The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  In the mad northern island I had faced monsters. Fascinating and terrifying, yet I never felt they had much to do with me. Ah, but the monsters in this house were mine.

  Satisfaction made me shiver. Not for surety of my goal. Too many enemies, too little time to scout. Just from this point I could see Black had increased his guard triple-fold. Signs of dogs; shadows of watchers within the trees. Armed servants, cautious eyes from windows. I had less chance of returning alive from this bright house than from a French encampment. But at last I stood on the doorstep of my duty. No more words, but forward charge.

  “Best stay with the coach, Stephano,” I said. I sheathed the rapier. Yes, I would save my traitorous servant’s throat for last. As I had my commander’s. The memory made me smile. In return he bowed, handed me the strange black cloak.

  “Must I wear this?” I sighed. Exactly as I did before every formal dinner, while he presented each separate fool article of elegant idiocy. And he’d reply in mock sorrow, ‘Afraid so, sir.’ Ever the proper valet, fussing at each slightest detail of fold and comb and ornament. I considered my wedding ring.

  “Alas yes, sir. Clothes maketh man.” Just so. I struggled into the cloak, disliking how it hindered arm and leg. Stephano fussed with the folds. Finally reached and pulled the hood up, leaving me a cave-mouth of cloth to peer forth from.

  “Very good, sir,” he said. “You look a right conspirator.”

  I gave him a look from out my cave. He sent one back. My look meant last goodbye to the companion my ruffian-valet had been. I had no idea what the returned face intended. I found I did not much care.

  “Tend the horses, stay close by the coach,” I said. “I may wish to leave the party early.” I had come to the city to kill a man. I now turned and walked up the steps of his house.

  Chapter 22

  While I am, Death is not

  I stared at Death. He stared at me. I nodded to acknowledge we were old friends. He shook head, meaning he disagreed. He blocked the entrance to the ballroom. I moved to step past. He turned his scythe sideways, blocking entry.

  “And I was just thinking fondly of you,” I sighed.

  He reached a white-gloved hand, pushed back my hood. I considered doing the same to him. Tit for tat and add a bit, for spit and spat. Shoving the scythe up his bony ass had strong appeal.

  “Ah. Our Gray.” He gave the name a certain emphasis. Did that mean he thought it not my real name, mere word for the copy of the thing?

  “Ah. Their Streng,” I replied, giving the name equal emphasis. Perfectly fair. He was not the real Death, just Black’s chief of arms. Dressed a la mort. Dark cloak, white mask, scythe and weak irony.

  I stared past him into the grand hall of Black’s mansion. Within swirled a carnival crowd of devils and angels, milkmaids and mermaids, popes and prostitutes in matching silks. Figures of beauty and fear, desire and dementia, archetypes and archons of import. Or rather, the idea of these things. Attend a few family gatherings, one cannot take costume for more than cloth and pretense.

  A masked ball. I sighed in relief. My cloak was only costume, not uniform. I had feared to find myself in line with other fools, marching in gothic formation down to secret caverns. There by torch-light to plot the downfall of kings, the burning of churches and the teaching of French to the innocent.

  Do not smile. Londonish swarms with secret societies, brotherhoods, ancient orders. Alderman Black once described to whiskey and commiseration, his initiation into the Bavarian Illuminati. Hours of solemn oath and midnight ritual challenging all his soul not to laugh or yawn. A week later he was invited to join a second Bavarian Illuminati that denied the existence of the first. Then a third. He gave it up.

  While Magister Green eternally fretted he could not rise above the lowest ranks of Free-Mason, though he sits by day with rulers of empire. He bitterly blamed a minor clerk in the Naval Department, who held grand rank by cloak and candle.

  Dealer insists he faithfully attended the Hell-Fire Club all the years Green, Black and I merely attended war. Though I picture Dealer as more voyeur than partaker in masked grotto-orgy.

  “This way,” said Death. No, said Streng. No Grim Reaper, he. Mere murderous fool. The rudeness did not surprise. He disliked my soul years before Black and I fell out. Streng required a touch of fear in other’s eyes when he smiled. He considered it cowardly of me to smile in return. As well, he sulked I gave myself airs by considering myself the peer of his master. I didn’t, to be honest. I was and am far better man than Black. As for Streng; well.

