The Falcon Always Wings Twice

by Donna Andrews

  “Okay.” He glanced over at where O’Malley was taking another long pull at his mug.

  “And tell Jamie to be ready to let the police and your grandfather in the back door when they get here. And don’t let Spike bite any of them.”

  “Roger.” He disappeared into the back room again.

  “‘Ring the alarum-bell!’” O’Malley bellowed. “‘Blow, wind! Come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.’”

  As he said the last lines, he pointed his sword in front of him and began lumbering toward the forge.

  “Protect Jamie,” I said, shoving Faulk through the door to the back room.

  “The fence will slow him down,” Faulk said, but he didn’t fight me.

  “Yeah, right.” I slammed the door and leaped aside. O’Malley vaulted the fence with surprising agility and was striding forward, pointing his sword at the back room door. Then he paused and looked at me.

  “Vile harlot!” he exclaimed.

  I heard nervous titters from the crowd, and a low muttering of comments.

  “That’s going a little far,” someone said.

  O’Malley seemed torn between continuing on to the door and turning on me. Then he narrowed his eyes and took a step in my direction.

  Maybe fleeing would be the smartest thing to do. But if I fled, he’d probably turn his attention back to the back room. Start trying to batter down the door. And Jamie was there. And Faulk.

  I grabbed the nearest weapon—a huge crusader’s sword the boys were fond of letting the tourists try to lift—and held it in front of me in what I hoped was a good defensive stance.

  “Get out of here,” I told him. “Now.”

  O’Malley smiled as if in triumph, and I was suddenly quite sure that he was only pretending to be drunk. He took a few steps toward me, raised the sword, and then lurched forward as he brought it down in a fierce, downward cut.

  I slashed upward. Our two swords met with a loud clang. His shattered into several pieces, and he staggered and fell to one knee. I staggered a bit myself, but managed to stay on my feet and turn, ready to defend myself again.

  “Freeze, varlet!” A bardiche slashed down so that the shaft pinned O’Malley’s right arm to the ground, with enough force that the unsharpened blade cut several inches into the packed dirt.

  I glanced up to see Tad at the other end of the bardiche, glaring at O’Malley with frightening intensity.

  The tourists burst into applause.

  Chapter 36

  While the tourists continued to clap and cheer, two uniformed Riverton police officers burst out of the crowd and vaulted the fence.

  “Break it up here,” one said.

  I nodded, and dropped the sword. The officer, correctly deducing that I was not the problem, went over to where Tad was still guarding O’Malley. I heard them exchange a few words in a low tone. Then the officer took her handcuffs off her belt and began putting them on O’Malley.

  “Show’s over.” The chief pushed through the crowd to stand just outside the fence. “Move along now. Nothing more to see.”

  “You heard the chief,” the second officer said.

  The tourists grumbled. Some of them left. The rest just shuffled back a little at a time until the second policeman seemed satisfied, and continued to watch us.

  Josh stuck his head out of the door to the back room.

  “Grandpa’s here if anyone needs him.” He scanned us and, seeing no apparent bloodshed, pulled the door shut again.

  “What happened?” the chief asked me.

  “She completely overreacted,” O’Malley whined. “I was—”

  “Quiet!” The chief turned to glare at him. “You’ll have your turn.”

  O’Malley, wisely, fell silent. The chief turned back to me.

  “O’Malley was drunk—or pretending to be.” I picked up the leather tankard he’d dropped and sniffed it. No alcohol smell—only the faint lemon scent of the iced tea we used to fake alcohol. I handed it to the chief, who sniffed it in her turn and nodded.

  “He drew his sword and was waving it around, endangering the tourists. And then he charged into the forge and I thought he was going to go after the boys. Or me. So I disarmed him.”

  The chief took a few steps over and picked up the three main pieces of O’Malley’s broken sword.

  “Not your work, I gather.”

  I shook my head.

  “From the Bonny Blade?”

