Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  I’ll keep you in the loop if anything unexpected develops, but my take is: there’s nothing to see here. Best to the Rudge clan—

  Octavian Frink

  * * *

  Post by Melisande Stokes on “General” GRIMNIR channel

  DAY 1998 (17 JANUARY, YEAR 6)

  Hi all, I was going through Tristan’s GRIMNIR files to see if there were any research notes, etc., he might have. (Points to Mortimer for his prescience in giving us all our own channels.) I found the following in his drafts folder. Given how intense his diachronic travel schedule was right before he disappeared, he must have written this up immediately after saying he had a lead, during the turnaround between London 1606 Strands. Anyhow, here it is. I think this will be very useful:

  Got some intel about Sicily from a friend.

  Better yet: it’s possible we could end up with another mole inside DODO.

  Some of you might remember Diego Gabriel, a DOer from Colombia I recruited late in Year 4. He’s a Forerunner, polymath, speaks every dialect associated with colonized South America and several indigenous languages as well. When Gráinne made her first move around Thanksgiving, he’d just been Sent to 1489 Santarém for a long-term DEDE. He was Homed only a few days ago—so he returned to the twenty-first century not knowing I’m persona non grata at DODO.

  His background predisposes him to paranoia about the personal-professional divide, so he has multiple cell phones DODO doesn’t know about. He came to trust me enough to give me the number for one of these. I left a message about catching up over a beer on his next rest day between Sendings. When he responded affirmatively, I claimed I was delayed by a family emergency and asked him if he could log in to the building right before we were to meet, just to take a screenshot of whatever was on the general channels about the fourth-century Sicily DEDE report, and bring it along for me to read so I could get up to speed for my return to work the next morning. I’m hard-ass about following procedure, so it didn’t occur to him he was helping me skirt security protocol, because I am not the guy who would ever skirt security protocol.

  We met at the Apostolic Café around 10:00 p.m. last night (my downtime between London 1606 Strands). We said hi, chatted; he showed me pix from his last ski vacation and, while he had his phone out, forwarded me the screenshots of info on the Sicily DEDE, more below on that.

  And then he asked about Chira. I forgot how tight they are because of their similar backgrounds. Both escaped desperate circumstances in their home cultures, both did unsavory things to get their families out of danger, and both signed on with DODO solely to keep their families safe. They hung out together in the lunchroom; they were considering becoming housemates. He’d gotten a glimpse of her between Strands and said she seemed unlike herself in some way he couldn’t put his finger on. Wondered if something happened while he was away.

  I told him to go out for coffee with her, safely away from DODO HQ, and tell her Tristan said they should talk. He examined me a moment, then said, “There’s a reason we’re meeting here and not at DODO.” I nodded. A long pause. Then he said, “You and Chira. You’re my people. Blevins is not my people.”

  Got to take it carefully, and obviously get Chira on board with this, but this could be promising.

  As for the Sicily DEDE. Here’s what we’ve got. It’s got Gráinne’s fingerprints all over it—this would never pass muster as an actual DODO-directed DEDE. Its interference level is off the charts:

  A DOer goes to Sicily, and on a bridge crossing a river, he overturns a cart with a prefab mosaic on it; the mosaic is destroyed in this “accident.” That’s pretty SOP for DODO. But then the DOer convinces the artisan who designed the mosaic to create a different mosaic in the building where it was headed. The new mosaic has astronomical features and uses golden glass tiles. Then he gets Homed by the local witch, who is the daughter of the owner.

  Mel should study up on whatever language was spoken in fourth-century south/central Sicily. There’s very little intel because once the family relocated to mainland Italy, the compound was abandoned and then overrun by locals, who chipped off all the mosaic tiles to sell as tchotchkes along the nearby trade routes and then cannibalized the stonework to build new villages. It was nonexistent by the time Rome fell. Attached to this report is a copy of the only map we have of the location.

  Mel needs to prevent that astronomical mosaic from being created.

  * * *

  AFTER ACTION REPORT

  DOER: Robin Lyons

  THEATER: Jacobean London

  OPERATION: (1) De-magic Macbeth, and (2) save Tristan!

