We don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself in for.’

  Fontagu laughed, loud and booming, and it made Tab scowl. She hated being looked down on, almost as much as she hated being laughed at.

  ‘I’m serious, Fontagu.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are, but I simply can’t let you come along.’

  ‘I told you this was a foolish idea,’ Philmon said to Tab.

  ‘We won’t be in any danger, if we just hang back.’

  Fontagu suddenly looked rather stern. ‘Oh, I’m not thinking about you being in danger. I just don’t think I can be seen with you. I mean, look at yourselves, you in particular, Tab. You look like you’ve just been cleaning out the stables of some farm animal.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ Tab began.

  ‘And you, Philmon – what have you come as?’

  ‘I’m just dressed the same way I usually am,’ Philmon replied, looking a little hurt.

  Fontagu sniffed. ‘Indeed. Whereas I… I am resplendent!’ He held up one of his long, bony hands, and tilted his chin back. ‘No, I’m afraid I must be most emphatic on this. I simply cannot allow you to come in with me.’

  ‘Told you,’ Philmon muttered, taking Tab by the elbow. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Good advice,’ Fontagu said. ‘I’m sorry, children, but this is grown-ups’ business. Grown-ups’ business for which I do not intend to be late. Goodbye.’ And with that said, he turned his back and strode away up the hill.

  ‘So…’ said Philmon.

  ‘This isn’t over,’ Tab replied.

  ‘Come on, Tab, it is over,’ Philmon said, gently pulling her away.

  Tab yanked her arm free. ‘Philmon, tell me, what is the stupidest animal you know of?’

  ‘Stupidest?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know – a rat?’

  ‘No, rats are clever and cunning.’

  ‘Sheep?’

  ‘Well… kind of. But no. Here, watch this.’ She strode forward to where Jilka the street vendor was selling loaves of bread. A crowd of pigeons had gathered around, waiting for crumbs, and they only moved out of the way as someone approached the stall to buy something.

  ‘Hi, Jilka,’ she said. ‘Good sales today?’

  ‘So-so, Tab,’ Jilka replied.

  ‘Can you spare a crumb for an old friend?’

  ‘I can give you a whole loaf if you like.’ Jilka took a flat roll from the top of the pile and tossed it to Tab. ‘On the house.’

  ‘Thanks, Jilka,’ she said, tearing off a hunk and putting it into her mouth. As the crumbs fell around her feet, the pigeons, which were as bold as house pets, squabbled around her feet, pecking for the tiniest morsels.

  Tab pulled off a small piece of bread and tossed it out into the middle of the street, and the pigeons turned and flapped after it. One at the front of the pack got there first, snatched up the bread in its beak, and flew away to eat in peace.

  ‘So?’ said Philmon.

  ‘Now watch,’ Tab said, pulling off another chunk and pretending to throw it. As she raised her arm, most of the pigeons rose into the air and tried to hover there, anticipating another offering of bread. When nothing came their way, they began to resettle on the ground.

  ‘Now, watch this.’ Tab bent and picked up a small, pale coloured pebble. She lobbed it gently away, and the pigeons spun as one and raced to be first to what they thought was more bread. One of them skidded up to the pebble, grabbed it with its beak, then dropped it suddenly.

  ‘See? Stupid.’

  ‘Fine, pigeons are stupid,’ Philmon agreed. ‘So?’

  ‘So we’re going to get into that palace after all. Come on.’

  And she turned and trotted off up the hill towards the palace, with Philmon in confused pursuit.

  ***

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Philmon said.

  Tab said nothing. Instead she frowned and looked around the Square of the People. Behind them was a newish fountain, and the statue in the middle was of Florian. It was quite a gruesome statue – it depicted a rather slim Florian holding up the head of some enemy or another, and the water in the fountain poured from the neck of the corpse at his feet. It was supposed to show the bravery and greatness of Florian, but pretty much everyone in Quentaris knew that Florian had never done anything brave in his life.

  The fountain was of less interest to Tab than what was in front of them, however. Tall and imposing, the aft-side wall of the newest part of the palace was nearing completion. Some of the scaffolding was still in place, and was dotted with various workmen, who were busily adding gaudy gargoyles and decorations to the palace in time for Florian’s birthday. Over the last year the palace had gone from a grand but austere building to a huge, obscene monument to the huge, obscene ego of Florian. There was no end in sight.

  ‘Tab,’ Philmon said.

  ‘Shh,’ Tab replied. ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘That guard over there is watching us.’

  ‘Let him watch. We’re not doing anything… yet.’

  ‘He doesn’t look Quentaran.’

  ‘He’s probably not. He’ll be one of those new guards that came aboard a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. Was that -’

  ‘Shush! I’m thinking,’ Tab said. ‘Now, the new Great Hall is in there, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, behind that wall with all the windows.’

  ‘Excellent.’ She smiled at Philmon. ‘I think I have a plan.’

  Tab sat at the base of the fountain and leaned against it. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the statue. Besides, she wasn’t taking in the sights.

