The House of the Stag

by Kage Baker

  “Be amazed, Wolkin; he liked you!” said Pulkas.

  “ ‘… tragic death of Clemona,’ blah blah,’ … dragon fight particularly good …’ “

  “He liked you too.” Pulkas addressed the dragon, lurking at the side of the stage: a barrel painted with scales and wings, a wooden head on the front end with staring glass eyes and gaping jaws, a bellows in the other end to blow red ribbons out of its mouth for flames, and the whole mounted on a pair of wheels.

  “ ‘… carried by the power and majesty of Mr. Tinwick’s performance as usual. His Dark Lord is a masterpiece of suppressed inner turmoil and remorse, the whole driven by steely and unswerving purpose. Having said that, we could only wish his supporting players’—ouch, now falls the blow—‘supporting players were as dedicated. The necessary jesting of Elti and Jibbi is fitting in its place, but to our eyes Mr. Smith and Mr. Rivet veer perilously close to self-parody. These young gentlemen would do well to learn from the generations of comedians who have proceeded them.’ “

  “What a command of language,” said Clarn. “Learned it at his mother’s knee, no doubt, while she was performing favors for sailors.”

  “Ahem. Oh, dear, Mr. Carbon: ‘Moreover the actor portraying the Wizard brought an unwelcome note of levity to the scene wherein he informs Kendon of his Destiny. Conjuring tricks may delight the lower element in the audience, but we could wish Mr. Carbon had chosen a more dignified interpretation of this crucial role.’ “

  “He didn’t like the colored scarves?” Mr. Carbon sagged. “I spent hours learning to do that one.”

  “ ‘Miss Ironbolt was exquisite as Princess Andiel, and Miss Joist brought a suitable pathos to the role of Clemona.’ “

  “That’s all he ever says about us,” said Satra, sighing.

  “Be grateful,” said Bracket distractedly, reading on. He winced.

  “What’s he say?” asked Pulkas.

  “The pompous bastard. ‘If Mr. Bracket has, with Mr. Carbon, taken it upon himself to add vulgar interest and amusement to Mr. Tinwick’s script, he would be well advised to leave off. While Batto’s bravery in the fourth act was adequately portrayed, his previous tendency to clown and steal scenes from Kendon sharply undercut the essential heroism of the role.

  “ ‘All in all, I expected more from this company. It is to be hoped these flaws will be corrected as the season progresses.’ “

  “Sod him,” said Mr. Carbon, feeling about for his smoking tube. He drew it out, packed it with an aromatic weed, and lit up.

  “Good morning, one and all,” said Mr. Tinwick grandly, entering through the street door. “Seen the review? Congratulations, Wolkin! A triumph!”

  “We have seen the review, thank you, and it’s nothing to celebrate,” said Pulkas. “What makes you so damned cheerful?”

  “We have a new patroness,” said Mr. Tinwick. “An extraordinarily generous one. Fancy a new Wizard’s costume, Mr. Carbon? And what about getting that broken corner of the stage fixed?” From his belt pouch Mr. Tinwick pulled a bag of something that clinked suggestively.

  The new patroness was Lady Filigree. She was tall and slender and exquisitely bred, if a little past her prime; she came and sat in the back of the house, smiling in an ethereal sort of way, and watched rehearsals. When she was formally introduced to the cast, she shook each one by the hand and murmured “How do you do?” or “Delightful to meet you” or “I am so happy to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  “That’s how the old blood do it,” said Clarn out of the side of his mouth to Gard. “Ever so polite.”

  When she took Gard’s hand, she said, “And how long have you studied under Mr. Tinwick?”

  “Only a month and four days, madam,” said Gard.

  She cocked her head slightly. “May I ask, sir, where you were born?”

  “The islands.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Chadravac,” said Gard warily.

  “Now, that’s interesting. I would have taken you for a Patrayka man. You have the accent. Not one of the farming folk, though. Tell me, were you raised in one of the great houses there? You speak just like one of the Silverpoints.”

  “My father worked for the Silverpoints.”

  “I see.” Lady Filigree looked at Gard thoughtfully. “Lovely family. I knew them, when I was a girl. Of course, they’re all gone now. Pity.”