  DEDE: (1) Compel Master of the Revels to restore Shakespeare’s original language, and (2) prevent Tristan from attending the first production of Macbeth

  DTAP: April 1606, London

  Okay, deep breath. Here goes.

  I didn’t appreciate how much time travel was literally traveling. It was the most intense jet lag of my life. It was like awakening from the kind of sleep I have after tech week, when I’ve been living on light roast and adrenaline, and then the show opens and there’s a day off and I plummet into unconsciousness to make up for the sleep deprivation. I love that feeling—it’s such perfect disorientation, it’s so relaxing because you have nothing to think about because, just for a moment, you don’t even know who you are.

  That’s what it was like to arrive on the outskirts of London in April 1606. I’m supposed to call that my Destination Time and Place—DTAP 1606 London. I’m not clear if I fell out of the ceiling, or bubbled up from the earth, or just materialized on the floorboards of the feed-room of Rose’s barn. However I arrived, I lay there for a moment limp, clueless about where I was and who I was. All I was aware of, when I surfaced to anything resembling consciousness, was the uneven feel of the floor with stalks of straw scattered across it, and the smell of the straw, and the low purr of hens at a distance. A chink in the wall near my head allowed a breeze to flow over my shoulders, and I realized with a start that I was naked. Mel told me about that part, I heard a voice inside me say, and as I tried to remember who Mel was, I remembered everything else. And then of course my heart began to race because, I mean, holy shit, this was happening. I was here.

  “Here” was a hamlet outside the old Roman walls of London City, an area that by my own time is just a part of the actual city. Erzsébet had Sent me here, to the home of a witch named Rose. (You guys already know that part, of course.)

  I am still bewildered by this fact, but the entire witch network that DODO built in less than five years, which spans all of human history in space and time, is volunteer. It’s made up of witches it’s hard to recompense. They don’t conjure up gold or plutonium or anything (not because they can’t, but because they know that using that skill would destabilize pretty much everything immediately), but otherwise, if they want something, they just conjure it for themselves. So how to recompense them?

  From what I can make out, most witches cooperate with DODO for any of these three reasons:

  It’s an amusing distraction, which they don’t take that seriously.

  They believe in whatever the undertaking is and want to support it (this is rare).

  It’s just “what they do.” Erzsébet made it sound like a grudging sense of noblesse oblige: Since these poor, stupid, ordinary people can’t do this simple thing for themselves, I suppose I’ d better give them a hand. Sometimes. When I feel like it.

  Anyways, back to my DEDE:

  I sat up, brushed the straw out of my hair, and had a brief spasm of alarm when I reached for my ponytail, which is no longer there. I have a pageboy haircut now—not flattering, but it helps me look boyish. I stared around and saw mostly heaps of straw. I staggered up to my bare feet and took a step toward the door, which was closed by a bolt. I heard footsteps approach from outside, and I ducked back down behind the straw. It was cool and damp in here, in a way I hadn’t been imagining in Rebecca’s overheated guestroom.

  I heard the door open. A c
heerful female voice said, “Be it Tristan? I sensed the glamour so I’ve brought your clothes.”

  I stood up and stepped out from behind the stack of straw, hands held at chest level and palms forward. “My name is Robin,” I said, in my best OP accent.

  The reassuring smile on Rose’s face slid right off. Her eyes went wide as they scanned the length of my nakedness. For a moment she gaped at me. Finally, she grinned. “I assumed ’twould be Tristan. Or at least a lad.”

  “All the lads were occupied. Put me in those togs and I’ll pass as a boy.”

  She looked down at the clothes as if surprised to find she still had them. “Think you so?” she asked, frowning.

  “The apparel oft proclaims the man,” I said in a confiding tone.

  She raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. “Well, you know your Shakespeare, at least,” she said. “So you know what’s what around here.”

  “I’ve played Laertes,” I preened.

  She was instantly incredulous and laughed. “What? How came you to be playing at all, let alone playing a man’s role? And one that duels? That beggars belief, lass.”

  I was about to tell her it was an all-female production of Hamlet, but then I had a very strong mental image of Tristan banging his head on his desk in despair, saying, Mel, I can’t believe you sent her to save me. So I stopped myself.

