The Harlequin Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  “You have come between me and my love.” I kicked the last bricks away. Finished with a shout. “No pardon!” It echoed through helm and tomb. Good. I felt in a mood to hear the words, taste them. I spoke them again, all a sentence of death. “No pardon.”

  I stepped past the bricks. A figure in black clothes, moon-white face, leaped from the left. He brought down dagger, stabbed for my heart. It rang for a wine glass, blade snapping on the plate. I swung the butcher’s axe, the man’s arm dropped away. “No,” I repeated. He screamed, high and soft, staggered back, tripping upon his own lost limb. His friend upon the door’s right fired pistol. Again that crystal tone. Hit by the ricochet, he fell to the ground holding stomach. “No,” I told him. “No pardon.” I took his head off, sent it rolling. I continued down the steps into the lamp shine.

  Father Bright stepped back, masked eyes wide. Gould looked from me, to Bright, back to me. Gifted the same scorn as when I stood at his door in cotton breeches, leathern jacket.

  “You look absurd, you peasant colonial,” Gould declared. “Have you no concept of proper form? Or did you actually think to stay my blade by hiding within that idiot costume?” He turned to Bright. “Say, does he not appear twice the fool?”

  Bright did not reply. He gaped at the hell-forged butcher’s armor. Opened mouth to speak. Closed it. Then turned and fled into the night. About us came footfalls, hisses, a wind of similar exit. Till Gould and I stood in lamplight before the tomb, two actors abandoned onstage by their audience. Gould turned this way and that, puzzling why the night grew so very quiet and empty.

  “We were discussing the Irish, I believe,” I told him, taking a single step forwards, awaiting attack from the side, else behind. Gould had meant some cheat for our duel the other morning. He’d never dare make challenge elsewise. If he remained en scene now, he still counted upon cheats. More undead allies, perhaps.

  “A magic people, the Irish.” I declared, swinging the butcher’s blade before me. Stepping closer, chatting, shaking the dripping blade. “I do not believe in magic. But one listens to their lilting speech, and gains visions of green hills and mist-shrouded fairy circles.”

  Green waved rapier, opened mouth to reply. “The Irish,” he began.

  “And yet,” I interrupted, disinterested in his idiot view, “to hell with fairies, mystic hills and magic circles. In the peoples of the west one sees real faces of men and women enduring hard lives; living with grace and humor till it seems magic to those of lesser heart. In their eyes we catch glimpses of country lanes, green fields, sheep pens and farm crofts where life is revealed holy for the daily work of bread and breath.”

  So fast I could not act, a man rushed from the dark. He grasped arms about me, near lifting me to the air, pressing wet dirty teeth to the visor. A kind of kiss, ending tragic. He screamed, dropped me, fell away clutching face burned. Young Robert, my sometime student in spadassin arts.

  “Did I teach you nothing of caution?” I demanded. “When faced with an unknown, stop to consider.”

  He took hands away, revealing livid face, fresh burned. He aimed blood-red eyes at me. Neck a tangle of torn flesh. The man was exactly as dead as rumor said. And yet still smarting at a teacher’s reproof?

  “You claim not to believe in magic,” he hissed. “And yet wear magic armor.”

  I sighed. Students. They pay you to teach all you know; then argue all you teach. The butcher-blade lacked the lightness of rapier. But once set swinging, no earthly power could parry. I swung, took most of his head away. Young Robert sat down.

  “Redo the lesson,” I instructed him. “This time without the whining.” I stepped politely over the pieces, continued towards Gould. Where were we? Ah, yes.

  “Your contempt for the Irish is mere greed for their land, pride for your mirror, excuse for a life mismeasured by class,” I informed him, waving blade to the words, giving my speech all the weight of that murder tool. What an excellent baton for conducting debate. I would take it to my next formal dinner. Gould stepped back, waved his sad saber.

  “I have returned from the dead, Gray,” he insisted. “You cannot kill me. No magic armor shall save you. Mine is a will forged and strengthened in hellfire hatred. You cannot run from it.”

  “Why would I run?” I asked, stepping closer. The helmet hampered my view to the sides, my hearing from behind. So I kept eye to the ground, watching lamp-shadows.

  “This moment is fordained for your death,” Gould declared. Stamped foot.

