In the Company of Thieves

by Kage Baker

  “You see?” Reinhardt said quietly. “We always come back to this place.”

  The musicians had to be cued twice, but reprised the overture and set the scene. The shadows deepened. The principal danseuse flitted onstage in gauzy rags, a moth in the night; Puck emerged from the branches, the most disturbing little snub-nosed monster it would be possible to meet in a dark country lane, and shrieked his opening lines...

  Lewis, I’m in a jam.

  The spell broke. Lewis transmitted in real irritation: Well, get yourself out of it!

  No, seriously.

  You can’t get into the changing tent, can you?

  I did, actually. Crawled in under the back. I’m there now. Hiding behind the clothes rack. Just finished looking through Holloway’s street clothes.

  Well, was the diamond in his pocket?

  No. That’s not the problem, though. What the hell are all these greyhounds for?

  What?

  There are, like, six greyhounds tethered outside the tent door. They can tell I’m in here.

  They’re the hounds for Theseus’s entrance in Act Four. You know: “My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind/ So flew’d, so sanded—”

  Lewis, never mind the damn—Huh? Shouldn’t they be beagles, then?

  You’d think so, but—

  I could outrun a beagle, easy. Well, so what are the chances you can come down here and get the dog handler to take ’em for a walk, or something? They’re, uh, starting to growl.

  Why don’t you simply crawl out the way you came?

  Because there’s some mortal standing behind the tent now, having a smoke. Besides, I think I know—HOLY MACKEREL!

  Lewis shifted in his seat, listening for the baying of ravening greyhounds. He heard none, however; and, after a moment, ventured to transmit.

  Are you still there, Joseph?

  Yeah.

  What’s happening?

  I’m looking at the Tavernier Violet.

  Oh, good. Can I get back to my own mission, now?

  I don’t have it; I’m just looking at it. It’s in a big fancy hat, on a wig head on the makeup table on the ladies’ side of the tent. There’s a couple mortal hairdressers sitting right next to it, gossiping. I just heard one of them say, “Wasn’t that nice of Mr. Holloway, donating that piece of costume jewelry he found?” And the other one said, “It’s such a perfect accent to the costume, too” See, the hat’s all purple and gold.

  Well then, why don’t you grab it and run?

  The goddam dogs are still outside. I’ll just wait here. Sooner or later they’ll step out for a break, right? Then I’ll grab it. And, believe me, once it’s in my hands, no mortal is going to be able to pry it out of my grip. I’ll exit through the roof if I have to.

  Good for you. I will now return to my regular programming.

  Oh, ha ha.

  Lewis relaxed and watched the play. Fairies pirouetted on the greensward, all silver and cellophane, leading the little mortal child round and round. Now came the dark host, goblins beckoning to entice him away to Oberon’s court. Now the clash between moonlight and shadow, the unearthly custody quarrel. This part worked; Shakespeare’s images, freed from print and grammar and the wooden incomprehension of the actors. Every mortal child knew there were things that fluttered and squeaked in the moonlight, and things that lurked in darkness where the trees came down to the fence line, and that it was perilous to venture out to play with them...Lewis felt a primal shiver.

  Out came one pair of mortal lovers, and Lysander at least spoke with iron tongue. Reinhardt, listening, groaned quietly and shook his head. He got up and walked to the edge of the apron, signaling for the assistant director, and Lewis scrambled after him. Together, the three of them spent a fruitless five minutes trying to convey a sense of motivation to the young man, and finally retired to let Art take its course.

  Lewis was murmuring a quiet prayer to the Muse Thalia when he picked up the growing crackle of Joseph’s impatience.

  Still down there, are you?

  The clowns just left. Before that, one of the costume ladies was reading aloud from the latest issue of Silver Screen. Helen Hayes’s tips on making a marriage work. Don’t any of these mortals ever need to use the bathroom, for crying out loud?

  How does Helen Hayes make her marriage work?

  How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention.

  Lewis tuned him out and focused on the play. More lovers, more moonlight, more magic and misunderstanding. Where the actors were equal to their lines, or where the stagecraft carried it, things spun along beautifully; but there were some dismal halts.

