“Show your copper. Copper first, then rum.”
I laid a silver coin on the wood. “Rum for all.”
If she was glad of the sale, she did not exhibit unbridled joy. Nevertheless, she brought forth fresh wooden cups and poured four.
I tasted mine and pushed it back to her. “Silver deserves better. For the barmaid too.”
She managed a glimmer of a smile, pushed her slate-gray hair back, brushed the front of her smock with a hasty hand, and began again, producing a large brown jug from a shelf below the counter.
“Better,” I said, after a small sip. “I thank you.” I raised my cup and the old fellows returned my salute.
“Your health,” one said, the only one to return my gaze. His accent marked him from the Molvorian hills.
“Worked up a little thirst,” I said, “walking down from the Nuovoponte. I was to meet a friend, but he never arrived.” I went on chatting in this vein, making inane observations and telling flaccid jokes. In a while the quartet warmed to my sallies and a meandering, pointless conversation began.
“The city is eager for the Feast to begin,” I said. “Never have I counted so many Jesters. There’s a Bennio here, there, and everywhere—except in this part of town. Not a single Jester have I seen along the wharves.”
They considered in silence until the affable one said, “You have come too early.”
“How is that?” I signaled for another round.
“Late in the night, you might see a dozen or more just outside the door.”
I turned to the other two. “Have you seen so many Jesters?”
They shrugged. They did not care to pursue the subject.
I asked the woman. “You see ’em?”
“I do not like the Jesters,” she said. “They order rum, they drink it down, they run away, singing some poor rhyme or other about Bennio’s privilege during his Feast.”
I recited:
“Come pour Bennio his mite of drink
That gives him fuel with which to think;
Then fill his empty cup again
To stay the raging of his brain.”
“That’s the one,” she said, “or one very like. They all sound the same to me, and they all result in my loss.”
I laid down another small silver. “Custom rules all,” I said. “I’ll stand for the Jester’s score this once. Does he—do they—often come in here?”
“Too often,” she said, picking up the coin.
“They come ashore at night in cockleboats,” my conversationalist said.
“From what ships?”
“Those we never see. There are only three at anchor now, not counting the Tarnished Maiden.”
“The Maiden?” said the sullen one “That is no vessel at anchor. That is a hulk that Ser Arbolo has let lie to rot. Time the hull was stove in and the hulk sent to the bottom, say I.”
“But men go out to it or past it,” said the other. “Some got up as Jesters.”
“How do these new Jesters perform as clowns?” I asked.
“Like serpents trying to play lutes.”
I saw that the remarks of this informant unsettled his companions; they shifted apprehensively in their seats.
“The plazas are filled with unfunny Jesters and stumble-foot acrobats. Few are suited to the roles. It is well they follow other trades to earn their bread,” I said.
The third man broke his silence. “I followed the sail for nigh forty years. Many a first mate racked my hide who should have been tending sheep on the mountain. What calling do you follow?”
“My father wanted me to be a thief,” I said. “My mother desired me to become a celibate priest. And so I ended by doing naught, wasting my days with ale and female.”
“That is the best way to live,” said the ancient tar. “How do you furnish it?”
“The unwary are my benefactors. Listen! I seem to hear one besotted prospect calling from Daia Plaza for me to come deliver him of his o’erweighty purse. I must bid you good night.” I swallowed my last and left.
* * *
I entered Chandlers’ Lane in a bemused state of mind, thinking on my encounters in Rattlebone Alley. If the intelligence I had gathered was even partially accurate, Astolfo’s fears were justified. Under the confusion of the Feast a strategy was going forward that involved the Society of Jesters, the ritual of the coffin burial, and the safety of the city.
It was dark now, but the windows and doorways of the workshops were open and brightly lit. In time past, all the candle-makers had set up in this street, and though new ventures had lately found quarters here, there were still a score or so of candlers, some of them of a third or fourth generation in the trade.
Now, though, these artisans were turning their hands to another kind of facture. This was the season of masks, and Tardoccan masks were objects widely sought after. These were not the flimsy wooden masks layered with white plaster so common elsewhere. These were constructed with a linen foundation to which pitch was applied. Then the interiors were waxed with one ply of wax and the outside with as many waxen layers as desired, dyed and sculpted to the buyers’ directions. After the hardening, the candlers applied thin glazes to which our firm contributed shadow-tints. In broad daylight our tints were invisible to most eyes, but in the flickering candles of the Feast, they yielded expressions that charmed or alarmed.
If logic applied, the tradition of the mask must seem ridiculous. The purpose of the mask is first of all to conceal the wearer’s identity; the second purpose is to signal that the wearer is engaged in the festivities, eager to share in the pranks and counterfeits and amatory antics and satiric frolics to which the season gives license. During these days nobles turned into draymen, young maidens donned the faces of slattern hags, women changed into men and men into women, and men-women changed into women-men. No stigma attached, not only because of the customary practices of the Feast but also because the masks sufficiently hid identities. Why then would one commission a mask whereon the features were tinted with his or her own shadow, teasing strangers and acquaintances with hints about who one was?
