The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  He looked surprised. “Why should you want that?”

  “Of late, I have the most awful dreams of being locked in a cell. I decline to enter such unless I hold the key.”

  Furst laughed. “What suspicious minds lovers of the downtrodden own. So less able to trust than innocent bankers. You think I intend slamming the door, locking you within, just so I may harangue you for five hours on the natural right of the strong to rule the weak?”

  In reply I held out hand for key. He sighed. “Well, as it happens I did so intend. But my sermon was brevity itself. Nothing like your jeremiads. ‘Would have run two hours, no more.” He tended me the key. Demoiselle and I entered the lock-room. I dreaded the iron slam of the door, but none came.

  Within waited a bare cell of stone. Narrow niche windows cast faint light, reminiscent of today’s earlier tomb. But no dust here, no ghost. Just a chest upon a table. Unlocked. I lifted the top, and if snakes and flames had burst forth I’d have smiled, none surprised.

  But within waited a dozen silk pouches, an assortment of small boxes and wrapped items. Papers of various important seal and weight. Emptying a pouch upon the table spilled sparkles into the room, shining faint as the lesser stars of dusk. Diamonds, mostly, but an equal assortment of rubies. Some few sapphires. Stones cut in styles seen in old portraits of kings.

  The Demoiselle whistled. “This all yours?”

  I shook my head. “Some of these items are mine. That pouch of poisons. God’s sake don’t touch. I use those leather gloves. These letters of credit are mine.” Items taken by Stephano. Had he surrendered them to my double, thinking him me?

  I traced a finger through scattered diamonds. “But these stones are a dozen times what I owned. A hundred times.” I pulled a teak box out from the chest. The weight told of gold before I opened to release the yellow shine.

  I considered the careful balance of weight and size for each silk bag. “This is payment, prepared,” I decided. “Your Harlequin cousin intends the purchase of some action.” Something expensive, clearly. They intend a slaughter, the noble sun-beam said.

  I searched the chest further. Upon the bottom, wrapped in cloth, waited a knife. An ornamented dagger, curved in a cruel claw. I stared at it a long time, daring to run a finger along the blade. A dull brown stain upon the steel. My knife. An expensive toy. I’d never use it for fighting. Stephano had used it to kill Elspeth. But that had scarce been fight; mere murder.

  “Stop,” said the Demoiselle. She grabbed my arm, did her best to shake me. Stop what? I wondered. I did naught, only stared at a knife. Perhaps I trembled a bit, but wasn’t the child shaking me?

  “Best we leave,” she whispered.

  Leave? Of course. Training came to fore. We were scouts in enemy territory. This bank was the field of foes, more than any French woods by night. I placed the knife in my coat pocket. Exchanged my silvers and coppers for gold. Passed a bag of jewels to the Demoiselle. Closed the chest. Summoned Furst, instructed that we required a porter to assist. Also a carriage, if he would be kind enough to summon one.

  “Are you well, Gray?” he asked. He peered close to study my face. I tensed to break his neck. But then I’d need slay the guard in the chair. Blood and screams. We’d battle just to reach the street. Best let him live. Let every man live, save one. No, excepting four. Furst continued to study me. A horrid idea occurred to his lock-box scruples. “Was there aught missing?”

  I shook my head. Enemy camp, suspicious foe. I needed a jest.

  “I kept my heart locked in the box awhile. Now I must carry it about a bit. Of course it weighs on me.”

  Dry laugh, then sympathetic smile. “Hearts,” Furst sighed. “No vault long keeps that treasure safe.” I recalled this man had wife, children. Were they well? But a year past, he’d worn a black ribbon about his sleeve. I could not recall why. But doubtless his life extended beyond this play-stage of Bank and Coin. What sorrows made him weep? What joys made him laugh? I remembered the coffee-house servant girl, wondering if she was mystic family posing as common clay. Why not Furst as well?

  Bah. Have done and just relegate all men and women, all beasts and stars to be brothers and sisters of one magic, secret, mystic family. Leave out only me, to walk the world staring at shadows of faces and the tips of ears. Diogenes without a lamp. I do not wish a lamp. I do not wish to see.

  A porter brought wheeled cart, though I judged I could carry the box. But hardly fight as well. Not that I’d do better fencing while pushing a cart. But no guards cried Halt. And no play-theatre coincidence of my twin entered the stage, so that we faced one another while onlookers gasped.