  “Do you mean ‘ordained’?” I asked. A shadow flickered on the ground, cast from lamp behind. I whirled swinging, hoping it was not Anger. But no, behold the Right Reverend Kingsley, raising high an iron bar to bash. He looked worse for death than Young Robert. Livid of flesh and eye, mouth slack and open, filled with dust. The severed arm and iron bar went flying. He staggered back.

  “Unless he meant ‘foretold’,” I observed to Kingsley, facing him. Gould would be rushing upon my back now, seeing his chance. I gave him a quarter-second to gain courage, then stepped to side, not turning. Gould rushed past, skewering Kingsley to the saber’s hilt. For a moment both creatures stood still, considered this faux-pas.

  “Fool,” hissed the cleric. He began beating upon Gould with his remaining arm. Lord Gould muttered apologies, struggling to pull his saber forth again. It stayed firmly fixed in Kingsley’s thorax. I felt an urge to advise something like ‘draw it back while twisting the hilt clockwise.”

  I did not. I took Gould’s head off. The body continued to stand, hands tugging at the saber firm-fixed into Kingsley’s chest as sword to stone. No blood flowed from either. Both men had indeed been dead. Later the realization would make me shake. Get very drunk. Hide in my bed. Not now. The cleric gave off beating at Gould’s corpse. Turned death-weary eyes upon me.

  “You were supposed to be a better man than this,” I told him. A certain disappointment marked my voice. “I recall your wonderful sermon upon the good fairy ‘Do as You Would be Done By’, and the terrible fairy ‘Do as You Have Done By’. Hell, I bought a copy.”

  For that second he hesitated. Then, “It is not possible to be a better man, unless one abhors those who are lesser.”

  “That is neither Christian charity nor worldly sense,” I pointed out

  “No,” he agreed. “But it shall be the spirit of the age you claim to welcome.”

  I struggled for reply. Kingsley made a sudden push at Gould’s corpse, toppling it upon me. I stumbled backwards, tripping upon Robert’s remains. Falling, Gould’s corpse atop upon mine, dead hands still twitching. Robert’s remains still twitching. I screamed, flailed, scrabbled to my feet.

  Kingsley had also fallen backwards. The saber protruding out his back nailing him nicely to the ground. A collector’s very ugly butterfly, pinned to cork. He struggled with his one arm to grab the blade, sending fingers flying. He ceased as I stood above him.

  “Leave your neighbor’s damned boundary stones alone,” I commanded, and removed his head. Stared down at the rolling face, hoping it would not reply. Should I kick it? Not an honorable act. But suppose these things began rolling after me like Dealer’s? Picture yourself pursued by a host of rolling heads, chattering, nattering at your heels forever.

  I kicked it far into graves and shadow. Then booted Robert’s head. Then Gould’s. Looked about. No more heads. No more audience. Neither Harlequin nor undead. What of Alderman Black? What of Anger? I returned to the tomb door, peered in past a corpse and an arm. Within flickered candle light, shadows.

  “Anger?” I asked. “Enguerrand?”

  Empty. But upon the altar rested something new. An ancient yellow skull. Wearing a hat, turkey-feather cocked. This lump of old bone grinned in wise and ancient humor. I backed away, near tripping over the severed arm. Plenty of blood there. I slipped, whirled, seeking enemies, fearing ghosts. Backed into the lamp light, waving the butcher blade this way and that. I held the stage alone; but felt no urge to deliver a soliloquy.

  I con
sidered this night. If I had not worn Anger’s armor… rapier would have served nothing against so many foes. Nor dueling with dead men. Else the Harlequin would have backstabbed me at their pleasure. I raised the visor, took slow breaths of night air. A stench of rot from the bodies lying about. Hot fresh blood from the harlequin corpse at the tomb door. Grave smells and grass, night mist and night blossoms. The familiar mix of death and life, decay and growth. The true smell of the world beyond all perfume of belief and philosophy.

  Enough. I swung the blade, enjoying its weight, the terrible determination of its edge. Enough. To hell with battle and word and world. I set off to find my wife.

  Chapter 21

  The Wind is a Sweeper

  The night breeze rushed across the world, shaking branches, scudding clouds… only to stop puzzled what it meant by the act. It lulled, tapping leaves, fingering clouds, muttering, wondering what it had intended just a moment before. Silence… then on a sudden recalled all its purpose; and roared newly determined to wipe the sky clean of stars, sweep clouds and trees and moon over the horizon.