Astolfo had offered his thoughts. “The most of our clients do not intend to hide themselves within or behind shadows. Their purposes are cosmetic, to emphasize and augment certain physical attractions or facets of personality. The tall woman who fancies she bears some aura of mystery will have a light shadow applied to her face and upper torso. It serves the usage of a veil without the awkwardness and obviousness of draped cloth. She thus underlines her attributes.”
“But misapplication is ruinous,” I replied. “The loose-lived bravo who wishes his fellows to think him dangerous and more foolhardy than he truly is will shroud himself in an umbra so ominously black he looks like he has fallen into a well.”
“Thus, like the woman, he gives himself away by hiding himself.”
“But the one instance is by design and the other, stupid one is not.”
“And so,” Astolfo concluded, “one of the first principles of our craft is illustrated. The shadow reveals by concealing.”
That principle of the trade might well apply to most of the practices of Feast time, I thought. This carnival gives opportunity for individuals to open apertures upon some other self which in part they naturally already are. He who has but one self has no self at all, saith ancient Q. Curtius, and I may add that his adage is doubly true of females. Is there any woman anywhere who is not in some large or small part of her nature a cat or a willow tree? And breathes there a man who is not also a dog?
* * *
As I made my way back toward the center of town, I saw that the number of revelers had increased, though there was not an oppression of bodies, as there would be later on. Torches lit the way and various strains of music filled the cooling air. I quickened my pace, for I wished to visit again the site of the entertainment of the Green Knights and Verdant Ladies, the narrative of the monstrous Mardrake and the heroic Perseus. The last time I came here I was rudely reintroduce
d to my long-disregarded brother, an unpleasant encounter.
I was surprised when I arrived at the garden guild’s entertainment area to find only a few onlookers watching, without keen interest. The scene in play was the most exciting one, with the Mardrake advancing to menace Andromeda. Here was a different and more frightening monster than before, more voluminous, darker in aspect, with motions of tentacles and pseudo-limbs strongly convincing. The movements were languorous as the appendages rolled outward, the tentacles waving slowly at their tips; it was such a kind of movement as one would envision to take place underwater. Out came the Mardrake from the waves—which were suggested by the undulating shadows of vines and broad-leaved saplings—and it unscrolled itself toward the rock where the princess was chained.
But no princess stood there. The players were only rehearsing the scene, trying to get the apparatus to operate satisfactorily. The unfurling-refurling of the beast was superior to that of my earlier experience and I surmised that Cocorico had arrived and was manipulating Sbufo’s bladders and levers, playing out his part.
There was another difference also. The shadows the monster cast were not stable in outline. As one round tenebrous mass rolled forward, its edges were torn away, leaving fluttery rags that seemed to writhe in agony. In the main body of this shadow holes appeared, small at first but slowly enlarging until the mass of it presented the appearance of a great, coarse mesh. These debilitations slowed the progress of the Mardrake toward its goal; it did not halt, but every forward motion it made seemed to pain it harshly. Then the interior mass was eaten all away and the scene stopped before its conclusion.
“A thousand, thousand curses on these plants!” a voice cried out. “Can we not learn to regulate their appetites?”
This would be Cocorico, vexed nearly to his patient limit by our shadow-eater plants. We had warned the wise ballet mistress Anastasia that these plants were perhaps not sentient, or at least not completely sentient, beings. They could not be trained as dogs and monkeys and novice dancers might be trained. We had warned her too of the dangers of them and I had described at length what would happen if one of them fastened upon the shade of one of the actors or stagehands. I told her, “Only imagine what would happen if they got free into the audience. You can almost hear the shrieks of men and women and children whose shadows are being devoured.”
She had listened in solemn silence but was determined to acquire the effect that the hungry ravaging produced for the performance. In that regard she was canny. I could see that those writhings and fervid surges would add wild mood to the scene.
Yet it was a perilous decision. Mutano and I had set up a small square tent of black velvet behind the stage in which the plants were kept dark and watered when not active onstage. We had carefully explained how to transport them from spot to spot and had warned one and all of the danger.
Cocorico was execrating the plants at length as I departed. I judged that the rehearsal was stalled, perhaps for hours, and I was a-weary of footing about. I trudged to the livery stable, mounted, and rode back to the manse and put me to bed supperless.
* * *
When Sterio, our shy client, told us he would never again put on the harlequin costume, that he was finished with the Society and the Tumulus ritual and all that it entailed, his little black-eyed dog seemed to regard him mournfully, as if he had lost his true master. He had arrived driving a cart with the effigy and stick-puppet to be buried. The puppet, Dirty Bennino, was tucked into the left hand of the effigy.
“Do you fear for your life?” Astolfo asked.
It was the mild mid-afternoon and the four of us stood by the paddock fence, watching as the groom forked orchard-grass hay into the feed troughs. The season was too early for foddering with hay, but the horses had been put up here so long they had denuded the enclosed turf of grass. A wisp of hay rode the breeze to where we stood and Sterio plucked it from the air and slid it into a corner of his mouth. “I am fearful,” he said, “but I think they dare not take my life. My role in the Feast ritual is too prominent. As the Ministrant, I am central to the proceedings.”