  “I’m apt at passing for a lad, is all I’m saying,” I assured her. “If you’ll toss me those clothes, I will suit up and let you get on with your day.”

  She smiled, eyeing me again. She was very pretty, with pink cheeks and smiling blue eyes, wearing a flattering russet kirtle. But it was a little unnerving, how she eyed me as she carried the clothes right to me and held them in front of herself, close enough to her own body and far enough from mine that I had to step out from behind the straw and approach her. And then I realized the smile she was giving me was ever so slightly leering. “I warrant you look more fetching as a woman,” she said.

  “Don’t we all? Thank you,” I said, taking the clothes. “Luckily my attractiveness bears no weight here. As long as I seem boyish, all shall go well.”

  “I am never one to meddle in the nature of DEDEs, but when Tristan was here last, I recall him saying something about Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “’Tis true, Shakespeare is one man I seek.”

  “Do you not reckon he will know you for a lass?” asked Rose. “Or any of the others at the Globe?”

  “If they will keep the secret, it matters not,” I said.

  “I mean are you not worried they’ll take advantage?” she pressed. “Would you not feel safer staying here under my roof and going into the city but for a visit or so?” Her smile was catlike, and she was staring appreciatively at my nipples, which were fully at attention because I was cold.

  “I’ll take my chances, but I thank you,” I said, and started to dress.

  The whole outfit was too big for me since it had been assembled for Tristan—doublet, hose and breeches, shirt and shoes, and woolen cap. Rose was happy to watch me undress from it all, then she took the clothes away and returned with a smaller set, which fit well enough. It’s all more sturdily made than most clothes you can buy in our own time. The linen felt nice against my skin, in fact, although linen doesn’t warm a body much.

  When I had dressed, Rose invited me out through the vegetable plot and into her house, a small timber building. Embers glowed in a hearth, and the house was sparely furnished with solid wooden furniture. There were rushes on the floor, with dried violets mixed in to sweeten the air. I sat on a stool at the trestle table, and she fed me some cheat bread with butter and sage and offered me a small wooden bowl of ale, which I drank because the water everywhere in London was unsafe. From a wooden storage chest, she pulled out a swath of canvas a yard square, onto which she had sewn a street map of London with thick black thread. It was incomplete and wildly out of proportion. “I fabricated this when I came to see how baffled you lot were when you arrived,” she said. “I cannot lend it you, but I’ll show you certain things to memorize.” As I ate, she pointed in quick succession to sundry spots on the map. “We’re up here,” she said, pointing to a spot well north of the city walls. “Take this road either to this west-side gate—Ludgate, it’s called, ’tis massive, with towers and a portcullis, but ’tis open in the daytime—or here to Cripplegate. Cripplegate’s closer to Shakespeare’s lodgings and Ludgate way is quickest to the Globe, there in Southwark—that’ll require a boat or going across London Bridge.”

  “’Tis the one with the criminals’ heads on pikes?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” she said cheerfully, “and some excellent shops as well. The crowds can slow a body down, so if you’re in a rush you’ll want to take a wherry ’cross the river. I’ll give you a coin for the waterman, and you’ll still get a fine look at the heads. Assuming ’tis Mr. Shakespeare you’re here to see first.”

  “Actually, I’m here for a more urgent reason,” I said. Mel had told me Rose wouldn’t get involved in our affairs, but she seemed to like me, so I thought I’d give it a shot. “I’m here to find Tristan.”

  She blinked. “Tristan? Tristan isn’t here.”

  I frowned. “But he was Sent here. Erzsébet Sent him to April 1606. Oh, wait a sec,” I said. “I’ve got to get my head around this. He came in early April, but then he went home, and then he was Sent back here to April twenty-second or so.”

  “’Tis only April tenth, so he’s not yet arrived,” said Rose, quite offhand.

  Then we had essentially the following conversation, which I’ve reduced to modern English:

  ROBIN: So that’s a weird thing: he isn’t here, but he also isn’t there.