  I headed uphill, upon the path Anger declared would lead to my goal. Awaiting attack from behind, from the side. A path of square stone epitaphs, statue faces to left and right observing my passing. Here among the wealthy dead, all stood clean and ordered. No tree roots poking untidy up from graves, no vines masking faces, no epitaphs blurred by rain or time. At path’s end awaited a mausoleum chapel dark as the family name carved for portico title: Black.

  Kindly lamps glowed upon the steps to cheer the night traveler. Within the light, Alderman Jeremiah Black sat casual upon a dead lion. A sad stone beast, marble muzzle open in death’s last gasp. Black yawned at my approach, far past last breath. Upon his head rested the costume crown of skulls in which he’d died. Apt, as at his feet lay a fresh corpse. I studied it. A man in kilt, yellow-and-black patterned diamonds, back a wet puddle of blood catching lamp shine. No one I knew. A narrow face, slanted eyes. White hair like to the snake woman’s.

  Beside Black rested a large wicker birdcage. Within, Dealer’s head rolled back and forth, restless. Black toyed with a still-bloody dagger, stabbing idly into his own thigh.

  “Must you keep doing that?” asked Dealer’s head. “You may feel no pain, but it makes me shudder.”

  “Of course I feel pain,” replied Black. Then sighed. “Yet, my apologies.” He put aside the dagger. The two turned attention to me. Or rather, to the figure in bloody armor striding out from the cemetery night.

  “Gray,” announced Black. Then raised eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  I shook my dragon-helmed head. “Vengeance stands before you,” I declared. “Behold Nemesis. I am the storm of justice come sudden upon the wicked.”

  “You are not,” scoffed Black.

  “Yes I am,” I insisted. Feeling put out. He demeaned words of noble wrath.

  “Not,” agreed Dealer. Then admitted, “Yet that armor would suit the devil.”

  “Bah,” said Black. “It’s absurd. And to think he mocked my costuming as Hades.”

  Had I? I recalled. Yes, before shooting him. Twice. Should I apologize? No. And yet, I tired of the business. I considered Black’s haggard face. He looked wearied of death as I of vengeance.

  I halted ten paces off. Best keep distance till time to strike. Robert had moved with more than human speed. Kingsley scarce noted the removal of an arm. Gould thrust saber clean through chest and bone. Black was no fool to waste superior strength and speed. He’d wait proper opportunity. I put my back to an angel carved of stone darker than the night about us. Comforting to have those wings spreading, lifting out behind.

  “I suppose,” drawled Black, “you have come to find solution to the mysteries haunting you, and then to end them.”

  “No mystery haunts me further,” I declared. “I come for my wife.”

  Black and Dealer exchanged looks.

  “Well, that makes it easier,” observed Black.

  “And darker of outcome, I fear,” sighed Dealer. Considered, then added more brightly, “But felicitations on the nuptials.”

  “Yes, congratulations,” added Black. Hesitated, searching for words of tact. “She seems a, a remarkable creature.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. It seemed polite. Absurd, but polite. I stared about. Surely this was ruse? Enemy must tiptoe upon me while these fiends distracted with conversation peaceful as church-door chat. I lifted the helmet visor, the better to see and hear. I heard wind and quiet night. Saw two old friends, their conditions changed. Mine as well, of course.

  “We’ve been discussing your in-laws,” offered Dealer. “Fascinating people. It came to me researching Kariel’s image, that I’d encountered them for years in art but never saw the connection.”

  Black gave the harlequin corpse a kick. “A secret lineage of wandering lunatics, mad tinkers, bedlam japesters. No offense to the Mrs. Gray.” He glanced towards the mausoleum in something like worry. Then returned attention to the body. “This one came from a tribe called Scaled.”

  “Skalen,” corrected Dealer.

  “Skalen, then,” sighed Black, giving the long-suffering look he wore whenever Dealer waxed on art or history. Or Green preached the Machiavellian path to happiness. Or when I explained poetry and labor reform as one grand Cathedral of Progress. I smiled to realize that of us, only Black refrained from inflicting the table with some favored obsession.