“Is not the purpose of our antagonists disruption?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “but if the disruption comes from an outside force, the agents would give themselves away. It must appear to be missteps of my own or of the others involved.”
“Well then,” said Mutano, “we must make them show themselves. Let no fault of ours be used as excuse. Would you like to inspect the coffin and cart?”
Sterio followed us to a shed on the upper side of the paddock, where Mutano peeled away the canvas wrapping. He looked over the coffin, paying close attention to where the angle of the harlequin diamonds met the edges of the oblong box. With the coffin he seemed content, but the cart brought a hint of frown. “Is this not a little overdone?” He pointed to the design on the wheel spokes.
“We wanted to stand out from the others,” Mutano muttered. He was disappointed that his artistry was challenged.
“It will do well,” said Sterio.
“Perhaps it would be good to make sure that you have settled in mind all the proper steps of the ritual,” Astolfo said. “We must not let the blame fall upon you. Let us watch your progress through them.”
“If you insist,” he said. “So … The approach must be made in this fashion.” He breathed deeply, then took a slow step forward and after a hesitation carried on as he had been taught the tradition commanded. It took no longer than the third part of an hour for him to complete his role, but then Astolfo requested him to repeat the whole, and then again several small passages within it. He answered to every suggestion, though obviously puzzled about the maestro’s reasons.
“I thank you for your patience,” Astolfo said. “You have provided us with a safeguard against our carelessness. We shall be able to know if you have gone amiss at any point.”
“I shall be watched closely by many sets of eyes, if I were to perform. But I think I shall avoid that danger. I have hoped that I might hide myself here with you until the Tumulus hour has passed.”
“If you do so,” Mutano objected, “the ritual will not take place and our opponents have won the day. The Feast will fall into confusion and the people’s discontent may well turn into riot, as happened in ancient time when the traditional Saturnalia was forbidden by a new cult of overly ascetic priests. The invaders would love to see that happen.”
“I did not accept the assignment at risk of my life, only of my shadow.”
“You will be protected,” Astolfo said. “Mutano is there beside the cart; Falco is in the forefront of the crowd at the site. They are both armed and ready to defend you. I too shall be nearby, taking stock of the spectators, looking for anything untoward. Osbro must stay to watch the villa, but he can be called for if necessary.”
“You must judge me a craven,” said Sterio. “Yet if I meet a foe face-to-face, I bear my part without qualm. In this affair, I do not know whom to trust or from what quarter attack may come.”
“We shall be doubly, triply alert,” Astolfo said. He turned to Mutano and me. “Shall we be prepared?”
“We shall,” Mutano said, and I nodded.
“If so you say.” The tone of his voice betrayed Sterio’s doubtfulness.
“Let us go apart,” Astolfo said to him. “I will give further assurance and you can demonstrate again certain steps of the ritual I may already have misremembered. While we do so, Mutano can unload the effigy and stick-puppet from your cart.”
* * *
Next morning the four of us sat at table in the kitchen, Osbro being admitted to our group. He was accounted one of us now, fully a colleague.
“Time is narrowing,” Astolfo told us. He sipped at an herbal brew steaming in a clay mug. Each of us was consigned by the maestro to this drink, with which we nibbled little oatcakes sweetened with honey. “We must set out our purposes; we must plan how to achieve them; we must act.”
“Our worst difficulty is tha
t we are fighting cobwebs and moonbeams,” I said. “Who are our foes? What do they want? How are they to advance against us?”
“If we act upon my small set of premises, our endeavors may be wholly useless. Yet if we do not act at all, we are certain to lose the struggle,” Astolfo said.
“How do you define this struggle?”
He gave me a glance, mildly questioning. “What would result if the ritual were disturbed and the face of Bennio were not discerned within the moon?”
“Nothing of consequence,” Mutano declared. “It is all empty show. The vulgar crowd would be angry at first and then only out of sorts. Survival is not at stake.”
“The people would be dispirited and confused,” I said. “They would be unwilling to join together in any concerted plan of action.”
“The city would be unsecured?” Astolfo asked.
“For a short time,” I replied. “For five, six, seven days, perhaps. Then all would return to the state it is now—except that the usual grumbling would be louder and more acerbic.”
“I will propose that during that time, in the dark of the moon, a pirate force will advance upon the town and be aided by those they have implanted here. Once it is taken, they will use this city as marching armies use small villages—seizing treasure, killing the men and youths, raping, murdering, and enslaving females, usurping the Council duties and taking hold of the governance of the town, despoiling the urbs entirely, and leaving it to the mercies of kites and crows. That is why the ritual performance must fail.”
“Fail?” Mutano and I spoke in concert. Osbro shook his head.
“I shall make certain that it does fail,” Astolfo said.
“But maybe our Misterioso can bring it off correctly,” I said.
“Please be attentive, for the projections I lay before you are intricate, difficult to grasp in the whole, and uncertain of even a partial success. If our schemes prove vain, the result is disaster. I do not request your approval; I count you as already enlisted in the effort. Knowing what you know, you are now active players. The dangers are acute and the plan, I say again, is complex in all its parts.”