  ROSE: In a manner of speaking, sure. But if you know Erzsébet will be Sending him, then he’s bound to arrive here soon. What specific date did she Send him to?

  ROBIN: Oh, wait! I know how to fix this! Please Send me back to my own time, but Send me so that I arrive there right before Tristan has left to come here. Then I can tell him not to come here.

  ROSE: Mmm, that’s not possible because you have to be Homed relative to when you were Sent. Also, you already exist in that DTAP, and if you met yourself, which could easily happen, that would result in Diachronic Shear.

  ROBIN: Okay then, when he arrives here later in the month, you have to Home him right away. Don’t let him go into the city. Or at least warn him that Gráinne is out to get him.

  ROSE: I don’t do that. I don’t get involved.

  ROBIN: I’ll sleep with you. I’ll stay naked in the barn for a week.

  ROSE: Sorry, thanks, but I’ve got my principles. If I don’t help Gráinne, I don’t help you. And trust me, if I were to help Gráinne, this would all be over by now.

  ROBIN: So, what? I’m stuck here twiddling my thumbs until Tristan arrives?

  ROSE: You could twiddle Mr. Shakespeare’s thumbs if you’d rather. Or Mr. Burbage’s. I hear Mr. Burbage twiddles anything that moves. But otherwise, yes, if you’ve other things to busy yourself with, spend your time on those things.

  ROBIN: Will you at least alert me the moment Tristan arrives? So I can tell him not to go to the Globe where Gráinne plans to kill him?

  ROSE: Well, lass, I won’t send a messenger, but you’re free to come by and check in with me anytime. But when he does arrive, he shan’t hear any news from me. That’s how I roll.

  ROBIN: (grouse grouse grouse)

  ROSE: Look on the bright side. You know something Gráinne doesn’t know yet: that he is arriving and that she will end up attacking him.

  ROBIN: Not if I attack her first.

  ROSE: Yeah, no, you’re definitely in over your head with that. Don’t go after her.

  ROBIN: Hold my beer.

  ROSE: Er, I don’t know what that means, but really, no, don’t go there.

  ROBIN: OK, I’ll do it without your help.

  ROSE: (smh)

  At this point Rose strongly encouraged me to focus on meeting Shakespeare instead
of finding and killing Gráinne (who might not even be in town right now), and since that is the more straightforward part of my assignment, I decided to heed her.

  “It’s getting on to midday, so he’s likely at the theatre rehearsing,” said Rose. “If you wish to stay here awhile to collect yourself, you’ll find Mr. Shakespeare home by sunset to write—that’s closer than going all the way down to the Globe.”

  “Many thanks, but I must get on with my task,” I said. “I’m in your debt.”

  And having finished the last swallow of the bread, which was so filling I reckoned I would not need to eat again until I was back in modern-day Cambridge, I set off.

  I was north of the city walls by about a mile, which didn’t take long to walk because Rose lives along a trade route into the city. She’s on just enough of a rise that gravity was on my side all the way, and the road was friendly—spring crops starting to green the fields, fruit trees all leafed out. Where there were small sheep, there were even smaller lambs; cows had calves and goats had kids. The air was cool, the sky was a bluish white, and the shadows were muted. It was peaceful outside, but inside I was kind of a mess.

  The road took me south, skirting the high stone walls of Clerkenwell (home of hopefully-my-future-boss, Mr. Tilney). Unwholesome smells began to bubble up from the walled city ahead, and I could hear the distant din of human enterprise, with the odd feverish neigh or moo. I continued south, the city walls a bowshot to my left, past Ely Place, past St. Andrew, and down Shoe Lane—all gardens and elegant houses.

  Turning east, I took the Fleet Bridge and instantly things were no longer picturesque. Right in front of me, between the bridge and the city gate, was an open yard full of miserable-looking people in dirty clothes, queuing up to visit Ludgate Prison. Off to the left was the Old Bailey. This was a dour, medieval wooden courthouse, not the grand stone one that tourists snap selfies in front of as if it were a fun place to commemorate. I hurried past the queue, to jostle my way through the less-bedraggled Londoners entering the city at Ludgate. Then I headed at once down St. Andrews Hill toward the Blackfriars stairs.