  All instincts cried out for flight. No different than in enemy fields. We marched calm, eyes and ears twitching for ambush. Only in the main hall before the door to the street, I recalled my mission. To locate Black’s ledger books. I weighed grabbing Furst, shoving knife-point beneath his chin. Absurd. We were two gentlemen in a place of business, peers of long acquaintance.

  “I wish to review my accounts with Alderman Black,” I told Furst. God’s truth in those words. “Shall I ambush him in his house, or is he now scribbling his merchant prayers in your temple?”

  Furst laughed. “Since a certain conflagration of mysterious origin, he performs his legerdemain entirely at home. Surrounded by pots of water, no doubt.”

  The Demoiselle laughed. Furst looked pleased. I stared puzzled. “Legerdemain,” he repeated. I nodded as though understanding.

  “I did not send for a carriage,” sighed Furst, giving up on whatever idiocy he meant. “Your manservant awaits outside, holding your horses. Or did you intend some clever ruse out the back?” He tapped the side of his nose again in sign he understood the secret ways of spadassins. Would I were so wise.

  “My manservant,” I repeated. “You don’t mean Stephano?”

  “Do two creatures walk the earth with such devil faces?”

  The Demoiselle put hand to my arm again. Unnecessary. I smiled to Furst. “I have all that I came for,” I said, shaking his hand. “For which I thank robber-barons everywhere.”

  We exited the bank, entered the evening light. I took the chest from the porter. The Demoiselle and I stood staring at the carriage in the street before us. Two horses and one driver, who leaned back to stare at the sky, berating cruel heaven with the face it gave him.

  Exactly as months before. At the Church of all Saints. Flower and I, staring at this same carriage, this same man.

  “What will you do?” whispered the child beside me.

  What I did was smile. Shaking a bit, but as a man fresh from honeymoon I attest that pleasure shakes a man, as much as pain or rage. And what I felt now was hot, heart-beat pleasure. It twitched fingers, gave tongue a taste of red salt.

  “Did I never tell of when I infiltrated the French command?” I asked. “Or do you of the family believe only yourselves play separate parts? Master Shakespeare would disagree.”

  At my voice, Stephano looked down to earth, beheld us, and leaped from the carriage. I prepared to throw the box in his face as he drew knife. But no, he moved to open the door, making his crooked bow.

  The Demoiselle and I studied that open door, the man before us. Within waited a fresh cloak, my best rapier. A silver flask. I turned from this sight to study Stephano’s neck. He wore a scarf, covering any scar across throat. He did well to hide it. An insufficient scar, as he yet breathed. At some point he realized we did not rush to enter the carriage, and gave up the bow.

  “Is all well, Master Gray?” he growled. He frowned his fist of a face. “I am early. But so also, you.” I shook head, did not meet eyes. Not yet. So then, the Harlequin must be on his way, finished his sermonizing to those he Judas-goated towards the slaughter-house.

  Had my impostor re-taken Stephano into service? It would aid the fraud, to have this source of knowledge of my person. But did Stephano know the ruse, or did he believe the Harlequin me? Perhaps the Harlequin had spoken of forgiveness in my kindly voice, smiling
out my kindly eyes.

  But how could Stephano believe? He killed Elspeth. And let others believe I did. Betrayed me when I was wounded, running, hiding. He was the final man I trusted; and he’d sold me to my enemies. Stole my fortune, making his pathetic pretense of a throat-slash apology… Did the Harlequin smile and say ‘I forgive’? No actor could deliver those words in my voice to this man, and play the part proper.

  So I considered, while the man stood respectful, head tilted in slightest mockery. I’d once taken that mocking tilt as respect. It said, You are master, I servant, but we both are fighters. Years of recollection flooded my mind. Feelings I’d left in the dark of my cell, chained.

  In war one feels love for the men who fight beside you, the faces circling the fire the night before battle, knowing tomorrow’s circle will be smaller. Stephano, Elspeth and I had been three soldiers in the war against life’s solitude. We’d made a home, as much as any nation of clans that Lalena could boast.

  Stephano had betrayed that home. As had Elspeth. Perhaps I had as well, though I could not see how. I do not brood on such. I wondered if the Harlequin, rejected by their blood-kin, blamed themselves. No, they must see their cousins as the betrayers. Mere human nature.