  But did he dislike me now for who I was, or for who I feigned? Both, no doubt. I could not picture a Harlequin lord bowing to such an ass as Streng, except in mockery. Streng turned and walked down the hall. Two liveried guards took position behind us, walking in careful pose of solemn service. Pistols to the side; dainty French flint-locks. I gave them a nod and followed Streng. They followed me.

  From beyond, an orchestra began final tuning. What a wondrous sound, that last moment before the written music begins. A harmonious whisper of oboe and bugle, violin, cello, bassoon and bell softly testing through note and key, reed and string. Like birds at dawn, twittering and flittering in the all-but-hush. I wondered what music would rise tonight. Alderman Black liked loud pieces that shouted for joy of conquest. One had to give him that.

  We entered a study. Lamp-lit, a place of business. Desks. Cabinets. Papers. Disappointing. Not Black’s office, but Streng’s. Still my eye surveyed what a canny spadassin might find useful. Streng went to the desk. The door shut behind. I did not need turn to verify that one guard remained outside, one remained observing, back to wall.

  Streng removed his Death’s mask, tossed it to the desk as though weary of mortality. He opened a cabinet, rifled within. If he drew pistol I’d best throw myself at him. No doubt while the man behind shot me. After fighting Chatterton I’d vowed never to underestimate a guard. A wise resolution, but the world does not always allow us to be wise. Streng found a parchment, folded and sealed. He threw it on the desk beside the mask of Death.

  “Your last speech. For the final gathering of your peasant uprising, tomorrow on Echoing Common. See you deliver it so you move the masses to murder, or all this theatre has been wasteful as it has been tedious.”

  Theatre? Well. That settled who this man thought I was. I struck a pose. “Friends, Romans, city-folk, lend me your ears.” I drew rapier from under the cloak, waved it to the heavens. The ceiling, anyway.

  “Would the slaves lay aside their ruth,

  And let me use my sword, I'll make a quarry

  With thousands of these quarter'd lords

  As high as I could pick my lance.”

  Beyond the walls began the thunder of Handel’s ‘Music for the Royal Fireworks’. Trumpets and drums. Excellent for itself; and twice-so to cover the coming thunder. I bowed. “Hamlet, act three, scene four,” I shouted.

  The guard behind me disagreed. “Coriolanus, you fool,” he declared.

  “And with words jumbled,” agreed Streng, raising his voice to counter Handel’s joy. As if he could. “It should be the slaves slaughtered for the nobles.”

  I nodded. “It depends on whom you name slave, whom heaven knows for noble. But I have the next line pat.” And before any could argue the scene, I turned and ran the guard behind me through the throat. The blade pierced the door, nailing him where he stood.

  “A rat!” I cried. His eyes stared shocked. My eyes returned no apology. I did not wait to see him fall, but seized his gun, withdrew my blade, whirled to face Streng.

  He stared open-mouthed. Tried shouting over trumpet and bugle. I shook head, stepping closer. I never trust a pistol to strike even a wall except the barrel is shoved against a brick. Streng reached into the cupboard while drawing his rapier. Fool. It left him fumbling for pistol and sword at once. I kicked his knee. A time-honored tactic, if lacking style. He howled, dropped the pistol, retreated behind the desk.

  “Sit,” I ordered, wav
ing pistol and blade at once. Streng snarled, face more murderous than any carnival Death. He did not fear me. But did not see a path to killing me. Rapier dropped, he limped to a chair, sat.

  “Told Black you were a mad whoreson not for trusting,” he observed.

  “Quite mad,” I agreed. “We’ll skip my mother. Keep hands where I see them.” I enjoyed the music a bit, listening for shouts, for pounding at the door. Nothing. No alarm given.

  I placed sword-point beneath Streng’s chin. “Let us trade, truth for life. Why do you want an uprising? Why plot a slaughter of tradesmen? And why this false Seraph resurrected from Hell?”

  Pain to pride and knee twisted his face. I was a robber in an alley, stealing his fat purse of self-worth. But he tried a smile. “You’d best ask Black the why’s of the world. You were only hired to do the part left unfinished by that shite Gray getting slaughtered in his cell. Would God I could have seen it. Why do you care now, the work all but done?”