  Her eyes were squeezed shut, as Philmon sat nearby to keep watch, and a pigeon on the other side of the square stopped pecking at the cracks in the pavement and stared into space with a glazed expression.

  ›››Don’t be alarmed

  ›››Good››Now, there’s something I need you to do

  A moment later the pigeon rose into the air with a whirring coo, and flew up and up, past the scaffolding to one of the open panes at the top of the ornate window that provided so much natural light into the throne room of Florian the Great.

  FONTAGU IN TROUBLE… AGAIN

  The thin-faced man in the velvet skullcap stopped in front of Fontagu and gave a very small, very unconv
incing bow. ‘The Emperor will see you now.’

  ‘I should think so, too,’ Fontagu replied, slipping his long fingers under the gold-braid edge of his cape and giving it a flick. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here?’

  ‘You’d best show a little less of the superior attitude, if you know what’s good for you,’ the man in the skullcap advised. ‘The Emperor prefers to be the most important person in any room.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fontagu’s throat was dry as he tried to swallow. ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  The man nodded to one of the palace guards, who swung open the huge carved doors that led into Florian’s great chamber.

  Fontagu gasped. It was a large room, full of shiny, ornate things, and people in expensive looking clothes, with shiny, ornate things hanging from them.

  At the far end of the room, under the huge window, and flanked by a couple of statue-still guards, was Florian. His throne was made of marble, with a high carved back and a velvet seat-cushion. He lolled against one of the arms, his beady little eyes even more lost in his face than ever. The life of an emperor was a good one, especially the food he could ask for at any time, day or night. Evidently he asked for it day and night.

  The man in the skullcap cleared his throat and announced the entry of Fontagu in his streaky voice. ‘Fontagu Wizroth, my lord.’

  ‘The Third,’ Fontagu muttered.

  The man ignored Fontagu’s correction, choosing instead to bow low and back away to the side of the room.

  Rather than speaking to Fontagu, Florian turned his head to address the tall young man who stood, hands clasped, beside the throne. ‘Janus, who’s this again?’ he murmured.

  ‘This is Fontagu, the actor.’ Janus said the word ‘actor’ with all the distaste of a contagious disease.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember.’ Florian sat up a little higher. ‘Come a little nearer, Actor,’ he said, in a louder voice.

  Fontagu took another step closer, then dropped to one knee and bowed his head, just as he’d been instructed to do. ‘My lord, it is my truly great, great honour.’

  ‘Yes, yes, get up,’ Florian said, waving his hand lazily. ‘So, presumably you received Our missive?’

  ‘Your what? I mean, I don’t understand, my lord.’

  ‘Our missive. Our message. Our letter. Oh, never mind. You must have got it – you’re here now, aren’t you? So, what did you make of it?’

  ‘Your letter? Oh, I thought it was very good.’

  Florian raised one eyebrow. ‘Good?’

  ‘Well worded. And the calligraphy was quite exquisite – did you do it yourself?’

  ‘What?’ Florian blustered. ‘Of course I didn’t do it myself! I’ve got… I mean, We have scribes to do that kind of thing!’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Fontagu replied quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest -’

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ Florian sighed. ‘So, are you going to do it or not?’

  ‘The play? Yes, of course – it would be a great honour.’

  ‘Yes, indeed it would. And you’re to spare no expense, do you hear?’

  Fontagu bowed his head. ‘None shall be spared, my lord. Is there someone I should talk to about the production budget?’

  Florian frowned. ‘I fear you misunderstand Us, Actor. You are to spare no expense.’

  ‘Um… Oh!’ Fontagu suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you mean my money! Of course, how silly of me!’

  Janus put his hand to his mouth and disguised a laugh with a cough. ‘You didn’t think the Emperor was going to spend his own money on a birthday gift for himself, did you?’

  ‘No! No, definitely not,’ stammered Fontagu.

  Tiredly, Florian raised one hand, and Fontagu fell silent. ‘All right, you’re wasting Our time. Tell me, Actor, what play have you chosen to perform for Us?’

  Fontagu reached under his cloak and took out his manuscript. ‘If it please my lord, I would be honoured to present for your edification my original production of The Gimlet Eye.’

  ‘ The Gimlet Eye, indeed?’ Florian replied. ‘We’ve seen that once before.’

  ‘All respect, my lord, but you’ve never seen it done like Fontagu Wizroth the Third shall do it.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Florian grunted.

  ‘Is that the script there?’ Janus asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bring it to me,’ Janus said, reaching out his hand, and the man in the skullcap hurried over, took the script from Fontagu and carried it to Janus.

  ‘Um… that’s my only copy,’ Fontagu protested.

  Janus flicked through a couple of the pages. ‘Very well,’ he said after a moment, handing the script back to the servant, who returned it to Fontagu.

  ‘We’re done with this one,’ Florian said with a tired wave of his hand.

