Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  The lass protested, “But shan’t we be arrested

  If our flagrante delicto’s so detested?”

  “Fear not, fair sylph!” quoted Ned. “The whole world knows

  The lair of Art’s where ponces often go.

  Whoever so discovers us will be

  As likely to be buggerers as we,

  Or at least friendly to our star-cross’d plight

  And look the other way for just one night.

  Whereas if we are found by sentries vex’d

  With no excuse but to deface a text,

  Then in an excremental state we’d be.

  This is the safest way, if you’ll trust me.”

  II.

  And so did Ned and Robin scale the wall,

  Sneak in through casement, scurry down the hall,

  And in the moonlight, faint though it then be,

  Did they find the office of Tilney

  (He that is the Master of the Revels

  And writers’ sharpest lines he often bevels).

  Behold! Upon his table lay the very script

  That they had sought. Its pages then they flip’t

  Seeking the verses Robin sought to alter

  When lo! A creak of timber made them falter

  And despite Ned’s quickly dowsing of their lantern

  Came in another, ghostly as a phantom,

  A sub-clerk of sanguine disposition

  Who held his taper high, look’d with suspicion

  Around the darkened chamber, called, “Hello?”

  And Robin’s cheeks with fear did pale to yellow.

  With resolution turned she then to me,

  And whispered, “’Tis time for feigning sodomy,

  So, fellow, I’m the bottom, you’re the top.”

  And just like that, before I could her stop,

  She pivoted so that her comely buttocks

  Pressed up against my groin, causing my bollocks

  (Et al.) to exceed the volume of my codpiece.

  I grappled her as I were an octopus.

  At this she gasped, and at her gasp, the stranger

  Looked towards the table. Now we were in danger!

  “Who’s there?” he cried. “I order you to speak!”

  But comely Robin uttered just a squeak

  Of feignéd pleasure; this sound, I repeated

  Then she did too, then I did, growing heated,

  Until we sounded as all trysting couples must

  When they are near to satiating lust

  But trying to be quiet nonetheless

  Lest an intruder interrupt their zest.

  (’Twas not alone my voice that rose with pleasure;

  The angle of my rod belied all measure.)

  “I know what you do there!” the fellow bawls.

  “Why must you buggers always choose these halls?

  But lo! Is that not Robin, our new clerk,

  Taking it up the bum there, in the dark?

  Master Tilney never will be kind

  To boys who sneak about as if he’s blind.

  You’ll leave at once, or else he will be told,

  And trust me, he will do much worse than scold.

  Away at once! I shall not trod one pace

  Until I see that you have left this place.”

  “Good, sir,” cried Robin, pushing me aside,

  “I must confess, though it will harm my pride,

  I chose this spindleshanks—I won’t dissemble—

  Because your very self he does resemble.

  Though he shag me now until September

  ’Tis you I think on when I feel his member.”

  The man looked much amaz’d as he drew near.

  “And were I fond of lads,” he said, “I’d cheer,

  For thou art pretty, boy, as any maid,

  But never with a fellow have I laid,

  Nor find myself much drawn to such distractions.”

  “And yet,” said Robin deftly, “there are actions

  Might please you, never mind what be my organ

  Nor were I as ugly as a Gorgon.”

  And dropped she then unto her knees before him

  And candlelit, looked up as to implore him

  With one hand reaching gently for his thigh,

  Which caused him to release a startled sigh.

  “Faith,” said he, “as I’m a man of honour,

  A mouth’s a mouth, no matter who the owner.

  So long as I touch not your nether region,

  Our mutual pleasures may then be legion.”

  III.

  On the next few minutes’ actions, draw the curtain

  (But it was over quickly, that’s for certain).

  Upon conclusion, the older man, now sated,

  Wandered back to bed mildly elated,

  Forgetful of threats made and questions asked,

  Leaving Ned and Robin to their task.

  As Ned gazed achingly upon his friend,

  She, oblivious, cared but to mend

  The script they’d hastened here to rearrange.