  He stalled. Quite proper, I’d have done the same. The longer we chatted, more likely others would interfere. But I’d murdered the guard. Streng could hardly think I’d spare him. He’d tell me nothing. I sighed, reviewing ‘Music for Royal Fireworks’. Bugle and drum would shortly reach a crescendo suitable to cover a gasp or death-cry.

  A flicker in his eyes, a gasp behind. I jumped aside, not waiting to turn. A knife thrust where I’d stood. The guard I’d impaled. He’d risen, drawn blade, crossed the room in what must have been a long day’s journey. Blood pouring from his neck, breath gasping out the wound. I’d have heard but for Handel. He slashed again, I parried with the pistol. It fired, striking him in the stomach. A modest bang, a cloud of smoke.

  I turned to Streng, who’d retrieved his blade. He thrust across the desk, shouting. Pointless. From the gardens cannon and crackers exploded. Fireworks to accompany the bugles and trumpets. I parried, ran him through the chest. He collapsed into his chair.

  The guard lay on the floor, gasping, drowning in his own blood. Struggling bravely against the closing dark. I knelt down beside him. He looked up, eyes damned angry.

  “You were right,” I shouted above the fireworks. “It was Coriolanus.” I covered his eyes and cut his throat. Sighed, stood, turned back to Streng.

  The man slumped in the chair, blood trickling from his mouth. I lamented the guard, but not Streng. I spoke of human monsters and aberrations. Black’s chief of arms championed such. I should have ended him years past. Returned, I saw my failure. I’d grown over-comfortable with mansions and monsters, bankers and bullies. Had I faced my duty before, the brave guard at my feet might yet breathe. And a thousand others. By God I should have gone through the city scything all such as Streng. These thoughts placed some mask of anger upon my face. Streng frowned.

  “You aren’t Pierrot,” he whispered. “You are the real one. You should be dead. Torn apart in gaol.” He drooled blood. I leaned down to the man, whispered from one ghost to another.

  “But that I am forbid

  To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

  I could a tale unfold whose lightest word

  Would harrow up thy soul,

  freeze thy pouring blood.”

  “Macbeth, Act 3,” I declared. I waited for Streng to argue it. He did not, having slipped down to hell. I searched his pockets, found a ring of keys. Excellent. I went through the desks and cupboards. No ledger books or incriminating letters against the king, of course. Still you never know. I found a fresh pistol, a layout of the house with useful notations. I studied it awhile. Clearly it would have been fatal to climb the dumbwaiter to Black’s upper rooms. Also the terrace, the roof, the basement and the garden court.

  On the other hand, the central stairs past the ballroom offered a quiet path to the upper floors of Black’s private areas.

  My eye fell upon the packet Streng had tossed. I tucked it away for later. I picked up the Death’s mask, now graced with a red hand-print. It added a pleasing touch. Donned the gloves. Raised the hood. Gathered up the scythe. Our cloaks were much the same. With these props I might well hope to pass for Black’s chief of arms.

  Exit Death, stage left.

  Chapter 23

  The Girl in Fire and Smoke

  I stood on the edge of a costumed ball, considering humanity in disguise. Plays are forever presenting twins and doubles, girls guised as boys, men mincing for women, male actors playing women feigning men. We see the king passing for the fool, princes wandering in peasant garb. Dungeon guards and moonlight lovers are entirely foxed by mere change of clothes, a stretch of voice. In full daylight the audience scoffs. How does that idiot take his buxom fiancé for a gray-beard lawyer? The mad monarch for sane jester? The clever villain for kindly brother?

  But those plays are not writ for sunlight. They are for torch-lit halls and rush-light cells, for chambers and stages where every figure is a creature shaped from equal parts shadow and light, costume and voice. I have seen in Paris a room wonderfully lit by burning gas-lamps. So bright! Every last shadow banished. No disguise could pass, no villain in dark corners lurk unseen. When such lighting becomes the rule, every man will be seen for what he is, and playwrights must turn to honest work. Spadassins too, I suppose.

  I crossed the crowded ball-room. Chandeliers cast shadowed glow, not illumination. So also the lanterns to the sides, the candelabrum. Entirely proper for a dance of masks. I noted guards who straightened at Death’s approach, thinking him Streng. Death nodded, approving their attention to duty.

