A Wizard in War

9

The performance began early in the afternoon. The landlord, Eotin, had sent his stableboys to the market to spread the word, and the audience started filing in as the sun neared the zenith. Androv’s youngest players—boys, really—stood at the gates to collect pennies from everyone who entered. One or two men tried to push past the boys without paying, but each time, Gar stepped out in front of the man, rumbling, “I think you forgot to pay the boy, goodman.”

“Wha …? Oh, yes! So I have!” And the gate-crasher turned back to pay his score, grumbling under his breath. Androv stood by, nodding in admiration. “Well done, my friend, very well done indeed. Usually one of us stands by to back up the boys, but you’re far more effective.” Gar shrugged. “Sometimes ugliness has its advantages.”

“You, ugly?” Androv glanced up at him keenly. “Some of our young women think otherwise. I’d take it as a favor if you ignored their charms, friend Gar.”

“To do otherwise would surely be no act of friendship.” Gar smiled. “I assure you that, unlike the law, I am a respecter of persons.”

When the innyard was full, Androv slipped around behind the back of the crowd with the boys and Gar, to the tiring house.

There, turmoil met them. “Master Androv!” Elspeth cried, “Jonathan is ill! ”

“Ill indeed.” Mama stepped up, nodding. “His forehead is hot, and he’s racked with stomach pains. Something bad in his food, I doubt not.”

“Will he be all right?” Androv asked in alarm.

“I think so, but we’ll have to keep watch over him. And it will be at least three days before he’s well, perhaps a whole week.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” The chief player relaxed, then suddenly stiffened again. “Who will play the knight?”

“Why, Axel can,” Elspeth said.

“The armor won’t fit him! It won’t fit anyone but Jonathan!” Master Androv tugged his beard in frustration. “Let me think! What can we do?”

“Do you really need the knight?” Gar asked.

“Of course we need the knight! Who else will lead the villagers against the giant?”

“That much, Axel can do,” Gar said.

“How ridiculous! A mere peasant, lead others against a monster? No one would ever believe it! The audience would boo us off the stage!”

“On the contrary, it’s completely believable,” Gar told him. “Try it. At the worst, the audience will be so surprised they won’t say anything at all.”

“It would be new, it would be alive!” Axel’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “Let me try it, Master Androv!”

“We haven’t much choice, have we?” Androv sighed. “Very well, lads—Axel shall lead the peasants against the giant. Now quickly, into costume and onto the stage, before the crowd tears us apart with impatience!”

A few minutes later, the boys, resplendent in tarnished tabards that had once graced a duke’s heralds, stepped out on the stage with trumpet and drum to beat a quick tattoo accompanied by a loud, if somewhat off key, fanfare. The crowd quieted a bit, and Androv stepped out on the stage to begin the prologue. “Hearken, good people! Attend and see! The tale of Gargantua on our stage shall be!”

A murmur of anticipation ran through the audience. Coll was in an excellent place to hear it, for it was his task to work his way through the crowd, keeping a sharp eye for rotten fruit and overly enthusiastic admirers of actresses, not to mention those overly fond of ale. Unfortunately, there was plenty of fruit and ale both, for the landlord’s serving maids were twisting their way among the spectators selling their wares—from one glance at a fruit tray, Coll could see Eotin was taking advantage of the opportunity to get rid of some of his outdated merchandise.

But it was so difficult for Coll to keep his eyes on the people about him when Ciare and Duse were stepping so lightly about the stage in their finery, discussing the horrible giant who was nearing their village. Their movements were graceful, their gowns low-cut, so Coll was hard-put to restrict himself to quick glances at the pretty actresses and spend most of his time watching the customers. Still, he managed it, seeing Androv come out to try to shoo the girls away, for the giant was coming. They shooed, but as soon as Androv had hurried away, they came back, giggling at the fun of lying in wait to see the giant.

Then he came, Gargantua himself, and the whole audience gasped with fright at the sight. So did Coll, stunned by the enormous size, the bulging naked muscles, and the horrifying mask. Then he remembered that “Gargantua” was only his master Gar, and relaxed—mostly; at the back of his mind was the nagging realization of something he had forgotten, that Gar really was that huge, that formidable.

