Gerrig spun around to look at Pelmen, his face the color of a freshly laundered sheet. “Do you think she recognized you?”
“Recognized whom?” Fallomar answered him. The eyes of the clown peered back at Gerrig curiously, as if the huge actor’s words were totally devoid of meaning.
Gerrig understood. He nodded, then took Danyilyn by the hand. “Come, lady. Let’s go find some rooms.” They started for the stairway, for Maythorm’s office was on the floor above. Pelmen was gone, swallowed whole by Folio-mar the fool. Gerrig was surprised at how much he already missed him.
Maythorm had been advised of their arrival by the serving girl who’d been bringing his dinner to his room. She felt sorry for the poor man the slightest noise made him jump, and he seemed uncommonly suspicious of everyone and everything. Besides, he was so good-looking…
perhaps someday he would notice her! She made a special effort to roust him out of his quarters to meet the players when they arrived at his office. As they surged into his room, he stood to meet them, his handsome, almost pretty face radiating a dazzling smile. “Welcome, welcome, Gerrig and Danyilyn, so pleased that you could accept our ”
There he stopped, dumfounded. The puzzled troupe waited for him to regather his wits and finish his sentence. “Why, you’re not Garrig and Danyilyn!” he gasped, his forehead knitting in indignation. “You’re
…” he stopped again, and this time his face went blank. Then his eyes widened and he blurted out, “You’re Gerrig and Danyilyn!”
Gerrig arched an eyebrow. “I’ve always thought so…”
“But I was expecting Danyilyn and Gerrig!” he gasped. “I mean, I was expecting… who was I expecting .. ,**
“Apparently, sir, you were expecting us,” Gerrig grunted, and he produced from a pocket within his tunic a tiny cylinder of parchment, which he unrolled and read aloud. “Summoned to the court by invitation of the Queen Gerrig, Danyilyn, and the acting troupe thereof.”
“But there must be some mistake!” Maythorm pleaded. “The troupe I invited were to win the Winter Festival in Pleclypsa!”
“We did win,” Danyilyn snapped.
“No, but they performed a play based on the Queen’s rise to powerl”
“That’s our piece,” Gerrig smiled, his teeth bright against his bushy red curls. “Masterful work it is, too.” He winked at Pelmen. Fallomar the fool regarded him curiously, and once again Gerrig was reminded of the need to conceal Pelmen’s identity. “But… but…”
“The man’s obviously distraught,” Follomar explained to the others.
“Do I know you?” Maythorm asked the painted clown suspiciously.
Fallomar peered into Maythorm’s face. “Why, I think so. Weren’t you at the recent convention of All Fools?”
“Are you calling me a fool?”
“Not actually, no. Would you like to take this opportunity to prove yourself one?”
“I know that voice!” Maythorm snarled. His pretty features quickly turned red.
“Better, I hope, than you know Gerrig and Danyilyn w
“Are you related to a peasant in the south?”
“Are you related to a buzzard in the north?”
“What? Who said anything about buzzards?”
“Well, you brought up pheasants ”
“I said peasants!”
“Absolutely unrelated.”
“What?”
“Peasants to pheasants.”
“You are an idiot!” Maythorm roared.
“I’m a fool, actually.”
“You certainly are!”
“I thank you for that good review!” Pelmen smiled.
“Get out of my office!”
“But you invited us.”
“I ; ..” Here Maythorm hesitated. The blood drained from his face as swiftly as it had flooded in. “I invited… you?”
Gerrig stepped forward and passed him the parchment slip. “Posted by blue-flyer to Minlaf-Khen. You see right there the seal of the crown.”
“I… authorized this?” Maythorm murmured as he circled his desk-table and slumped onto a stool.
“We came to get our room assignments,” Danyilyn an-Dounced impatiently.
“Can we get on with it?”
Maythorm raised his eyes slowly, a slack-jawed expression robbing his features of energy. Then, abruptly, he smirked. He pointed at Gerrig and laughed aloud, then said, “I get it. You’re after my job, right? A cream-puff post, you think, frosted with power and weighted with wealth, am I right?” His finger swept the whole troupe. “You’re all in on it, aren’t you? Plotting in private to pry me out of ray office.”
The actors exchanged bewildered stares. “Maythorm,” Gerrig began, “as Danyilyn said ”
“She’s not Danyilyn!” Maythorm yelled. “I know who she is she’s Danyilyn! I know all of you!”
“What a relief,” Fallomar sighed heavily. “And I know you, too!” Maythorm shouted, pointing now at the fool. “You’re the peasant who ambushed me on the road, who summoned the thunder and changed to a falcon and threw balls of colored fire at me all morning!” The entire troupe stared open-mouthed at Maythorm all, that is, save Yona. He was regarding the painted fool with some alarm.
Gerrig cleared his throat. “Ah, Maythorm… perhaps the Queen’s been working you too hard ”
“Ah-ha! You see?” Maythorm crowed. “Insinuating that I, Maythorm, am a bumbling incompetent! And naturally, you could do better?”
The bellowing of the Lord of Entertainments had attracted quite a crowd in the hallway outside. Now the serving girl bustled into the room, plowing her way through the troupe to Maythorm’s side. As she led him out, she apologized, “He hasn’t been himself since he got back from Pleclypsa.”
“Oh that’s all right.” The fool shrugged. “According to him, we haven’t been ourselves either,”
“I’ll get you, fool!” Maythorm shouted, pointing back at Fallomar.
“I’ll be watching you like a hawk!” Then Maythorm and the serving girl disappeared into the hallway, leaving the cluster of actors staring at Pelmen.
“I love the palace,” he sighed. “It never fails to restore my faith in government.”
A steward finally assigned them their lodgings. They all were given rooms in the craftsmen’s quarters, on the third level of the Imperial House. While Yona Parmi, Danyilyn and Gerrig were given large rooms very near the grand stairway at the castle’s center, Pelmen received a small cramped ceil well to the backside of the palace indicative of the fact that Maythorm, though perhaps a bit addled, was not without influence. This was really much to Pelmen’s liking, for he was right around the corner from a servants’ stairway, which descended directly into the slave’s quarters and the kitchen. He intended to get well acquainted with the castle’s slaves; as in every palace, it was they who knew best the business of the royal occupants. He felt sure that if Bronwynn was anywhere within the Imperial House, she was in the dungeon, but he wanted to be sure before attempting the dangerous entry. He hoped the slaves could either confirm or deny that Ligne had imprisoned her there.
It was the only possibility that made any sense. One day, she and Joss had ridden together from the forest in a guerrilla attack on one of Ligne’s weaker outposts. The next, she had disappeared… and Joss was suddenly once again the Lord of Security. Pelmen was positive she was here.
Something else was here as well. Pelmen lay back on a dirty cot and gazed toward the ceiling, listening for something, anything, that might give him a clue as to its nature. As he tuned his spirit to listen, he felt a telltale uneasiness in his chest his breathing grew shallow. It wasn’t fear… more a sense of anticipation. “Who are you?” he finally whispered. “You’re surely not the Power…”
What do you mean by that? replied the Imperial House brusquely. It had been watching this gaily painted character ever since he’d entered its walls, but it had taken a special interest in the fool after witnessing the exchange with Maythorm.