  Reinhardt began running his hands through his hair in agitation. He went onstage and remained there, with Lewis obliged to follow at his heel. He worked painfully through the staging of the four-way lovers’ quarrel, with its overlapping dialogue ending in screams. Nor was he able to relax in the scenes between Bottom and Titania, for the ass’s head had to be removed and refitted twice before Connolly was able to make his lines understood.

  Great! The dogs have just been led away!

  Good gods, are you still down there? Lewis had forgotten about Joseph.

  Where else would I go? I’m going to grab the rock and run for it, Lewis— oh, crap. Here come a bunch of fairies and human bats. Jeez, there must be fifty extras lining up to change costumes. Isn’t the damn play almost over?

  There’s still the torchlight procession to the Wedding March.

  Oh, fine.

  Puck got the magic flower business right at last, the mismatched lovers re-matched, and Theseus and Hippolyta came on with dogs and attendants to wake them. Bottom returned to his mates. A Happy Ending was decreed. There was a burst of subvocal cursing from the direction of the costume tent.

  What’s the trouble now?

  The dame! Hippolyta! She’s just had the headdress put on! No!

  It’s her costume for the Wedding Procession, Joseph.

  No! There she goes! I’ll never reach her, through this crowd! Where are they all going?

  Up on the hill for the procession.

  Up the hill, huh? In the dark? Hmmm.

  Joseph, what are you going to do?

  See you later, Lewis.

  Wait! What—

  Lewis heard a shrill scream from the direction of the costume tent, even as the crowd of actors straggled to the edge of the Bowl valley. He peered into the darkness beyond the lit stage, but saw only fathomless blackness until he switched to infrared. The night became a spectral green, through which the mortals walked in glowing scarlet silhouette. The men wore tights and tunics in a vaguely medieval-Venetian style, with immense bicorn hats like fans; the ladies wore hoop skirts with panniers, great unwieldy affairs, and tall headdresses of ostrich plumes. They reached the foot of the hill and one or two thoughtful ones switched on flashlights, looking for a path up.

  There wasn’t one. Lewis heard clearly the muttered complaints, and then the beam of someone’s flashlight picked out the small flag Reinhardt had had planted, on the crest of the hill, to mark their starting point.

  “We have to get up there? This is ridiculous!”

  “It isn’t as steep as it looks, Mr. Lodge—”

  “There is a trail here, somewhere—” Lewis recognized the voice of the assistant director. “Professor Reinhardt chose this spot carefully—the whole audience must be able to see you from their seats, you understand—”

  “But in these costumes?”

  “May I remind you this is Dress Rehearsal?”

  “Somebody light one of the torches!”

  “No! On your cue, if you please—Here, follow me—”

  The great pulsing scarlet crowd began to seep uphill in a tentative sort of way, with a thread of mortals scrambling through the brush. And...flanking them to the right was a skulking figure in bluegreen, flickering with other colors as he stalked them.

  Joseph, what are you doing?

  I’m going to get the damn diamond. Whatev
er it takes.

  But you can’t—

  Reinhardt, who had been making his way up from the stage, sat down beside Lewis and looked at his watch.

  “I’m afraid they’re a little late stepping off, Herr Professor,” Lewis stammered. Reinhardt shrugged.

  “This is why one has rehearsals,” he said. Lewis looked back at the hillside. The mortals were nearly at the top of the ridge now, in a throng that glowed like a bed of live coals. The bluegreen figure could just be glimpsed some little distance down the ridge, advancing on them stealthily. It ran a few steps—halted—dodged around a bush and gained a few more yards. It was remarkably like watching wildlife footage of a wolf stalking a herd of sheep. Lewis felt an irrational urge to shout in warning.

  The mortals wouldn’t have heard him, though...

  “Is everybody here?”

  “Where are the torches? Not the electric torches, you idiot!”

  “Mr. Weissberger, I can’t see a thing—”

  “Mr. Weissberger, I lost one of my slippers, I’ve got to go back and look for it—”

  “Everyone, please, form up! Mr. Lodge, Signorina Braggiotti, this is your mark, here by the flag—will the rest of you please—”

  “Mr. Weissberger, there’s no path marked out—”

  “We will simply walk downhill to the foot of the ramp,” shouted Weissberger, rather V-ing his Ws in his stress. “It will not be a difficulty! Clyde, we will now distribute the torches!”