  “Or someplace like it,” I said. “If it’s from the Bonny Blade, they shouldn’t have let him walk off with it. He’s not cleared to draw a weapon, or even carry one unsecured.”

  The chief turned to O’Malley.

  “Where did you get this?” She held up the sword fragments.

  “From the other sword shop,” he said. “I explained to them that I needed one for my costume, and they let me borrow this one. They’re going to be seriously pissed that she broke it. And—”

  “Mr. O’Malley.” Cordelia had appeared. She hadn’t raised her voice, but O’Malley shut up in a hurry.

  I probably wasn’t the only one who had to suppress the instinct to make my deepest curtsey.

  Cordelia turned to Chief Heedles.

  “This man is no longer welcome at the Faire,” she said. “I know you’re busy with the murder investigation, but could you spare an officer for long enough to supervise him as he returns that costume, and then escort him off my property?”

  “Absolutely,” the chief said.

  “You can’t do that!” O’Malley protested.

  “Yes, I can.” Cordelia fixed her stare on O’Malley, and he actually cringed. “My Faire. My rules. And I have a zero tolerance policy for people who put my guests and my family in danger.”

  “She started it.” O’Malley indicated me—with his chin, since he was now securely handcuffed.

  “Quit while you’re ahead,” the chief advised. “Lenny!”

  “Yes, Chief.” The tall young officer, now back in his uniform, stepped forward.

  “You heard Ms. Cordelia.”

  Lenny helped O’Malley to his feet and led him off. O’Malley was visibly unhappy, but at least he had the good sense to shut up until he was out of earshot.

  Make that almost out of earshot.

  “It’s not fair!” we could hear him whining in the distance.

  “I will be giving the proprietors of the Bonny Blade a refresher course on the Faire’s weapons policy.” Cordelia’s brittle tone suggested that the discussion would not be a pleasant one for the offenders. I hoped I could manage to be within earshot. “And if they really did let Mr. O’Malley walk off with one of their swords—well, getting reimbursed for it will be their problem.”

  The chief turned to me.

  “Are you interested in charging Mr. O’Malley with assault?” she asked.

  “Do I have to decide now?” I asked. “If he leaves quietly and doesn’t try to come back, I’d rather just let it drop. Avoid any publicity.”

  “But he might behave better if he knows there’s something bigger than trespassing hanging over his head if he ignores Ms. Cordelia’s instructions.” She nodded, and from her expression I deduced that she liked my decision. “I’ll make that clear to him before he goes. I need to talk to him anyway. Warn him not to leave town without my permission.”

  Had O’Malley just risen much higher on the chief’s suspect list? Not unreasonable. So far he was the only person we knew of who’d tried to attack someone with a cheap, flimsy reproduction blade weapon.

  “Looks as if I’ll be rather busy for the rest of the afternoon.” The chief paused, frowning slightly. “I don’t suppose you could clue me in on how it turns out,” she said at last.

  “How what turns out?” Was she being sarcastic—hinting that I was withholding some vital clue?

  “The Game. Who wins. Who inherits the kingdom, and who gets to marry the rich heiress, and all that. Or do we not find out until the end of the summer?”

  “Not
even then.” I had to chuckle at the thought. “At least we hadn’t planned to announce a winner. Near the end of every day, usually during the final joust and closing ceremonies, we try to set up a confrontation between Michael and George—one that ends in a sword fight. And as the fight goes back and forth, Cordelia checks out the audience response—how many people are rooting for Michael and how many for George, and she gives a signal, and whoever the audience is rooting for wins.”

  “What if she can’t tell who’s ahead?”

  “Then I guess she’d flip a coin or something—so far it’s never been a problem.” I frowned, because this was something I’d been worrying about. “In fact, so far Michael’s always won—ten out of ten times.”

  “Isn’t that a little … difficult for Mr. Sims?”

  “You’d think so,” I said. “He seems to take it in stride, although I’ve been meaning to suggest to Michael that we mix it up a little.”

  “Let Mr. Sims win every so often?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Two problems with that—one is that Terence has—well, had—an amazing talent for making George look bad.”

