The Moon Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  I considered shooting Green first. A reply conforming to his definition of practical. That is, mechanical disregard of life. Why had I fallen into all our old arguments? I felt a longing to share the wonders of the past months. ‘Listen!’ I’d shout. I’ve walked a haunted castle, talked to beings with faces shaped by dream. Opened a tomb of light, drank tea with a mad doll. I’ve discovered a second reality hidden behind the façade of the day-lit world. I’ve married. That last wonder alone equaled a thousand magic castles, and all the wheels of the world.

  How to explain? Even to enemies, worth the try. Except, I’d need put to words why I stood here now with those I hated, and not with her I loved… And those were words I did not want to hear, even from myself.

  “You make the usual error of the wicked,” I sighed to Green. “You confuse what is practical, with what is cruel.”

  “Indeed they do,” said a voice across the terrace. “But who cares a shit for the turn of practical wheels? More enjoyable to watch the blood flow.”

  I leaped aside, turned pistol to the voice. There at the door. Unlocked so silent? A tall man, wide of chest. Jaunty hat, cloak thrown back to ripple with night-wind. Rapier drawn, tapping the ground impatient to kill, for all the kindly smile on the face of Rayne Grayish.

  He bowed to the table guests, living and dead. “I’ve come to kill a man,” he said, and looked to me.

  Chapter 25

  When Death is, I am not

  “Well, this should be interesting,” declared Alderman Black. He found a goblet. “Gray, are the other bottles safe to drink?” Now he bantered, the posturing fop. I watched the approaching Grayish. His Harlequin son had once cast my mind into dream and memory. A mistake. My memories are not places for another to make casual visit.

  “How is this done?” I asked Grayish, passing hand about my face. “This seeming to be me. Is it a picture you draw in other minds, or a true change of form like unto the Mac Tier?”

  Grayish paused to consider the question. “Recall we of the family are who we wish to be. Your moon-clan shape-changers work upon their own spirits, to craft themselves another nature. But the Decoursey enter others’ minds, direct their perception of reality. Consider me a dream of yourself.”

  “Fascinating,” I admired. “Thank you for explaining.” I turned to Hades sitting on his throne pouring fresh cup, and shot him.

  Black cried out, goblet toppling untasted except by the ever-thirsty earth. He clutched his chest, holding back the outpouring life. I turned the pistol towards Grayish, whose rapier lunged towards my heart. I parried with the gun, which fired, hitting no one. I threw the gun in his face, leaped back drawing rapier in time to parry the second thrust.

  “Does it require silver to kill you?” I asked. “Holy water?” Worth asking, I maintain.

  “Not at all,” replied Grayish. “It merely requires you defeat yourself in dream.”

  Sounded easy enough. But “can a man challenge his own reflection?” I recalled.

  “Exactly,” said Grayish, and corkscrewed my blade aside and near skewered me, but that I foresaw the move. An advantage to fencing the mirror, I suppose. I kicked to his knee but his turn to anticipate. He swept down knife to slice. The boot missed his knee, the knife slashed the boot. I feinted towards his head, he anticipated the move and suddenly his fist struck, knocked me flat. Hadn’t foreseen that.

  I lay on the ground looking up at that mild-smiling face. As many a man has done before. That is, looked up at my face. Not their own face. That’s far more unusual, and very disorienting. This face staring down. How to describe?

  A visage of no strong passion; broken nose, kindly eyes casting easy-going charm. A self-amused interest that sapped all my confidence. When another intends your death, by God they should show more fire than a man mending socks. Was this what others had faced? Horrible. I was a monster, who’d thought himself man.

  “You killed my son,” observed Grayish. “You, an outsider. A vampire’s pet lording over the degraded clans. I was quite angry. But also curious.”

  I lay still, also angry, if uncurious. How defeat an enemy who is yourself in dream? Would he even bleed? I now saw sane purpose in hell-forged armor. Yet his fist had felt real. The Harlequin son had not fought this way… suddenly that seemed important.

  Black moaned low for aid and pity. Shot through the lungs. He’d last the night, wheezing blood. Grayish slashed, I parried from the ground. I’ve practiced fencing upon my back. He stepped away, circling towards my head. He had all my practice, perhaps. I shifted to follow him.