  A figure pranced past. A zebra-man in stripes of silk, shaking his diamond-sparkle mane. A laughing lion-woman pursued, painted finger-nails extended for claws. They dodged between dancers, to the consternation of feather-bedecked bankers and fish-headed financiers, snake-coiled-courtesans, tiger-striped aldermen. Generals guised as gazelles, bishops in ceremonial vestment of devouring lions. Death stopped, surveyed the crowd. Beast-pattern costumes dominated the dance. Nature stood in style tonight. Why not; last year it was Greco-Roman.

  The quartet at the balcony began Mozart. I didn’t recognize the piece. But no masking Amadeus’s laughing notes. So well-played Death himself paused in his hurry, bone-mask face turned up in appreciation.

  The violinist gazed off, bovine eyes contemplating bucolic afternoons of green and sky. A bull-mask. The oboe player sported fox’s ears, black nose, yellow gown. The cello master dressed in fantastical tiger-skin and silk brocade. Last, hark to viola manned by wolf.

  I stared. Those were costume and mask, each. And yet, how could they so feign the things, and not be the things? Death shivered. He’d thought himself part of the audience. But no, he was a player, confused by costume and shadow as any other. Still, the music was masterful. No disguising that.

  The oboe player spotted me. Her eyes opened wide. She stood, rushed to the balcony, leaned down. Her fox-hair hung red-gold curls. Her black fox-ears twitched to be free of those tangles and I near laughed…but stopped. That face showed older than Vixen’s. Not coquettish, but womanly. The form thinner, taller. Family, no doubt; but more like to Lalena’s vampiric governess… I struggled to recall the name Rowena. And this fox-girl wore dress yellow as butter, patterned with black diamonds. Harlequin tartan? No Mac Tier would deign to wear that.

  “I know you, m’lord’,” she called down, and smiled, and it near broke heart, for I received a token of love in that smile meant for another. And of a sudden I longed to be on a sane stone at the edge of the world again, and not in the center of a mad dancing city.

  Did she know me? I scarce knew myself. Was the person she saw Streng, Grayish, or Gray? Perhaps she meant Death. The thing itself, and not the costume of the thing. Who to say but these personifications do not form some clan of their own? Picture Death, Time, Harvest, War, Peace, Sleep and Night, all in kilt and family conference.

  I put finger to Death’s lips, if skulls had such in place of bony grin. In reply the fox-woman laughed, twirled. Plucked a red rose from a garland about the balcony, to
ssed it down to me. I had no choice but to catch it. She raised hand to her red-ripe lips, kissed the gold band she found there. Then returned to the orchestra, piping away to raise the spirit of Amadeus.

  Dancers about me laughed to see Music flirt with Death. No greater interest than that. I pocketed the rose, continued on. I came to a door guarded by liveried servants, waved an imperious hand. They rushed to open the door. I passed between their bows. They closed it behind. Excellent. I decided to make Death’s costume my spadassin dress. How dull, all that climbing of walls, crawling sewers, skulking in shadow to reach one’s goal. Good exercise, I grant.

  Stairs, a hall, more stairs. I was familiar with much of Black’s mansion; not these back-passages. Yet I felt a sense of déjà vu... this wandering of dangerous halls recalled the haunted castle. I wondered what mad relatives knocked at the castle-door today. What my wife did tonight. Was she thinking of me? In her eyes when we’d parted, I’d seen her fear. She didn’t think I would return. A dark voice in her heart told her I would not want to.

  Did I so want? I had a fortune in my carriage, no bounty on my head. I was free as the old ones, to be whom I wanted, go where I wished. I could set fire to Black’s house now, call our feud even. Where then next? North to warm wife, or East to warm France?

  I wondered if the guard I’d killed had a wife. Tonight she’d wait impatient for his step at the door. Scripting angry dialogue in the theatre-stage of her mind. Then he’ll say; then I’ll say. Only no cue comes to begin her lines. At last she’d undress for bed, calling herself a fool to fret. In the dark, she’d reach to the empty place beside her, draw hand back before it grew used to emptiness. Her man had been right about Coriolanus. I didn’t recall that he wore a wedding ring. Not every man does. I considered again how Stephano had not remarked on mine.