  Beside Lewis, Reinhardt checked his watch again. Lewis bit his lower lip, watching as one unwary mortal strayed from the flock, going back down the way he had come. Looking for a lost slipper? Yes. He crouched, picked up something and balanced unsteadily on one foot as he pulled it on.

  Oh, foolish mortal; for here came the bluegreen figure, slipping up behind the scarlet one. Bop! Lewis winced, as the scarlet figure collapsed and was dragged into a thicket. Colors shifted and flashed from within the thicket, and then the bluegreen figure emerged, having appropriated the mortal’s costume. Absurd hat slightly askew, it scrambled up the hill to the end of the line that had formed, and grabbed a torch.

  “The torches have now been distributed!” Weissberger’s voice cracked. “On my signal, the torches will be lowered! Now!”

  A figure at the front of the line suddenly glowed with a point of white heat. Squinting, Lewis made out the propmaster, who had lit a cigar.

  “The torches will now be lit!” screamed Weissberger. The prop-master puffed his cigar to brightness and went hurriedly along the line of torches, dabbing its lit end on each of them in turn. One by one they flared alight. There was scattered applause from the benches all around Lewis. Reinhardt merely nodded in satisfaction.

  “AND NOW!” Weissberger turned and spoke through a megaphone. “HERR PROFESSOR, WE ARE READY!”

  Reinhardt waved his arms for the benefit of the conductor, who turned and raised his baton. The trumpet players sounded the fanfare, and the whole orchestra sailed into Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”

  The procession stepped off. The long line of torches moved uncertainly through the night, with the assistant director and stage manager scuttling ahead through the sagebrush with flashlights, searching for a trail. Lewis watched the bluegreen figure at the end of the line craning its neck, studying the mortals ahead of it. It lowered its torch, crept off to one side, and then a stentorian voice called:

  “Jeepers, look out! That’s a rattlesnake!”

  There were screams of alarm from the hillside. Torches wavered wildly, one or two were dropped and hastily retrieved, a bush caught fire and had to be beaten out. One actress, leaping out of the way of any reptile threat, overbalanced and fell backward into a spurge laurel. Her hoops collapsed around her like a Japanese lantern folding up, and her frantic legs were white-hot as they kicked the air, rapidly cooling to red. She had to be hauled upright by a pair of her fellow extras. Weissberger came charging back up the slope, ready to club any snakes he found with his flashlight, and vainly beat the bushes for a moment or two.

  “What is happening?” Reinhardt stood, scowling. He shielded his eyes with his hand and peered out across the valley. Miss Sibley handed him a megaphone. “WEISSBERGER, WHY HAVE THEY STOPPED?” he bellowed, over the orchestra.

  The assistant director went scrambling back, grabbed his megaphone from the propmaster, and called back: “IT WAS A SNAKE!”

  “WAS ANYONE BITTEN?”

  “NEIN, HERR PROFESSOR!”

  “THEN PLEASE PROCEED!”

  Weissberger turned and made desperate shooing motions at the milling actors. Altogether it was five minutes before the wavering line re-formed, and when it did, Lewis saw that the bluegreen figure had managed to advance halfway up the line of the procession.

  By this time, however, the “Wedding March” had ended. The conductor turned and looked up at Reinhardt inquiringly.

  “Play it again,” said Reinhardt, forgetting to use the megaphone. Lewis waved his arms, semaphoring an encore. Once again the fanfare sounded, and once again the procession stepped off.

  Dum dum dah dumdum dumdum dah diddly-dah diddly-dah—

  The line of torches advanced in a tentative kind of way, bobbing along through the dark.

  “Oh, my God, that’s a coyote! And it’s rabid! Run, everybody!”

  There was immediate chaos on the hillside. Lewis saw the bluegreen figure dart out of line again, questing forward, but it collided and went down in a tangle of panicked mortals. There was a wild confusion of arms, legs, plumes, hoops and floppy hats. Some mortal gave an agonized yell.

  “It bit me! Help! It bit me on the leg!”

