by John Barnes
Sir John Slitgizzard became Captain of the Guard, which gave Amatus and Calliope a marvelous excuse to have him to dinner as often as they wished, and to use him as baby-sitter and honorary uncle for all their many children. Once a year, in good weather, he would take a month off to ride north and visit with the Riddling Beast, and it was said that many years later he and the Riddling Beast flew off together to some remote valley, for they had become the best of friends. The beast was never lonely between Sir John's visits, for he turned out to be good at every sort of problem, and to enjoy most of them, so many people made the long trek to talk with him. Amatus offered him any number of nicer places than the mountain hold, but the beast wisely demurred, pointing out that where he was, only people who were serious about their questions would come and see him.
On the night of the wedding, and the first Festival of Liberation, the troupials—a hastily organized company dubbed Lord Pseudolus's Men—were to give the first play since Waldo's invasion. They were all in a high state of excitement, or so the word was from backstage, for most had been working as weavers, carpenters, joiners, tailors, and so forth to make ends meet, and were delighted to have professional work again. Roderick was impossibly nervous, for the King and Queen had requested that since the occasion was so joyous, a tragedy be given for the sake of balance, and Roderick had been afraid that he would be accused of spoiling everyone's enjoyment.
He need not have worried, for the production was a great success, and indeed The Tragical Death of Boniface the Good was performed every festival for centuries afterward. As the third act ended, Sir John Slitgizzard (on stage) and Duke Wassant (also on stage) were just parting to their separate duties in the collapsing city, and Sir John (again on stage) raised an arm to the departing Duke and shouted, "Farewell, farewell, old friend, die only if you must, live for your Prince!"
The troupials bowed for the act end, and the audience applauded wildly. Sir John, the real one up in the stands, said, "Now, I know I never said anything like that in my life. I've no such gift for words."
Calliope, radiant in her wedding gown, smiled at him and teased, "Are you sure that is not what you meant?"
"I'm not even sure what it means," Sir John confessed. "Anyone who knew poor old Wassant—oh, gods, how I miss him even now—would know that the man loved life, and would only die if he had to, or if honor required. I'd never have given him such silly advice and he'd have laughed at me if I did."
Calliope's hand squeezed Amatus's under the table, and they traded winks, as Amatus said, "Now, surely you don't begrudge Roderick taking something commonplace, which you might actually have said, and helping everyone to appreciate its significance?"
Sir John looked out upon the great swarm of people below, across the city itself, to where the sun was beginning to sink. At least on an outdoor stage this silliness could only go on until the sun was down. "Why, I've never said a significant thing in my life," he said.