Well, not quite that huge. He wore three-inch soles on his boots, and the mask rose up a foot above the top of his head, making him look far taller than he really was.

He shambled over to Ciare and reached out, caressing her hair. She stood trembling a moment, then screamed and ran—or tried to; Gargantua caught her arm, and she twisted against his pull, falling to the floor. Duse dropped to her knees, hands to her cheeks, and cried, “She’s dead! You horrible monster, you’ve killed her!” and ran screaming from the stage. Alone, Gar knelt, almost breaking his ankle in those thick-soled shoes, and reached out to touch Ciare’s hair again, then lifted her head, lifted her arm … Coll realized the giant was trying to make the girl dance with him again. When he realized he couldn’t, his shoulders sagged, and his whole body seemed one united expression of unutterable sorrow. The audience quieted, amazed at the monster’s tenderness, and heard one muffled sob.

Then Gargantua rose, fumbled in a pouch at his side, and brought out a mouse. Several women gave little screams, and several men gave exclamations of disgust, before they realized it was only a puppet. The little creature frisked to and fro on Gargantua’s palm, and he reached out a finger to pet it gently. His huge frame straightened; his whole body seemed to lighten, to cheer up. Restored, he put the mouse back in his pouch and stumped off the stage again.

Thus the story went—Gargantua always trying to be friendly, always seeking to touch in affection, but always destroying, never understanding his own strength. After each encounter, he sought solace by playing with the mouse again, even after three men banded together and came at him with flails. But at last he petted the mouse too hard, and it broke. Then Gargantua let out a howl of unutterable grief, sank to his knees—and rose with anger and hatred. It was then that Axel shouted to the other peasants, harangued them, telling them they must save themselves, and led a charge against Gargantua with swords, scythes, whatever weapons came to hand.

The giant turned to strike out against the pack. He hurled them from him, one after another, until they all leaped upon him together, flailing and stabbing. The audience went wild, cheering and booing—some for the peasants, some for Gargantua. At last, the mound of churning bodies stilled, and the men rose to carry the inert body of the giant off the stage.

Androv came back on, to thank the audience for their attention and admonish them to give the stranger the benefit of the doubt, then ending with a plea for applause. They gave him more than he asked for, and the company filed out to bow, Gar still in mask and buskins. Then, as the applause died, Androv called out, “Tomorrow, an hour after noon, the tale of the Imaginary Invalid! Good evening, friends!” He waved as the players left the stage, then followed them.

The applause ended, and the spectators filed out of the innyard, chatting with excitement about tomorrow’s play. Coll elbowed his way through them, hurrying to get back to the tiring house and see whether or not Gar had collapsed from the strain.

He hadn’t; he was grinning, the mask in his hands, as his fellow players heaped praise and acclaim on him.

“You were excellent, Sir Gar!” Duse stepped up right against him, eyes shining. “I have never seen so moving a giant!”

Gar laughed with pleasure. “Yes, but if you had seen my face, I’ll warrant you wouldn’t have been half so impressed! ”

“Oh, I’m sure we would have!” Elspeth crowded in, also right up against him. “Your every movement, your every grunt and growl spoke oceans of emotions!”

“Why, thank you!” Gar inclined his head, but kept the mask in his hands. “If I had been given a word to speak, though, I’m sure I would have shamed us all!”

“Well, you didn’t!” Dicea crowded in, too, closer than she ever would have dared if she hadn’t seen the actresses do it. “You were noble, overwhelming!”

“Really, most excellently done!” Androv stepped up, shooing the girls away, and clapped Gar on the shoulder. “It was a stroke of genius to have Axel lead the peasants! Did you hear how that audience cheered them? How did you know they would?”

“Why, I didn’t know, of course,” Gar replied, “but I’ve learned that no one likes to see anything so much as himself—if that self is disguised a bit.”

Androv nodded slowly, interest kindling in his eye. “Are you sure you’ve never acted before?”

“Not on a stage, no.” Gar was still grinning. “And I beg you, don’t make me do it again—at least not in any part that has lines.”

“Give the man a stoup of ale!” Androv cried, and steered him toward his clothing. “Come, pull on your garments, and let us tell you of the next work we have in mind for you. No, not on the stage, don’t worry; the Imaginary Invalid has no part for a giant.”