  “Indeed, madam.” Gard was aware of his fellow cast members eyeing him in a speculative sort of way.

  Lady Filigree’s money paid for a gorgeous robe of blue shot silk for the Wizard, trimmed with silver thread. Mr. Carbon was forbidden to smoke anywhere near it. She also provided the company with five new masks—an Old Nurse, three Gods, and a Demon—as well as a prop tree with a bird puppet mounted in its branches, useful for prophecies and warnings. Mr. Tinwick wrote a grand new piece incorporating all these new elements, to be titled The Doom of the Northern Kings.

  On a humbler note, Lady Filigree also paid for a mason to come in and repoint the mortar in the stage platform. It turned out to need one entire corner relaid, however, and—sensing the depth of the purse—the mason suggested that a new retaining wall at the back of the house would not only be safer but improve the overall acoustics of the place. He pocketed the coin and left his apprentice to do the work. The apprentice, a badly stagestruck youth, spent a lot of time watching rehearsals with his trowel in his hand.

  “Right,” said Bracket. “We can at least begin blocking the scene, until he gets here.”

  “It’s not like him to be so late,” said Satra fretfully. “Should we report it to the city guard?”

  “No,” said Mr. Carbon. “They’d only arrest us all, the bastards. He’s probably still dallying with the patroness, that’s all. Breakfast in bed or some such.”

  Satra turned away, her eyes welling with tears. Gard looked at her, wondering if he ought to say something consoling, but Clarn caught his eye and shook his head.

  “So, here we are, scene at the Outskirts of the Forest—which means we’ll have the two little trees out here and the Prophesying Bird tree there. Kendon and Batto are beset by forest bandits—that’ll be you two in the Brigand masks,” added Bracket, nodding at Pulkas and Clarn.

  “Oh, that’ll look realistic, won’t it?” said Pulkas. “Two little shrimps like us defeating the two of you?”

  “It could happen,” said Bracket. “For one thing, Batto can be clumsy and trip or something. Suppose I leap up crying, ‘Oh, dear master, have a care,’ or some such, and—I know! I can drop my string of cooking pans and fall over it. And one of the Brigands can club me.”

  “Even so, how do we take down Kendon?”

  “I’ll show you.” Gard handed out wooden swords and coached them through the choreography of the fight. They finished up with Gard disarmed and their blades at his throat. The mason’s apprentice applauded. “You see?” said Gard.

  “Nice!” said Pulkas. “Had a private arms tutor, your lordship?”

  “No,” said Gard, scowling. Lately it had been assumed he was some bastard of the Silverpoint house, living incognito. “I was a soldier.”

  “If you say so. Well, and so then your line is …”

  Quoted Gard,

  Alas, good Batto, art thou slain?

  Varlets, what wantest thou

  With two poor travelers? We have no gold,

  Nothing except our honesty and firm purpose.

  “Of course you know your lines by heart,” said Pulkas. “And we’ll do a lot of har-har, nudge-nudge, and then the line is usually something like:

  His Dark Lordship cares not for your gold,

  It is your life he’d have us rip away!

  “And then there’s a long torture scene, before Clemona comes to rescue you.”

  “There is?” Gard was disconcerted. “What for?”

  “It’s just one of the Epic conventions,” said Bracket, from where he sprawled on the stage. “The Hero gets tortured. Repeatedly. So we’ll need the prop bra
zier and the pokers, and the knives with syrup packets in the blades, Carbon.”

  “Right.” Mr. Carbon tapped out his smoking tube and wandered off in the direction of the properties shed. “Been using the brazier as a wash-stand. It’s under my shaving mirror.”

  “And whatever you do, don’t laugh while you’re being tortured,” said Clarn. “That gets Plater especially pissy.”

  “Just keep telling yourself, ‘I’m a serious artist,’ “ said Bracket.

  The street door opened and Mr. Tinwick walked in arm in arm with Lady Filigree. She fairly glowed with happiness. He looked giddy. The mason’s apprentice rose and bowed low.

  “My apologies, all,” Tinwick said, waving his hand. “Ah! You’re hard at work. What good children. Act two, scene one, I see. They seem to have everything well in hand, my dear. What about a bottle of wine at the Marsh Goose?”