  “I was curious,” he repeated. “Why did the blood-thirsting Sanglair tolerate you? Why would the last of the Blade clan befriend you? Why should the old ones gift your common clay with honors denied the family?”

  “I have a leonine charm,” I confessed. “You must have noticed in the mirror.”

  Grayish shook head. “More ursine, I think.” A kick to my ribs. I gasped, slashed, missed.

  “So I sought to learn of Rayne Gray,” he continued. Did I always drawl so? It annoyed. “Who was he? A kindly, philosophical killer. Lover of art and music. Even a champion of the poor.”

  “And raconteur,” I reminded. I pulled Streng’s pistol, fired. He leaped back unscathed. I resolved to practice shooting while lying down. Still it allowed me to roll, rise to my feet. Grayish continued as if this shifting about was so much childish antic.

  “I didn’t foresee you returning, pretending to be me pretending to be you,” he confessed. His chatter had a way of distracting. Suddenly he lunged, slashed, cutting my face. I cried out, riposted empty air. “Clever of you to steal my funds,” he continued. “I require them back.”

  And now we fenced in earnest. He lunged, I parried, he swept his cloak in my face just as I moved to do the same. I dropped rapier and grabbed the cloak, threw myself sideways, near pulling him from his feet. He dropped the rapier, we grappled close, seeking throats and ribs with fists and knee. I drew knife, allowing him to place hands about my throat. I gave him a slash to that handsome face, matching my new scar. He leaped back, laughed and drew pistol. He’d had a pistol all this time? Confident fellow.

  I considered throwing the knife, decided to retreat towards the shadowed corner. I struggled not to focus on the illusion of myself, standing before me. He stooped, recovered a rapier, approached idly swishing blade, still holding pistol. Was this illusion? Was he even real? Should I close eyes, listen for his breath and step?

  “What did you intend with a box of diamonds?” I asked. I considered throwing myself off the balcony. I could not see that ending well.

  “Oh, that. Well, a failed revolt lacks style. More fun to make it succeed. The treasure you absconded is payment to army and city garrison. To back the revolt, not crush it.”

  He halted my murder to brood. “Hurtful, how the family that reject the Decourseys, accepted you. Even the Mac Tier, who reject me…” He stopped himself, something like fury passing his face, erasing the casual smile.

  “So,” he continued, recovered. “I declare: enough is enough. The clans shall re-unite. I will take control of the common-blooded, and direct them in a great purge of all my beloved family. I shall hunt down my erring cousins in every last valley, every hidden cave, every isle and mountain top. The purified remainder will rejoin in a single nation again. Free to be ourselves, to live in love and respect, no longer the idiot playthings of rivalry, spite, and the plots of mad elders.”

  The face-slash burned. The kicked ribs ached. I backed into the terrace corner. The figure of Rayne Grayish no longer stood before me. No more masquerade, but the true self. Behold a tall man, older than I. Dark eyes, proud red lips scowling in hate. White of face as Death, as the moon…

  “You’re no Harlequin,” I realized. “They don’t fight this way. This is no dream-casting. You are a Mac Tier, taking my form as another would a wolf.”

  “Form and nature,” corrected the Pierrot. “My mother was Mac Tier. What of it? The Moon Tartan on
ly play with lesser natures. What art in that? The despised Harlequin dare higher.”

  “Not higher,” I corrected. “You turned yourself into a beast, same as any wolf or bear,” I noted. “And so lost the wisdom of being a man,”

  The Pierrot laughed. “You insult your mirror, man,”

  “I am not my mirror,” I replied. “I am the thing itself.”

  He shook head. “You’ve been around the old ones too long. It addles the brain.”

  We both smiled at that. He had a point. Also a gun, pointed at me.

  “You came to kill a man,” he declared. “So also, I. My son was all to me. Far more than your whore to you.” He raised pistol to kill, in no hurry. Family, enjoying the stage. I prepared to leap for his throat. Too far a leap. What did Lalena do now? I’d take the shot, continue the strike and then die. Any other foe I’d take to hell with me. Not this one. How hung my wife’s hair now? Did she think of me?