“I should think not!” Gar laughed, and the two of them were off to chat as Gar pulled his clothes back on. Disappointed, Dicea stepped over to Dirk, batting her eyelashes. “Shall you be a player, too, sir?”

Coll wondered when his sister was going to make up her mind—and whether or not it would do her any good. “Only in the right game,” Dirk said, grinning, “and for the right stakes.”

“Oh? And what stakes are those, sir?” she said with a saucy smile, stepping a little closer.

Dirk abruptly sobered. “Peace, and the end of all these wars the noblemen wage. Freedom would be a nice added fillip, but I’ll settle for one thing at a time.”

Dicea stared, taken aback by the enormity of it. Then she recovered, gave him a look of mock exasperation, and said, “You can become so stuffy so easily, Sir Dirk!”

“Indeed,” Ciare said, stepping up to Coll’s side. “Can you be playful, sir, even though your master is not?”

Dicea flashed her a look of annoyance, but Coll favored her with a long look and an intent smile. Her eyes met his directly, and he felt as though some force was speeding from her into himself, making his whole body thrum like a fiddle string. “What game did you have in mind?”

“Ducks and drakes,” Ciare answered, just as Dicea said, “Roundelays,” and they were off into a three-way contest that featured hidden meanings and not-so-subtle innuendos. Coll found himself wondering whether he was really a player—or only a referee.

The next day, Elspeth and Duse vied for the honor of showing Gar his duties when he wasn’t acting; diplomatically, he stated that he needed both points of view and strolled about the innyard with one on each arm. Ciare stayed out of that competition, only guiding Coll to show him his duties. Of course, Gar really didn’t need a half-hour’s tour and explanation of how to hold the horses of the gentry while they watched the play, and Coll certainly didn’t need anywhere near an hour’s coaching on how to roll a rock across a sheet of iron to mimic the sound of thunder. Coll did have to admit that he was asking for far more detailed explanations than he needed to, but he noticed that Dicea kept dropping in on Dirk from time to time with one unnecessary question after another, so he felt justified.

At last Ciare led him through the curtains behind the two carts into a large tent with the stage as one wall and the inn for another, with canvas above them and canvas to each side. “This is the tiring house,” she said.

“How does one tire?” Coll asked.

Ciare turned to him, smiling, leaning back against the inn wall. “Why, one tires by long exercise.”

“Then I must have tired you in this long excursion, especially with all the questions I have asked.” Coll’s heart beat faster; he hoped the beckoning in her face was really there, not only the result of his wishful thinking. He stepped closer, and her smile widened, eyelids half closing.

“Not so much effort by half,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Can you not give my mouth more exercise than that?”

Coll stepped closer still, his face mere inches from hers, their bodies almost touching, and smiling into her eyes, feeling his whole body tingling with her nearness.

“You are too distant,” she breathed.

He kissed her, then kissed her again, longer—then again and again, longer and deeper each time.

From that time on, Coll and Ciare were always careful to be very decorously well apart from one another—but they found frequent opportunities to be alone.

Coll had to admire the skill of the older actor-women with their needles—but his sister’s skill was another matter. She was soon sitting beside Dirk every chance she could make, asking him all sorts of questions, finally hitting on the matter of government and war, and settling herself to listen to a lecture. Unfortunately, her smile faltered a few times, and her boredom began to show.

But there wasn’t enough time for Dirk to become too elaborate in his subject. As soon as the bread and cheese had been washed down with ale, the players were up and rehearsing. They breezed through the show so quickly that Coll found himself wondering how they could make it last long enough for the audience to feel they’d had their money’s worth. Dirk seemed to think so, too, for he asked Ciare, “Only an hour?”

“No, they’re just practicing the difficult parts,” she told him, and gave Coll a look that said she would enjoy practicing herself. “With the audience, it will last several hours.”

“Several hours of pleasure would be well worth the effort,” Coll murmured, gazing into her eyes. Then he gave himself a shake and asked, “How does the innkeeper make enough money from this to be so eager to have you perform? Do you pay him?”

She nodded. “One penny in two—but most of his money he makes from the knights and lords who rent the rooms that look out into the courtyard—the only time he can charge more for them than for those on the outside.” She gestured at the second-story rooms and the porch that ran in front of them. “He charges for the food and wine they eat, too, of course.”