  ‘All right, Actor, go back to where you lodge,’ Janus said. ‘You’ll hear from us in due course.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fontagu said, bowing low. ‘Thank you, my lord. Thank you everyone.’

  Florian said nothing. He was somewhat distracted by the pigeon that had flown from its perch at the top of the large window behind him, swooped down into the throne room and, with perfect accuracy, dropped a small, runny spatter of white onto his shoulder.

  ***

  With a quiet little thought of thanks, Tab extracted her mind from that of the pigeon. ‘He’s all right,’ she told Philmon. Then she laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Philmon asked.

  ‘The pigeon – it left a little present for Florian. Right here,’ she added, patting her shoulder.

  ‘You made it do that?’

  She smiled. ‘I might have.’

  ‘You’re terrible, Tab,’ Philmon said, breaking into a grin as well. ‘So what happened? Did your trick with the pigeon work? Did you get a good look? Could you hear anything?’

  ‘I saw everything, and I heard everything. He’s doing a play, like he said. He’s doing The Gimlet Eye.’

  ‘ The Gimlet Eye?’

  ‘Yes. I remember Stelka used to talk about it from time to time. It’s famous. In fact, I think I might have seen it once, with some of the other magicians. It was very long,’ she added. ‘I quite possibly fell asleep in the middle of Act Five.’

  Philmon coughed. ‘ Five? How many acts are there?’

  Tab shrugged. ‘I’m not actually sure. Six, maybe. I was asleep.’

  ‘What’s it even about?’

  ‘It’s one of those hero plays. You know, big scary monster thing roaming the land, terrorising the little people, until the hero stops it with some heroic act. Or something,’ she added. ‘Like I say, it’s all a bit hazy.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Philmon. ‘And I bet I can guess who the hero is going to be.’ He stopped walking, puffed out his chest and slipped the end of his right hand inside the opening of his shirt. He tried to deepen his voice, which made it squeak and crack. ‘It is I, Lord Florian the Heroic, come to slay the… What’s the monster called?’

  ‘The Gimlet Eye is the name of the monster. It uses its gaze to kill, or something.’

  ‘And that’s the play he’s doing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Philmon sniffed. ‘Well, at least he’s not dead. Yet.’

  They hurried around the end of the palace towards the main front gate. With his hat and his cape, it didn’t take them long to spot Fontagu, who was walking as quickly as his long legs could carry him.

  ‘Thank the gods he’s not running,’ Philmon said.

  ‘He’d never let anyone see him run,’ replied Tab. ‘How undignified!’

  ‘He’s definitely in a hurry, though,’ said Philmon.

  They jogged after him and, after pushing through the crowds near the palace and in the streets nearby, they finally caught up near the Old Tree Guesthouse.

  ‘Fontagu! Hold up a minute,’ Tab called, but he didn’t appear to have heard her. He just carried on walking.

  ‘Fontagu!’ she called again. ‘Font -’ Her v
oice caught in her throat as a short, red-headed man stepped out of a doorway, and straight into the path of Fontagu, who took a sudden, uncertain backward step.

  Judging by his broad shoulders and his hefty arms, the red-headed man had once been powerful. Much of that bulk had now softened, and following the laws of age and gravity, had transformed into a heavy gut. Even so, he still formed enough of an imposing figure to intimidate Fontagu.

  ‘Who is that?’ Philmon said.

  ‘Just wait,’ Tab replied, reaching out and holding Philmon back by the arm. ‘Let’s see what this is all about.’

  ‘We can’t hear what they’re saying anyway.’

  ‘Just wait,’ Tab said again.

  She was glad of that decision a moment later, when they saw the red-headed man step behind Fontagu, pinning his arm behind him. A flash of fear flickered across Fontagu’s face, and as he was half-guided, half-pushed into the doorway, Tab saw the glint of something shiny held against the small of his back.

  ‘Now what do you suppose that’s all about?’ Philmon wondered aloud.

  ‘Have you ever seen that man before? Because I’m sure I haven’t,’ Tab said.

  Philmon shook his head.

  ‘Huh,’ Tab remarked to herself, turning to look behind them. ‘What do you think we should do – follow them?’

  ‘No need,’ Philmon replied, as Fontagu reappeared, staggering slightly as he stepped down onto the pavement. His face was pale and his eyes wide as he glanced up and down the street, before setting off towards home. A moment later the red-headed man appeared as well. He too looked furtively up and down before limping up the hill towards Tab and Philmon, who did their best to melt into the crowd as he hurried past.

  ‘What was that smell?’ Tab said when he’d gone.

  ‘Tigerplums,’ Philmon replied. ‘He was eating one.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Some people like them.’

  ‘Yes, crazy people.’

  ‘Didn’t you see the colour of his mouth? All stained yellow.’

  ‘I didn’t see – I was too busy trying not to vomit from the smell. It stinks worse than Vlod’s spoiled boingy deer meat. Come on,’ Tab said, and they ran down the hill in pursuit of Fontagu.