  “Elspeth O’Claire was no whore,” a voice corrected. Not my voice. Alderman Green’s. “She was a charming young woman misused by creatures much like you.” The Pierrot whirled to see the papal Green, swinging Death’s scythe. Pierrot dodged, waved pistol, unwilling to use the shot on this lesser foe.

  “What is going on?” asked a voice beside me. I turned to see the guard I’d spared, for the wedding bands we shared. He rubbed aching head, waved his crossbow.

  “A moment,” I told him. I borrowed his crossbow, checked bolt and wire, and fired.

  The shot took the Pierrot in the back. He staggered, turned to shoot me. Green swung the scythe into the man’s back. They both cried out, the gun fell unfired. Green dropped the bloody scythe in horror. Poor Green. For all his endless chidings for me to be a practical killer, he’d never struck blade into another in his life.

  Pierrot lay on the terrace floor, studying his part. Pierrot vanished, appeared as Grayish. Pierrot appeared again. Grayish appeared again. Disappeared. Reappeared. Stilled to a last sad Pierrot, staring up at the moon.

  I returned the crossbow to the puzzled guard, walked to the dropped pistol, retrieved it with trembling hands. Pointed it at Green. He still wore the tall papal hat. “Lean forwards,” I commanded, waving the pistol.

  Green stared, sighed, leaned forwards. The hat tilted at a thirty-degree angle.

  “Farther,” I commanded. He did. The hat yet remained fast.

  “How can that construction stay on your head?” I demanded. “Is it nailed on, man?”

  Green ceased his bow, stood straight. He adjusted the hat slightly, approving its constant nature, refusing to explain. Typical. I went to the door, gun at ready. No shouts. Music in the garden, distant buzz of voices. It might well be that all took the shots for fireworks.

  I walked past Green, picked up the leather satchel, emptied it upon the table. Hades sat slumped in his throne, wheezing, bubbling blood. His eyes considered me, the books. I waved Green over.

  “These are the ledgers you sent me to find the night of the warehouse fire,” I informed him. “Proof that Black was a traitor selling arms to French and Spanish, a slave-trading embezzling pirate thief who never paid his damned taxes.”

  Green looked from the ledgers to the blood-wheezing Black. “Seems a bit moot,” he pointed out.

  “No,” I informed him. “I want his crimes brought to trial. His estate sold to repay the poor he robbed. I want him remembered as a thief brought to justice, not an Alderman dead in honest duty.”

  “I’m not dead,” gasped Black. He struggled to raise a pistol from out the folds of his dark velvet cloak. I reached across, took it from his hand and shot him in the chest. Hades trembled, ceased. I put down the pistol, returned to the books.

  “As I said, I want him remembered as a vicious pirate unredeemed by a single quality of character. Only notable for an extravagant opinion of his mirror.”

  “Rayne,” said Green.

  “I am sorry about Dealer,” I added. “I cut his head off.”

  “Rayne,” said Green.

  “Thank you for your words about El,” I added. “I saw her in a dream. Walking to Heaven. She so loved Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  Green said nothing. I considered any last things.

  “Ha, I’m married now,” I said, waving my left hand. “She’s very special. Oh, and thank you for saving my life. I’d intended to kill you. We’ll forget that.”

  I struggled to pick my rapier from the ground, and puzzled why. My hand trembled. Well, I had cuts and bruises and corpses about me. These things will shake a man. I steadied, sheathed rapier, gave a last look to Black, shrugged, sighed.

  “Someday I will ask you why Jeremy came to hate me so,” I said. I turned to the body of the Pierrot. “In return, I will explain who and what you scythed. Goodbye, Green.”

  “Rayne,” he said, but I was in a hurry to leave. I stopped at a thought.

  “And see there is no slaughter of protesting tradesmen,” I shouted back. “Else I return to this city, very vexed.”

  I walked towards the door, anxious to leave. A figure stood blinking confused. It was the guard. I’d forgot him, and now nearly shot him. Well, I was nervous. I kept seeing a head rolling across the ground, just on the edge of sight. The guard goggled at what nightmare he beheld: the table of feasting dead, the corpse of the Pierrot laid upon the ground.