“Sounds like a wonderful way to spend the afternoon,” Coll said, with a look that made the statement ambiguous. “I would love to have the chance, someday,” she returned, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Even if the play were boring?”

“Our play would be anything but tiresome,” she assured him. “Even if it were, though, a knight and woman could simply retire into the room and draw the curtains.”

“How could you lose?” Coll leaned a little closer to her. “They come! They come!” Androv bustled up to them. “The apprentices lead them! The audience nears our gates! To your stations, one and all!”

In a few minutes, they were trooping in, the young bloods handing their horses’ reins to Gar and one or two of the younger players where they sat by the hitching rail. When anyone tried to push past the boys taking coins, Gar rose from his seat, towering over the gateway, and the customers suddenly remembered where they had put their money.

Soon the patrons had formed a long line, jostling elbows and chatting merrily as they waited—merriment that grew as the landlord’s potboys passed up and down the line with wineskins, pouring flagons for anyone who paid a penny. One or two chafed at the delay, though, grumbling about the unfairness of it. Coll, holding horses, could scarcely believe his ears when he heard Gar say, “Be glad you’re only waiting for a play to begin, friend, not waiting for the next battle to start.”

People fell silent around them, staring, appalled. The grumbler turned on Gar. “Oh, we’re always waiting for that! But at least we don’t have to stand idle, or pay to be admitted!”

“Of course you pay,” Gar said, “in blood and ruin. What you really need is a playscript for war, so that only the evil are slain.”

Startled silence greeted the statement, a silence that erupted into shouts of laughter. Even the grumblers had to grin. “Well said, play-actor! But where will you find such a script, eh?”

“In the courage of common folk,” Gar answered. “Did you see the play last night?”

“With the giant Gargantua? Aye! A brave tale, that!”

“Brave indeed,” Gar agreed. “Where was the knight or the lord when the giant came?”

The people fell silent again, staring. Some began to glance around them nervously.

“Why, that’s right.” It wasn’t the grumblers who spoke, but a merchant with grey at his temples. “There wasn’t a knight, was there?”

“The play called for it, but the actor who played him was sick,” Gar said. “Did you miss him?”

The merchant’s eyes kindled. “Not a bit!”

“Nor did I,” one of the grumblers said, frowning. Coll wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more.

“That’s the way plays are,” Gar told them. “When you see knights and lords, you have wars.”

“Only in plays?” an apprentice asked. He was beginning to look angry.

But the line moved forward then, and Gar was saved from an answer. Instead, he turned with interest to the next knot of grumblers, who were complaining about not being able to see very well. “The lords can,” Gar told them.

Coll gave the reins he was holding to a stableboy, and went inside to see how Dirk was faring. He hoped nothing would happen to Gar, but the giant’s words were raising both his anger and his hope. He told himself the day’s work would be enough.

He found Dirk quickly—and wished he hadn’t. He was telling a handful of journeymen and apprentices, “There are only three people in each cell. That’s right, people—women can be just as good at passing information as men. But each person knows someone in another cell, and each of them knows another.”

“So no one knows more than four people?” a journeyman asked.

Dirk nodded. “The three in his own cell, and one from another.”

“So if word needs to travel, only one cell needs to be told.” An apprentice lit up with enthusiasm. “Each of its three tells one from another cell, so four cells know! Then each of the three new cells tells others, and thirteen cells know!”

“And on and on, so that within a day or so, everyone knows.” Dirk nodded. “That way, the ones who are planning the action can make sure…”

Coll hurried away before he could find out what “the action” was. He was already shaking with fervor, and he had to last through a long afternoon. Could Gar and Dirk really mean it? Really mean to haul down the lords, and stop the wars? Or at least to curb the noblemen, to impose some sort of law on them, too?

“Audiences are usually far more unruly than this.”

“Uh?” Coll looked up, and found that his steps had taken him to Androv. The chief player swept a gesture out to include the whole audience. “I’ve never seen people who only laugh and talk and throw the occasional apple core! Usually there are loud quarrels, fights breaking out, women squealing as men make improper advances.” He shook his head, marveling. “Your masters have an amazing way of calming a crowd, friend Coll.”