  “I should like that very much,” said Lady Filigree, smiling. “But your art must come first, dear Mr. Tinwick. May I watch the rest of the rehearsal?”

  “I should be desolated if you didn’t,” said Mr. Tinwick, kissing her. She found a seat as he swaggered forward and mounted the stage. Satra, who was just emerging from the properties shed with her wooden sword, saw the kiss. She turned pale and rushed back inside.

  “Now! The Brigands capture Kendon,” said Mr. Tinwick. “Which brings us, of course, to the torture scene.”

  “I was just bringing out the brazier, Tinny,” said Mr. Carbon, holding it up. “We might want to repaint the coals. They’re a bit dusty.”

  “We should, yes. But …” Mr. Tinwick stroked his mustache. “You know … let’s try something new. I think we’ll have him tortured offstage, in this one.”

  “Plater won’t like that,” said Pulkas.

  “A fig for Plater. This sort of scene is far more horrible if left to the audience’s imaginations, you see? And so you’ll drag Kendon off, leaving faithful Batto for dead. And Clemona finds him, when she comes searching. Yes!” Mr. Tinwick looked immensely pleased with himself.

  “All right,” said Clarn, and mimed tying Gard’s wrists.

  His Dark Lordship cares not for your gold,

  It is your life he’d have us rip away!

  Come away now to, er, the Castle of Doom!

  There in its dungeons we’ll teach you

  The true meaning of pain!

  “Har-har, nudge nudge. And we exit.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Tinwick. Gard stepped down from the platform and seated himself in the audience.

  “I thought you were great,” said the mason’s apprentice sotto voce. “I’d give anything to be able to be up there.”

  “It doesn’t pay very well,” said Gard.

  “I wouldn’t care.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Smith,” said Lady Filigree, rising to approach him. He and the mason’s apprentice rose awkwardly, and she gestured to indicate they should sit again before seating herself beside Gard.

  “Now,” said Mr. Tinwick, “let’s see … Batto has been left for dead. Miss Joist, I think Clemona enters from the left, falls to her knees beside him, and …”

  Oh, faithful Batto! Art thou truly slain?

  And where is my love, princely Kendon?

  Let me but find his noble corpse

  And three shall lie dead in this accursed forest!

  “Wouldn’t she scream first?” said Mr. Tinwick.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tinwick,” said Satra. “I’ll do it again.”

  “Too right,” said the mason’s apprentice. “Of course she’d scream. He’s a bloody genius.”

  “He is that,” said Lady Filigree quietly.

  “I mean, you’d never think to look at a little fellow like him that he’s that Dark Lord. He comes out in that mask and all, and you just can’t take your eyes off him,” said the mason’s apprentice. Gard glanced over his shoulder at the unfinished retaining wall.

  “He understands how to appear more than what he is,” said Lady Filigree.

  “And that Dark Lord! He’s so … like … powerful,” said the mason’s apprentice. “Really, even with him being evil and all, I like him better than the hero. No offense, sir,” he added hastily, nodding to Gard.

  “That’s all right,” said Gard.

  “He does haunt the imagination,” said Lady Filigree. “He is a looming mystery. People love that.”

  In that moment, clear as though she sat behind him, Gard heard Balnshik’s voice:

  But those who are weak love the appearance of power. How they worship it in others! … You be the unspoken threat, the never-raised voice, untouched, unmoved and implacable…. They will fear you, without quite being aware they are afraid. Then they will admire you. Then they will desperately love you.

  Gard shook his head, wondering.

  “No, dear,” Mr. Tinwick was saying. “Let’s try it again with just those little changes, shall we? One more time.” And Satra, clenching her fists until the knuckles stood out, took a deep breath.

  Faithful Batto, lean on me; together we’ll go forth

  The Castle of F’narh to seek, and there

  We’ll rescue valiant Kendon—

  “Castle of Doom,” Mr. Tinwick corrected her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tinwick.”

  “Don’t apologize, dear, just go on with the line.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tinwick.”

  “It’s a grand and a noble thing you’re doing, being a patroness here, mistress,” said the mason’s apprentice. “That Wizard’s new robe is just a treat to look at. If I was rich, I’d do the same with my money, so I would.”