  She seemed so sexless now as to derange

  Her friend whose codpiece was still bobbing

  From the spontaneous movements of his throbbing.

  His amorous intentions finally faltered

  Around the time she had the verses altered.

  When finally at last she finished scribing,

  He was more in the mood for just imbibing.

  Thus went they out the way that they had entered,

  Pleased that they had gained what they had ventured,

  And, gentlemanly to the very end,

  Did Ned thus chaperone his female friend

  Unto the house of Rose, a friendly witch

  Who Sent her elsewhere.

  But truly, Ned still itched.

  Journal Entry of

  Rebecca East-Oda

  JANUARY 19

  Temperature today 34F, cold drizzle with occasional breeze from the northwest. Reviewing seed catalog for spring, although it is delusional of me to think there will be time to garden.

  In fifty years of marriage, this is the longest I have ever been separated from Frank. Despite his extraordinary intelligence and original thinking, there has always been about him the innocence of the absentminded professor. So perhaps Mortimer’s theory holds water: that, having accomplished his DEDE without complications, he encountered some manner of proto-physics community and got so excited he forgot to come home. Or perhaps—more likely—he has learned something of use to our cause and is even now pursuing it to the nth degree. I am fretting, of course, but it does not help matters to discuss it, so I don’t. Or try not to anyhow. Certainly this is nothing near as distressing as the situation with Tristan. It’s just that I’d convinced myself that, as with my DEDE, he’d be home within hours. It has now been ten days.

  We believe that Gráinne attacked Tristan when he was Sent to 1606 London. Since Frank’s DEDE was Gráinne-specific, I cannot ignore the possibility that the box in the Shinto shrine was a decoy and that she ambushed him. I feel cold when I consider this. And powerless. Privately, I fantasize Julie’s volunteering to go back to look for him—she is the only one who stands a hope of passing as Japanese, not that the Japanese and Chinese look any more alike than, say, Scots and Italians do. Of course it doesn’t make sense for her to go, but the stray fantasy does creep in . . .

  Enough of that.

  Earlier today we had a visitor. The alarm tripped, which to date has only happened when one of us leaves the property without disabling it. Immediately, Mel and I were at the door, Mortimer right behind us; I’m sure Mortimer had some kind of weapon on him, although more likely a dudgeon than an arquebus.

  A yellow-haired gentleman in his late fifties stood at the door, protected from the winter air by a knee-length tailored black coat. He wore rimless eyeglasses with a slight gray tint to them. The word “debonair” isn’t heard much these days, but he was worthy of it. At the
curb behind him, a sleek electric vehicle waited. The glass was tinted but the driver’s-side window was down, as if to make sure we saw that this person does not drive himself. The man behind the wheel wore a chauffeur’s hat, white gloves, and wraparound shades. His neck was as thick and taut as a bulldog’s. He was reading a book.

  “Aha,” said Mel in a strange tone. “This is Frederick Fugger.”

  “Of the banking Fuggers?” asked Mortimer. “Our sugar daddies?”

  “It’s either good news or bad news,” said Mel. “Let’s find out which.”

  I opened the door, feeling almost shoddy in my Laura Ashley and L.L.Bean.

  “You must be the lady of the house,” Frederick Fugger said in a gracious tone. His diction was excellent. His eyes strayed past me and he smiled slightly. “And here is Ms. Stokes. Lovely to see you again. Apologies for setting off the laser trip wire I assume you have, but I had no way to communicate to you that my intentions were peaceful. May I come in? I only require a moment of your time.”

  Something about him made it inconceivable to say no. I invited him to Frank’s study. Frederick slid from his coat and held it out to Mortimer as if to a valet; Mortimer, after a confused moment, took it and hung it in the hall. Frederick was wearing a somewhat old-fashioned, impeccably tailored dove-gray suit, complete with vest. I half expected him to be wearing spats, but no, just very expensive-looking winter boots.