  “In any case,” noted Dealer, rolling forth and back in his cage, “Note the yellow and black Harlequinade. This tribe gathers the exiles. Allowing combination of unique talents. Such as the late Pierrot, who mixed shape shifting arts of the Mac Tier with dream casting of the Decoursey.”

  “Clever of him,” yawned Black. “Pity he was a raving nit-brained twit.” Then to me, “Your more serpentine in-laws practice necromancy. I so name the art before Dealer shouts it. This creature raised me, Gould and Kingsley. From the dead, if you can believe.” Came another brooding kick.

  “I thought you vampires, cursed to rise again by the death-bite of another, previously cursed,” I said, appreciating the words. Unusual thing to say.

  Black snorted. “I lack all thirst for blood, for lying in graves. What I want is bath and beer.” He kicked the dead Harlequin. “The late Anastasius referred to myself, Gould, the other late gentlemen as remnants.”

  “Revenants,” corrected Dealer. “Mere dead men dragged again into to this weary un-bright world.”

  “Well, it’s insulting for a gentleman to be so treated,” declared Black. “Doubly so for the ass’s expectation that he might order us about. He felt we were his creatures.” He produced the knife again, tapped the corpse in reproof for its presumption.

  “I assume you stabbed him in the back,” I said to Black, as Dealer lacked knife. Or hands.

  Black smiled dry stone teeth. “Anastasius expected you earlier in the day. His control weakened as you tarried. Then he took fright for news of your approach in that absurd antique armor. The ass panicked, and must now review his studies of Death from the very source.”

  “Necromancer, raise thyself,” Dealer offered. Black smiled, I smiled.

  “But to the point, Gray,” continued Black, tapping dagger. “I would never believe you could mix with such unenlightened peoples. Necromancers? Shape changers? Ghosts and vampires? You were the sensible materialist at the table. Spinoza. Lucretius. Hobbes. All that proud tribe of scoffers.”

  “I blame William Blake,” Dealer sniffed. “Scrambled the man’s brains.”

  “Nonsense,” I snapped. “Blake casts more light upon my life of late, than ten bishops, two Spinozas and a Hobbes.”

  “I always hated your dependence on a child rhymer for political and philosophical basis,” said Black. “It embarrassed.”

  “You always hated me, not William Blake,” I corrected.

  “You hated first,” he retorted. He straightened, pointed dagger at me. “You plotted my destruction even while you sat at my dinner table
chatting of war and women.” He snarled, and a glimmer of blood-shine touched those dead eyes. “As you did destroy me.” Tapped knife blade to his own chest once, and then again, in count of bullet holes.

  I waved my butcher-blade to dismiss his words, his dinners, his death.

  “You were a thieving, slaving, pirate merchant tyrant working against the Charter.”

  “And you were a bullying Robin Hood haunting streets by night encouraging mobs to seize my ships and factories,” countered Black. “I was mere prosperous entrepreneur bringing wealth to nations. At times favoring your charter, at times opposing. Exact as Green. You think of these things as fixed landmarks, Gray. But political causes are mere pieces moved about the board. One moment blocking your gambit, the next turn placed to your advantage.” He considered, gave the dead Harlequin a knife poke. “I grant you; after serving this ass a week, I view forced servitude with a more progressive eye.”

  Had our hatred truly been only politics and pockets? I wondered. Impossible.

  “You burned my first editions,” I pointed out. “In front of me.”

  “You burned my largest warehouse,” retorted Black. “I might have forgiven, as between friends. But after years of your admonishments, your sermons, your self-righteous assertions that I was a beast gnawing on infant humanity’s baby toes, I grew wroth, Master Gray. I will not be cowed, not by necromancers in death, nor seraphs in life.”

  “No,” I snarled. “Liar. You plotted against me long before I burned your warehouse.” Took breath. “You set Elspeth to spy upon me. You boasted as much in my cell. As you prepared to kill me, I point out.”

  Black laughed. Horrid sound from dead lungs. And yet sad; like wind piping through the ribcage of a battle field corpse.

  “I knew Elspeth O’Claire long before you. Yes, I placed her in your house. Excellent place for a spy, in the house of the favorite agent for powers wishing to work beyond the law. But never could I get her to work against the glorious Seraph.” Black waved dagger at the corpse, the mausoleum, the world. “Else I’d have had her poison your soup. Then I’d be warm in bed now, not sitting cold outside my own tomb.”