  “Which won’t be a problem in the future,” the chief pointed out.

  “Yeah. But the other problem is that poor George is a past master of making himself look bad. Like when they’re sparring verbally he’ll make snarky comments to Michael, and the audience will laugh, but they don’t really like him for it. I suspect he’s overly conscious that Michael’s the boss and thinks that means letting him win. He never seems to realize that Michael’s not the kind of actor who insists on keeping all the good lines and big scenes to himself.”

  “Yes.” She nodded thoughtfully. “But then, he’s also the director, isn’t he? Which I assume means having the whole production succeed is at least as important as shining in his own role.”

  “Exactly.” A strange thought struck me. “You know, next to Michael, I think Terence was the one who really got it. That the play’s the thing, as Hamlet would say. Terence never cared whether the crowd was cheering him or booing him, as long as he was getting a reaction.”

  “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said about Mr. Cox all day. I assumed it was a case of ‘since I cannot prove a lover, I am determined to prove a villain.’”

  “Richard the Third,” I said automatically—Name That Quote was a perennial family game. “Yes, he certainly was good at laying plots and ‘inductions dangerous.’”

  “The next time you replace Mr. Cox—at least I assume you’ll need a replacement, and Mr. O’Malley’s just made himself persona non grata—maybe you should choose someone who can give Michael a run for his money in winning over the audience. I’m sure Mr. Sims is a talented actor, but he’s a character actor, not a leading man.”

  “Probably a good idea,” I said. “Michael would be the first to admit that when he did the casting, he was thinking more about which of his actor friends could really use the work than anything else. Of course, I don’t think it would be a good idea for whoever we recruit to replace Terence to simply swap roles with George. He’d make a pretty sniveling villain. Maybe we could make him Dianne’s father and have Nigel play the villain. Anyway, to answer your original question—we didn’t plan for anyone to completely win the game. At the end of each day someone—usually Michael—has got the upper hand, but the next day it starts all over again. But maybe we should plan a grand finale for the last day—have Cordelia actually name her successor. It wouldn’t prevent us from doing much the same thing next year if she decides the Faire’s worth continuing.”

  “And if you did the right kind of publicity, that final day would be a big draw,” the chief said. “In fact—”

  “Chief?” We all turned to see Horace standing just outside the smithy’s fence. He was holding a brown paper bag—probably an evidence bag. The chief walked over to the fence and conferred with him. Her demeanor was suddenly all business again.

  As if seeing her move away were their cue, Josh and Jamie popped out of the back room.

  “Mom! That was awesome!” Jamie exclaimed.

  “Not bad, Mom,” Josh allowed.

  “How’s Faulk?” I asked.

  “He looks bad,” Jamie said.

  “Grandpa said it’s probably just anxiety,” Josh added.

  “But he’s going to keep an eye on him,” Jamie said.

  I went to the door of the back room. Faulk, Dad, and Tad were all in there, so I was reduced to standing in the doorway peering in.

  “Not really up to a long car ride right now,” Faulk was saying. “Let me just go to bed and see how I feel in the morning.”

  Tad was shaking his head.

  “Not a bad idea,” Dad said.

  “I don’t want him sleeping in a tent tonight,” Tad said. “It’s bad enough in good weather, but it’s going to rain tonight and turn colder.”

  “My sleeping bag’s a subzero model,” Faulk said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe we can find him a bed up at the house,” Dad said.

  “He can have our room,” I said. “I’m sure Michael won’t mind.”

  “That will be great,” Dad said. “And I’ll set up a cot nearby so I’ll be handy if he needs me.”

  I was taking out my phone to call Michael when he appeared right behind me.

  “Are you all right?” He grabbed me in a bear hug.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “At least I will be when I can breathe again. By the way, the Game will have to get along without O’Malley. Cordelia kicked him out. And Faulk needs to sleep indoors in a bed, so we’re trading places for tonight. I’ll move our stuff down to their tent.”