  “Well, let’s away,” I declared at last. My voice calm. No teeth gritted, no fists clenched. “You know where I need be next?” If he said ‘no’, I would direct him I-didn’t-know-where. But a good valet strives to know such things. Stephano had been such. Before. Before.

  “Of course,” he nodded. I placed the box in the carriage, sat myself beside it. The Demoiselle remained hesitating on the walk, biting lip. Wise child, she disliked entering the same trap twice. Yet took step to so do, moon-eyes wide. But I shook my head, smiled in farewell and shut the carriage door. Leaving her behind. What must come next, would not make theatre for child’s eyes.

  Chapter 21

  Of Heaven’s Cages, and Human Rages

  I kept eye to the windows for signs of our destination, for sudden attack. I opened the silver flask, sniffed what waited within. When last I drank from this, the drugged contents knocked me to the floor and half across the Styx. I’d only resurrected by the slaps and kicks of arresting guards. Whiskey that tasted flat? A spadassin should know better. But I had trusted the source. Again, a spadassin should know better.

  I detected nothing now but the aroma of fine amber fire. No matter. I capped it untasted. There are cups one does not sip from twice. I unsheathed the rapier. A good one, well balanced, no nonsense of ornamentation with the hilt. I considered the top forward panel of the carriage. A good thrust through, and I might skewer the driver.

  It was a peculiarity of Stephano that he spoke succinct when addressing another. But when merely with another, he milled out dialogue not meant for reply. He might go on for hours, while I read, while Elspeth sewed, while the fire crackled. I do not believe he chattered so when alone. The habit had no use in solitude. It was his way of saying to others, here I still am. Affirmation that he was, indeed, not alone. El and I understood. God’s blood but we understood. We smiled, named him Mr. Talkative, let his chatter become the pleasant noise of falling water, the bird-twitter of dusk. He did so now, from his seat atop the carriage.

  “More protests in the street. You’ve stirred them proper. Handbills enough to burn all winter, keep one warm. Who reads the damned things? Only street-dogs and the king’s spies. Church-bells. No matter how the world burns, the bells get rung. Birth, death, marriage. Ha, there’s the great bell my mam called Old Tom. And his cathedral sisters. They have names, those other bells. Named after angels. Luciel, Kariel, Oriel. Pretty names. I’d name cats so, could I abide a cat.”

  I wondered whether he thought me the real Rayne Gray, or took me for the Harlequin imitation. He acted no different now than any other day in my service. This coach, his chatter… as if we were back a year, and he my faithful pirate-valet again. The man I most trusted in all the untrustworthy world. This carriage would take me to my unburnt home, where Elspeth kept dinner warm for us, humming hymns by the fireside.

  I puzzled over the cloak folded beside me. Nothing from my old wardrobe. This was black, hooded, long of hem and arm. A monkish domino for Latin chants in midnight service. Well, I had been absent from society since my death-sentence. Perhaps gothic defined the latest evening-style in Londonish? Nothing more likely.

  “Ship came to the docks today with dead men. Near foundered on the sea wall. Throats torn out. Not normal sailors, I hear. That was sea-mischief, devil’s gospel on it. Been a gentleman of fortune on the water myself. Once watched an island follow our ship for a week. Nothing of your whales. This had trees clear as day, and a mountain and a lighthouse. Captain wouldn’t go near, so it chased us three days. At last the thing grew bored and turned tale up and dived below the waves. Sent a wash that sent the captain overboard.”

  If the Harlequin told Stephano to await him at the bank, he may well have arrived as we left. Only to find his treasure removed. Would he scream of thieves and doubles? I doubted. Furst would hardly believe I’d been an impostor; nor would the Harlequin wish to discuss such matters. No, the Pierrot would pursue the carriage. Or rush to where he believed it fled. By sense I’d be off to Paris. Let him seek me there. So long as I ran a step ahead of him, he failed to enter the picture. Serving merely as cover to approach my enemies.

  I reconsidered. Recalled the warning of the Knight of Light and Dust. Your Aldermen and Magisters are lesser foes. The Pierrot is whom you must face, else fall. I was judging the Pierrot as I would Black or Green. But he was not. He was of the mad, clever family. Forever where they wished; always who they wished. Masters of lounging on the path ahead, for all the random steps one took to flee what came behind.