“Amazing indeed.” But Coll wasn’t all that sure that their way was calming. For the time being, maybe, but he had a notion they would prove quite exciting in the long run.

When the performance was done, Gar and Dirk lounged about, not near enough to overhear much that went on between Androv and the innkeeper as they counted the money, but very obvious and in sight of Eotin, in case he decided to change the terms of the agreement. Coll stood near them, quivering with frustration. Now, when he could ask the dozen questions they’d stirred up in him, now when he could swear to do anything they asked if only there were a real chance of muzzling and chaining Earl Insol—now the knights only wanted to talk about the performance, and the players!

“They have enthusiasm,” Dirk pointed out.

“Oh yes, tremendous enthusiasm!” Gar agreed. “Of course, their delivery is, shall we say, grandiose, and their concept of characterization comes straight from the carpenter’s shop—but they do it with zest!”

Dirk shrugged. “They have to make their voices heard all the way to the far wall, and their gestures have to be clear to people a hundred feet away and two stories up. Of course they’re going to be big!”

“And subtleties of character…?” Gar prompted. “Won’t be clear beyond the first row. Of course, it might help if they stuck to the script…”

Gar’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “It might help if they had a script.”

“Of course.” Dirk smiled. “But since they don’t, and since their only reason for performing is to make a few pennies, you have to rate them according to whether or not they put on a good show, not their achievement as artists.”

“Which, of course, they would probably deny being,”

Gar sighed. “Was it really from such rough and ready beginnings as these that Olivier and Evans and Omburt grew?”

“You forgot Shakespeare and Moliere.”

“No, they did. You can see how it must have been—the scripts were lost, the serfs were forbidden to learn to read, but the actors passed down the plays from father to son and mother to daughter by word of mouth. They forgot the lines, but they remembered the story itself—so their descendants go out on the stage and make up the lines as they go along.”

“But why did the original colonists let some serfs be players?” Dirk wondered.

Gar shrugged. “What else are you going to do in the evening?”

Coll could think of a few answers to that, any of which would have made more sense than what the two knights were talking about. Apparently Dirk could think of them too, because he gave Gar a slow smile, but only said, “I can see your point. A play would be a welcome change now and then, wouldn’t it?”

“Very much,” Gar agreed, “but only as a pastime. These bush aristocrats aren’t the kind who care very much about art, after all.”

“They do have a few rough edges,” Dirk admitted. “And would have rather drastic ways of treating players who failed to amuse, I doubt not,” Gar said grimly. “No, all in all, I would have to admit that what these players do, they do well.”

“Exactly.” Dirk nodded. “We just shouldn’t be expecting them do to anything more—or trying to. After all, they probably don’t even know it exists.”

“But they stay alive,” Gar agreed, “and free of serfdom, though I suspect nobody raises the issue.”

“Come, woman! You cannot pretend to any great store of virtue!”

All three men turned to look, suddenly alert for trouble.

Four men had gathered around Ciare, chatting and laughing, and though the oldest had made the comment with a joking tone, his face was quite serious.

“I think they might want some more company there.” Dirk nodded toward the group, and Coll said, “Yes,” as he strode, hands balled into fists, feeling anger hot within him.

“Let me know if you need reinforcements,” Gar called, then leaned back against a post, arms folded, watching with interest.

“Pish, sir!” Ciare gave the man a playful push away. “Do you think that just because I walk onto a stage, I’m bereft of purity? For shame!”

“Shame?” Another man chuckled. “Everyone knows that player women don’t know what the word means.” He reached out toward her bodice.

Ciare gave his hand a playful slap. “We know it quite well, as knights seem not to! The king wears jewels in his crown—do you think that because you can see them, you should touch them?” She took a step back, right up against the chest of a tall young man, who reached around a groping hand, chuckling. “It’s not the king’s jewels that we speak of, lass, but your own charms.” His arm tightened about her, and Ciare tried to pull it loose with a cry of distress. The men laughed.

Coll couldn’t take it any longer. He forgot the law said that a serf must not raise his hand against a lord; he forgot about the noose; he could only think of Ciare being forced to the pleasures of the lordlings. He reached out to seize the nobleman.