  “What in God’s name happened?” he whispered.

  “How long have you been married?” I replied.

  He blinked. “Two years, now.”

  Two years. I’d been married not half that. And yet, I’d left my bride to come to this charnel play? I’d dared leave while her eyes said he’ll not be back. I’d let my old life near devour my new. A crime. I near cried out at the crime.

  “Does it get easier?” I asked of the man. “Better?”

  He wobbled, head no doubt whirling. But honest man, he considered. At last answered. “It gets harder and better.”

  I considered. That seemed a likely enough answer.

  “Thank you then,” I said, and shook his hand. “Good luck to you and yours.”

  “To you and yours,” he replied. I left then.

  Chapter 26

  A Place of Proper Ending

  Guards should not concern themselves with those leaving a secured area. They stand vigil to prevent entry. But men with swords and guns will look for trouble. Guard-duty’s a dull business. Though proper soldiers cherish dull business.

  To leave I had to waylay a guest and a guard, exchanging cloak and mask. I did not kill, merely stunned, pushed into a closet, apologized, hurried on. I emerged in the ball-room where I mixed with the costumed gentry. The music had halted, the orchestra disappeared. Armed men ran in circles while guests gossiped. Rumors swirled of attack by bandits, assassins or the French.

  I joined the stream fleeing to the clock’s strike of twelve. Cinderellas rushing to our pumpkin coaches. Guards wove in and out without direction, searching for bandits, assassins and Frenchmen.

  I found my carriage. Stephano stood with other drivers by a fire, warming hands and wine. He sighted me, rushed to open the door. I stared into the dark carriage and declined. Instead I leaped atop the driver’s seat. He sighed and joined me, taking reins.

  “You foresee trouble, sir,” he declared. For it was my habit to ride beside him when expecting attack. It unnerves my spadassin nature to lurk where others know I lurk. In reply I drew the pistol, laid it upon my lap. Stephano twisted his fist of a face for a grin, and we drove swift away. Swiftly, once the five dozen other carriages ahead had moved onto the road.

  “Where to, Master Gray?” asked the man beside me. Sitting, humming, fearing nothing worse than a horse should throw a shoe.

  “Take the North Road towards the river,” I directed. “We do not return to the city.”

  Night air quiets my nerves. Not this night. I trembled in cold breeze, twitched at calls of owl and sedge warbler, crake and distant dogs barking. I had a vision of Dealer’s head rolling after the carriag
e, calling out truths on art and love.

  Mist took the road as we left cobbles and houses behind. I watched for a suitable place to halt the coach, kill the man beside me. I weighed what words I’d say first. Words to recall all the kindness of Elspeth to our rough souls. She’d been our light, encouraging us both to be men, not brutes.

  I considered Howl’s listing of preferences for family drama. A country-graveyard approached, moonlit and quiet by the roadside. That would serve: proper place to end the night’s march of death. End the task for which I’d come: vengeance. The Pierrot had come to kill me, for killing his son. I wondered what feud the son had with the Mac Sanglair. Not a folk to casually attack.

  “A question, Stephano,” I said. “Why did you not note my wedding ring?”

  He turned surprised. “What should I note, sir?” He looked down at my banded left hand, resting on the pistol. “Seems the same ring.”

  “You know I’m married,” I declared. Not Stephano then, but Stephanish.

  But he laughed surprised I should ask. “Was I not at your wedding a week past? At El’s-” he stopped, stuttered, tried again. “At her old Church of All Saints?”

  I blinked. I’d half decided the man was a Harlequin feigning my former valet. Why else ignore my wedding ring? That the false Grayish should have married himself with my face in my absence, had not occurred. Another widow somewhere then. It all made too mad and sad a business to follow.

  But the explanation settled the identity of the man beside me. My former valet, my former friend. The man who murdered Elspeth, stole my fortune, betrayed me to the guard. And he dared sit with me now?

  “Stop here,” I directed as we rumbled beside the church-yard. He promptly halted the coach, looked uneasily towards the quiet rows of moonlit memorial. No, not all quiet. A service of strange purpose took place among the stones. By night?