  “O’Malley was less a help than a hindrance anyway,” Michael said. “And while I’m sure Faulk and Tad have a lovely tent, I’d rather be indoors. Let’s take our bedrolls into one of the craft studios. After all, it still counts as camping if we’re in sleeping bags, right?”

  “I’d call it camping lite,” I said. “But good idea. Let’s make it the jewelry studio—it’s should be empty now, and quiet.”

  “And I should run,” he said. “Closing ceremonies in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll put in a token appearance, then go up to move our stuff.”

  “Before you both go”—the chief had finished her conversation with Horace, apparently—“I have a couple of questions. Meg, you said that Mr. O’Malley wasn’t cleared to draw a weapon. What did you mean by that?”

  “Only a small number of Game participants are allowed to draw their swords,” I said. “And then only to perform stage combat routines that have been previously rehearsed. Exhaustively rehearsed. Of course, I don’t know if anyone explained that to O’Malley.”

  “I did,” Michael said. “At the beginning of the day. And I gave him a refresher course when I saw him running around with that cheap sword, and put the peace-bonding on it myself. So if he tries to claim he had no idea he was breaking the rules, he’s lying. He’d been warned twice, and he had to have cut off the peace bond to draw that thing.”

  “Thank you.” The chief nodded and strode over to where Horace was waiting for her. The two began talking again in low tones. The chief didn’t look happy.

  “Skip the closing ceremonies,” Michael said to me. “You’ve had a long day.”

  “As have you,” I said.

  “And I plan to take a nap as soon as the closing ceremonies are over,” he said. “If you skip the ceremonies and take our stuff down to the jewelry studio, we can both nap as soon as closing’s over—without worrying about inconveniencing Faulk.”

  “You’re on,” I said.

  He gave me a quick kiss and ran off toward the jousting field, with the boys on his heels. I watched, a little anxiously, as the chief and Horace trailed after them. Were they also heading for the jousting field? Well, why not? If the chief wanted to talk to anyone, Horace would know that almost everyone would show up there at this time of day.

  But not me. I turned my steps toward the main house.
Why did I suddenly feel so tired, now that I knew rest was in sight?

  All around me the Faire was winding down. Most of the tourists were either at the jousting field or headed that way, and any wandering food vendors who hadn’t already emptied their trays or carts were heading in the same direction. The ring toss, the crossbow shoot, and the other game booths were nearly empty, their costumed staff leaning with weary contentedness on the counters and scarcely bothering to harangue the passing tourists. The craft shops were discreetly beginning to pack up their wares—they might make a few more sales from tourists who stayed to the very end and were still in the mood for shopping on their way out of the Faire, but all of vendors wanted to be packed up as soon as possible after closing, to be ready for the traditional Saturday night all-hands feast.

  Up at the main house, delicious smells wafted from the kitchen. If it looked as if the rain would hold off for a few more hours, we’d have the feast around the fire pit on the front lawn, as usual. I could smell chickens roasting, pork being barbecued, and beans baking. Fresh loaves of bread and several kinds of pie would be cooling on racks in the kitchen, and the kitchen helpers would be shucking corn for roasting and chopping fresh vegetables for enormous vats of tossed salad.

  And there would be singing and dancing, telling horror stories about things the tourists had done, and eventually real ghost stories. Normally I loved the Saturday night party.

  Right now I wasn’t in the mood. And I was afraid it would take more than a nap to fix that.

  When I entered the Great Room I spotted O’Malley sitting on the sofa nearest the front door, with Lenny hovering nearby to keep an eye on him. O’Malley was dressed in his own clothes again, except for the shoes. He had the right shoe on and was taking so long to tie his laces that I wondered if he needed remedial work on the technique. Or maybe he was having understandable second thoughts about wearing the thing. Its mate lay on its side on the rug in front of him, looking rather like a traditional oxford shoe’s awkwardly chunkier cousin, and made out of what I hoped was not real alligator hide. The sort of shoe that had to be fashionable, because no one would buy it for its looks.