  “Would you like some tea?” I asked, as he cast an appraising eye around the disheveled room. One of the cats, lolling on Frank’s chair, gave him a sidelong glance of disapproval.

  “Thank you, but no,” he said. “I won’t be staying long. Please . . .” He gestured to our mismatched arc of chairs, and the three of us sat. Only then did he seat himself. He clasped his hands on his lap, the effect being what our grandkids call metrosexual. “There has been a bit of multiversal instability,” he said in a friendly-but-firm tone, as if he were slightly disappointed with us but hoped this could be a teachable moment.

  “We’re aware of that,” said Mel drily. “We’re doing our best to keep it from getting any worse. You’re welcome.”

  “I am confident you can do better,” he said with a maddening graciousness. “You have proven yourselves to be capable of monumental accomplishments, which is why we elected to support your efforts. And now you are unencumbered by the monstrous bureaucracy of the Department of Diachronic Operations. You’re in fighting trim, as they say.”

  “Who is this?” Erzsébet’s voice sounded perkier than it had in months. Of course she would like Mr. Fugger’s suave old-world affect. Then, somewhat dramatically, she took in an audible breath of recognition. “You . . . are a Fugger.”

  I glanced over at her, but she was not simpering as I’d assumed: if anything, she looked wary.

  “You must be Erzsébet Karpathy,” he said, rising at once and bowing slightly in her direction. “You are just as beautiful as rumored. I’m tickled that you were able to identify me.”

  “I have known several generations of your ancestors and you all look alike,” she said, as if putting him in his place.

  “Please join us.” He gestured her into the room. “We are having the briefest of chats about some mutual interests.”

  “You mean Gráinne,” said Erzsébet, sounding annoyed. But she entered and settled onto her favorite chair in a manner that suggested she wanted the attractive gentleman to find her attractive, just on principle. He smiled and resumed his seat.

  “Precisely. For a group in fighting trim, you don’t appear to be throwing many punches.”

  “We can’t throw punches,” said Mel. “We can only block hers. If you’re upset with her, why don’t you just neutralize her yourselves?”

  The gracious smile was already starting to grate on me. “If our neutralizing her was an optimal strategy, we would have done it by now and saved ourselves the expense and effort of making sure you could build an ODEC in your basement.”

  “Do you have any idea what she’s done?” asked Mel.

  He held up a perfectly manicured hand in protest. “Please don’t tell me. We have taken pains to ensure you have the resources to address whatever it is.”

  “Excuse me, have you come here to chastise us for not controlling Gráinne?” I asked.

  “My dear Mrs. Oda, I would not presume to chastise. I’ve just dropped in to make sure you have all necessary resources. There’s instability where there should not be instability, in certain markets.”

  “Do you know what we’re coping with?” I asked him sharply.

  “I know what you’re not coping with. You are not coping with DOSECOP squads or SWAT teams storming your home—or Ms. Stokes’s home or Mr. Shore’s. You are not coping with Homeland Security arresting you on suspicion of domestic terrorism. You’re not coping with an attempt on your life. That’s my influence. The only thanks I seek is for you to keep the destabilizing forces in check.”

  “You aren’t using the Fugger influence to protect us,” objected Mel. “You’re using us to protect yourselves. If things get shaken up too much, you lose your shirt. You’re dependent on us, that’s the only reason you’re ‘keeping us safe.’” She used air quotes with staccato ferocity.

  He remained unperturbed. “That is an overstatement, of course. And regardless of our motivation, you benefit from it. But I appreciate your sentiment. If you need additional assistance—besides staying alive and out of prison, I mean—inform me now. That’s why I’ve dropped in.”

  “We need a DOer to go to 1450 Kyoto,” I said immediately.

  Mel shook her head. “Rebecca, you’re wasting your breath.”

  He looked interested. “Tell me what I should know about 1450 Kyoto,” he said.

  “Artwork. You should buy some as an investment,” Mel said quickly, dismissively. “And then just chuck it into a wood chipper a few centuries later, if that’s what’s best for the market. What we need are resources, to recruit and train staff.”