  “It’s as good a way to spend one’s fortune as any other,” murmured Lady Filigree. “Service to the arts. With the world spinning into madness, why not? A little entertainment takes one’s mind off the troubles.”

  “Oh. You mean the war?” The mason’s apprentice remembered his trowel and stirred his basin of mortar with it. “I can’t understand what it’s all about, myself.”

  “The same old story.” Lady Filigree looked sidelong at Gard. “Two clans hate each other and find a reason to quarrel. They fight and innocents die on both sides. Sometimes everyone dies. The Silverpoints went that way. Any survivors must flee and take new names, or they’ll be followed for blood debt.”

  “I have heard that is true, madam,” said Gard cautiously.

  “Well, what I say is, Duke Parrackas is our man, and that other fellow can go stick his head in a bucket,” said the mason’s apprentice.

  “At last,” Mr. Tinwick was saying, “let’s move on to the Castle of Doom, shall we? Kendon is unconscious in chains.”

  “Pardon me, madam,” said Gard, rising to bow to Lady Filigree. He stepped onstage and hit his mark, huddling himself into something approximating the posture of the beaten and unconscious slaves he’d seen.

  “And let’s have one of the Brigands about to commence torturing him again,” said Mr. Tinwick. “Clarn?”

  “Right. Har-har, sleeping, are you? I’ll rudely awaken—”

  “So, are you going to want the brazier of coals or not, then?” Mr. Carbon inquired.

  “No. Just bring out the daggers, will you?” said Mr. Tinwick. “Are they all charged? The audience will want a little blood.”

  “Oh, I know!” said Clarn. “What about the flaying scene?

  Your skin is smooth, bold hero,

  I’ll make a present of it to my dark master,

  Scraped parchment on which he’ll write

  The doom of all your house.

  Clarn rummaged hastily in the basket of daggers as Mr. Carbon brought them out and drew the blade of one down Gard’s raised arm, depressing the catch with his thumb. The wooden blade was pressed back into the hollow hilt, breaking the little bladder of red syrup inside. It made a quite painful-looking red line along Gard’s arm. Gard pretended to struggle, baring his teeth.

  “And while the Brigand’s so engaged, Clemona enters and stabs him,” said Mr. Tinwick. “Miss Joi
st? Where has she got to?”

  “Here!” said Satra, emerging from the properties shed. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Sorry.”

  “Your beloved is about to be flayed alive, Miss Joist; I’m sure he would appreciate a little punctuality on your part,” said Mr. Tinwick pleasantly enough, but Satra went pale with mortification. She pulled a dagger from the basket.

  “Die, vile wretch! That skin is dear to me—,” she began, advancing on the Brigand.

  “Wait! Clarn, for whom are we playing this scene? I’m sure Wolkin finds your menacing leer profoundly upsetting, but wouldn’t it be nice if the audience could see it as well?” said Mr. Tinwick. “Cheat out!”

  “I am cheating out,” said Clarn.

  “Oh, gods below,” said Mr. Tinwick, advancing on him. “Here, give me the dagger. Go sit in the audience. Watch.” He crouched over Gard, dagger upraised.

  “I’ll make a present of it to my dark master, la la la, and Clemona comes in with her line—”

  “Die, vile wretch! That skin is dear to me!” cried Satra, and stabbed Mr. Tinwick.

  Gard saw Mr. Tinwick’s eyes open wide. He lurched upright, staggering back. “Gods!” screamed Satra, and fainted. Mr. Tinwick reached around and tried to pull the wooden blade from his back.

  “Oh. It’s really gone in, hasn’t it?” he said, gasping.

  “Nine Hells!” shouted Clarn. Gard scrambled to his feet and grabbed Mr. Tinwick, whose knees were starting to fold, as Clarn vaulted onstage and reached for the dagger.

  “Don’t pull it out!” Lady Filigree’s voice carried steely authority. “Hold him up and still. Girl!” She addressed Miss Ironbolt, who had just come in through the street door. “Run to my house. Number Three, Street of the Pines. Have them bring my personal physician and a sedan chair, immediately.”

  Miss Ironbolt, eyes wide, turned and fled.