  What resources did this Harlequin lord have? All of a magic pirate clan, I supposed. The prince Lalena and I dropped to Hell commanded confederates in black clothes, white faces. Servants, she’d called them. I was unsure if they were family, or mere minions. Perhaps a lesser mix, as the aberrations of the Mac Tier. Creatures of the family who lost command of their gifts. The Harlequin servants had not impressed me with any great skill at fighting; but I had caught them off-guard. The fantastical family undervalued common-clay outsiders. Unlikely they’d so slip again.

  “There are beasts beneath the seas like to what you see with eyes closed. Ghost lights, and fog-forms. Ha, I once walked the city fog lost till I came to the river. Well and there was a great creature poking head out the dirty water, exact as lost as I. We stared at each wondering how either could ask the other directions home. Had a great horse’s head, it did. Eyes big as cartwheels. It honked like a bugle, then sank down into the mucky river. Hope the monster sailed safe home. It’s all any sailor wants.”

  Watching the passing city-scenes I realized our destination. And smiled. Did I still need Stephano? No. Ah, but let him drive on. Let him breathe, let him chatter. For a bit longer. It made a pleasant reminder of old days, feeding oil to the fire now warming my heart, setting it to beat double-time. I considered what tools I would need tonight; extracted a glass vial from the treasure-box’s wallet of poisons. I still carried Elspeth’s dagger… not a thing to sully with another’s blood. I put it with the treasure.

  Beneath the seat I keep a concealed compartment. I emptied the contents of the box within. Not a sure hiding-place. But I disliked leaving a treasure chest lying about. And there was no carrying it with me tonight. A fortune in gold and jewels weighs heavy when one needs run or fight. I anticipated both, and soon.

  Treasure hid, I studied the sunset view of tailored lawns and ornate gates. Quite pleasant, but my gaze kept returning to the panel behind the driver. To the steel rapier. But quick thrust made poor revenge. It allowed too little time for remorse. For final words of hate, a vision of Hell’s hot floor from Earth’s cool dirt. No, I’d grant my Stephano the dignity of a fight. Perfect. He could have the dagger he used to kill Elspeth. For my weapon I’d take… a candle-stick. Had he not claimed
she’d meant to bash his head with one? We would settle with the same weaponry. Stephano was a man of scar and skill. Excellent. I would make him feel as an Irish maid facing a devil’s scowl.

  “That’s a ring round the moon tonight, for storm. But moons will show different rings for your different weather. There’s a sharp white ring for a summer storm. A blue circle for lightning. Best take cover then. A rainbow halo marks a mean storm, all cold wind and wave. God help a ship then. Tonight’s ring is blue. Lightning it is.”

  Storm warning declared, we approached Alderman Jeremiah Black’s manse. River-fronted, a walled estate of comfort and elegance. A secret kingdom of wide lawns, polished stone, glass windows, bright lights and splashing fountains. I compared it with my own dark castle, my cold dusty lair of shadow and ghost, exiled to the edge of the world. Shook my head. What a practical wedding present a wealthy urban estate made. Yet people must forever fob off on newlyweds their cracked vases, their unwanted spoons, their demon-haunted Scott castles.

  And yet, were I of calmer blood than this moment, I would exchange all the city, the treasure beneath me and all the earth about me, just to be there.

  Stephano halted the carriage beneath the portico. Servants rushed to the carriage door. But loyal man, he leaped first, halting all with a grin to frighten Satan’s mirror. And so won the honor of opening my door. Thus honored, I stepped forth, rapier unsheathed.

  “Will I be accompanying you tonight, sir?” asked Stephano. He considered the unsheathed blade, devil’s eyes widening.

  I stared up at the bright manse of Alderman Black. Liveried servants holding wide the doors. Party laughter echoed forth, soft music and tinkling glass. Within would wait a clan proud as any tartan of the family. And far more prone to aberration, to abomination. Behold a tribe united neither by blood nor love. No, the ties here were account and credit, title and deed, debt and servitude.

  Usurious bankers, unctuous bishops, unjust judges. Legislators, lawyers, lackeys. Slavers, whore-masters, arms-dealers and aldermen. Lords of vast lands seized from poor neighbors. Factory-masters who measured beggars and prisoners for a proper wheel to turn. Dim princes and inbred lords, ministers of office competent in no art but flattery. Officers in bright uniform and unscarred skin, trained to see living men as pins on maps. Clerics, priests and vicars of no creed but what softened a nest, fattened a belly, flattered a mirror. All the clever and the cruel and the fortunate; lords of the world who chewed at other men’s lives, greedy and confident as rats in a babe’s crib.