  “Right away,” I said. “So we can Send somebody to Kyo—”

  Mel interrupted me: “Also, secure headquarters that aren’t in a private home.”

  He gave her a regretful smile. “But that would draw attention.”

  Mel suddenly coughed and rubbed her sternum. “Oh, shit. I think I might be coming down with a very public case of effundet fabam-itis.”

  Frederick Fugger considered this a moment, then gave her a mirthless smile. “You are droll. Of course you don’t expect me to take that seriously.”

  She stopped pretending to cough and gave him an angry look. “Let Blevins sic Homeland Security on us. We’ll livestream the arrest and that’ll blow up DODO and the Fuggers in one fell swoop.”

  “Mel!” I was shocked. “Tristan would never—”

  “We did things Tristan’s way, by the book, for five years, and look where we are now,” she retorted, staring down Mr. Fugger. I realized she was simply trying to shake him up. He remained complacent.

  “How naive of you to think anyone would take seriously a paranoid schizophrenic spewing conspiracy theories while being gunned down by security forces. And anyhow, you know—of course you know—that there would be nothing to livestream.” He raised his brows. Slightly. “I notice that Colonel Lyons and Dr. Oda are both absent. The last report of their whereabouts placed them in this house. I must conclude they are on assignment in other centuries, hopefully unraveling Celtic shenanigans. Perhaps Dr. Oda is in 1450 Kyoto.”

  “If he was, could you help us with resources to extract him?” I asked immediately.

  He gazed at me with cool compassion. “I would prefer not to even be aware that he requires extraction. But it’s useful to know that things might be getting interesting in 1450 Kyoto. I’ll find a way to express my gratitude for that intelligence.”

  “Your gratitude is worthless unless it brings Frank back to us.”

  “In the long view, Mrs. Oda, my gratitude is never worthless. Well.” He stood, precise and smooth in his moveme
nts, and gave Mortimer a polite but pointed look that meant he wanted his coat. “I’m reassured to see that you seem to have the resources you need, although it would serve all of us very well if you could regain your previous efficiency. That is why we chose to invest in you.”

  “Past performance is not a guarantee of future results,” Mel said stonily.

  “I’ll see you out,” I said, gesturing, although I wanted to say something less polite.

  Robin has returned from her first Strand prematurely. She successfully accomplished her first goal—returning Shakespeare’s original lines into the script, at least on one Strand. She should have stayed there until Tristan’s arrival in order to prevent him going to the Globe, but for reasons she described in her DEDE report, she felt in danger and came home early. She also, she reports, came back in the hopes that in her absence we might have learned something new, something that would obviate her needing to stay there to save him. Since that is not the case, she has requested that Erzsébet Send her back to the day before Tristan himself was Sent.

  We had to explain to her why that could not happen. Yes, she had successfully accomplished her DEDE, but of course when we checked Erzsébet’s script, it was still the Gráinne version. Robin seemed agitated by this discovery; she took a quarter-inch stack of computer paper from Frank’s office into the kitchen and began to slice it into squares using my fillet knife, while I went online and checked a few other editions of the play just to be sure. Her changes didn’t “stick.” But we didn’t expect them to after a single Strand.

  Although Erzsébet et al. had explained about Strands to Robin, she seemed surprised and frustrated now, not to have instant gratification.

  “So you really always have to go back on more than one Strand?” she asked Erzsébet.

  We were in Frank’s study—myself, Mortimer, Erzsébet, and Robin. (Erzsébet had Sent Mel to Sicily, right after the Fugger visit.) I recall very clearly at the New Year saying that I did not want our home turning into the headquarters for Rogue-DODO, but I confess I am very grateful, in Frank’s absence, to be surrounded by this single-minded clannishness. In fact I would prefer it to be even more clannish, with all of us here.

  Robin began to fold one of her home-sliced origami papers into an inelegant shape without looking at what she was doing; the activity visibly calmed her.