  “Where did it go?”

  “There it is! You can see its glowing eyes!”

  “I heard it growling!”

  “Did it break the skin?”

  “We must be near its den or something!”

  “Hit it with a torch! They’re afraid of fire!”

  “Where is it?”

  “Stop this at once! You will resume the line of march!”

  “Listen, we were just attacked by a wild animal!”

  “What? Where?”

  “There it is? Shine your damn flashlight in that bush!”

  A second of silence.

  “Well? Where is it?”

  “Well—well—it was crouching right there, a second ago!”

  “I saw it too!”

  “This is mass hysteria. Get into line, you idiots!”

  “Say, do you want a punch in the mouth?”

  “You can’t talk that way to Americans!”

  “You call yourselves actors? You will be fired!”

  Someone took a swing at someone else, who dodged, but the blow kept coming and hit a third party, who dropped his torch and hit back, and another person was cracked across the shins with a flashlight, and it only got worse from there. Lewis cringed.

  “They have stopped again,” observed Reinhardt.

  “Yes, I’m afraid they have,” said Lewis.

  “Why is this?” Reinhardt stood up and raised the megaphone. “IF YOU PLEASE! LET US CONTINUE!”

  The orchestra faltered to a stop. Lewis saw the seething mass of pugilism halt, as though coming to its senses, and then grudgingly reform the processional line. A couple of torches had to be relit. Several hats had to be located.

  “WEISSBERGER?”

  “THERE HAS BEEN A MOMENTARY DELAY!”

  “WELL, WE WILL BEGIN THE MARCH AGAIN!”

  “JAWOHL, HERR PROFES—WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME?”

  The fanfare sounded yet again, and perhaps prevented further bloodshed, for the sullen line jolted forward and then, miraculously, kept on coming through the darkness. They were nearly over the last rise before the foot of the trestle now. Lewis, unable to look away, saw the bluegreen figure fall out and run slinking along the side, shoving to get further ahead. Further now still, ever closer to the front of the line where walked the tall stately figures of Theseus and Hippolyta, up until
this point relatively untouched by the general mayhem.

  “Hey! Who’s pushing?”

  “Stop that!”

  “Well, aren’t you the rude—”

  “Say, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Here came the procession, onto the trestle at last: first Weissberger walking backwards (the propmaster had prudently decided to fall out and cross the parking lot underneath), one hand on the velvet rope to guide himself. Next came Theseus and Hippolyta, Mr. Lodge and Ms. Braggiotti, and now Lewis could make out the sparkle of their jewels— and, yes, there was the familiar glint of the Tavernier Violet, square in the center of Hippolyta’s gold lamé turban.

  They had come into the range of the spotlights at last and Lewis switched from infrared vision, but not before he caught a glimpse of the bluegreen figure hurtling forward through the line. The other members of the procession staggered and nearly fell, several dropped their torches over the side—they streamed down through the night like flaming comets—and there were more cries of anger and alarm.

  What—no, you can’t, not here! Lewis jumped to his feet involuntarily. Reinhardt turned his head to stare at Lewis and so missed seeing the bedraggled figure that thrust its way past the blackamoors holding Hippolyta’s train. On it came, and Weissberger saw it now and raised his flashlight threateningly.

  “You will get back to your appointed place!” he said.

  Joseph dodged a blow from the flashlight, sprang upward, ripped the Tavernier Violet from Hippolyta’s headdress, and narrowly missed having Theseus’s scepter broken over his head by somersaulting off the edge of the trestle. Miss Braggiotti screamed and clutched at her head. Lewis bit his knuckles. He saw Joseph catch a beam halfway down and swing himself, apelike, to the inner framework, where he clambered to the ground and ran.

  “What was that?” Reinhardt rose to his feet. “Are there monkeys in California?”

  “Perhaps one escaped from a circus,” said Lewis, for lack of anything better to say. The procession, thank all the gods, had recovered itself, and here came Weissberger down the ramp with his flashlight, grimly determined to lead them to the stage. Hippolyta’s headdress was slightly askew, and missing its violet centerpiece, but she was otherwise unharmed. Lewis sank into his seat, vastly relieved.