GRÁINNE: Defeatist, aren’t you, to think like that! When did the unstoppable Chira Lajani become defeatist? You should always, and only, be doing the work you are assigned to do. Sure that’s what you’re trained to do, isn’t it?
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, ma’am. Although I wish to note that this DEDE is an outlier by DODO standards, in that it is far less subtle and far more direct than any DEDE I’ve heard of, and my training did not prepare me for anything of this nature.
GRÁINNE: Your training prepared you for everything. A failure of execution it is, not of training, so.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Ma’am, are you saying that in the entire history of DODO, no DOer has ever failed to accomplish their given DEDE on a given Strand?
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Do not cast aspersions on the abilities of your fellow agents. Take responsibility for your own failings.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: I am, sir. I have acknowledged my failure. I have also asked for guidance on what I should do differently, and I have not yet received any guidance. So I would like to understand the purpose of this conversation, if it isn’t to give me guidance.
GRÁINNE: The purpose! It is to let you know how displeased we are with you for making a right mess of things and to make sure you understand we will not endure another failure. There will be consequences for you if you fail again.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: I am now aware of that, ma’am. I wish to return to the DTAP and rectify the situation.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: And how do you intend to do that?
GRÁINNE: If they catch her and put her under guard, what will you do to free her, rather than just throwing up your hands in dismay and getting yourself Homed?
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: That is precisely what I was hoping to get some guidance on before I am Sent again, ma’am. Perhaps if I could discuss the details of the DEDE with the HOSMAs who were prepping me, they might—
GRÁINNE: No, you can’t be discussing the details of the DEDE itself with another soul. So if you’re lacking the ingenuity to figure it out on your own, then just us three will have to hatch a plot this moment. Dr. Blevins?
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Well, it’s not my forte, but I’m game.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: With all respect, sir, it is not my forte either.
GRÁINNE: Not your forte! You who masqueraded as an IS recruit, throwing your hands up like a helpless wee girl at this?
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Pardon, ma’am, but I was working with far more intel in that situation.
GRÁINNE: Feeble excuses. Let’s imagine, worst-case scenario, you and the girl are fleeing, and they realize she is gone and come after you.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, ma’am. For the record, that is exactly what happened.
GRÁINNE: First thing you should be doing is trying to get the girl away. Aren’t there streams nearby you can be heading to, for losing the scent?
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: I don’t know the broader topography, ma’am, I was only instructed in the precise route I was to take along the road. I requested more in-depth cartography prep and the request was denied.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: We can look up the Forerunner’s maps on AutoCAD and see the rest of the area. Gráinne’s right, you should keep the girl with you and make for the nearest source of water.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, sir. The underbrush is very dense along the hillside streams, though, sir.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: I’ll bring up the AutoCAD right now, we’ll map out a route for you to head toward a stream or a creek or something.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, sir. All the same, what do I do if we are caught?
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Pretend you’re a member of a local abolitionist group.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: There would be no such group, sir.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Well, obviously not in the way that we associate that term with American history.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, sir, but I mean specifically there is very little slavery and also almost no human inhabitants in the area. And those few people who are there would certainly know Matteo and his wife. I need a cover story that will explain why a young female stranger is alone in the countryside at night on the road, having gone into Matteo’s stable to free the slave who arrived earlier that day.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Same story as the wagoner’s—you’re a Dulcinite.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Then I will be executed for heresy.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: You are a relative of Dana’s who regretted the family’s decision to sell her into slavery. Offer to buy her back.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: With what, sir? I have no money.
GRÁINNE: You’re Lover class. Be figuring it out on your own.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Now, Gráinne—
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: If they wanted fornication, they would just have it with the slave. As my report makes clear, that is already on their agenda.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: I do not want you to think Gráinne’s suggestion is compatible with DODO’s policy on—
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: That doesn’t matter, sir. The plan simply would not work—that is what matters.
GRÁINNE: Then leave her to be found by them, but go back later and retrieve her.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: But the wagon—
GRÁINNE: Wait for the wagon driver, explain the situation to him, and ask for his assistance.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: That’s a good idea! If you screw up again, do that.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: Yes, sir. I will try not to screw up again.
DR. ROGER BLEVINS: Good, because we don’t retain incompetent employees. And if you’re not working for us, we can’t help with your family’s visa issues.
CHIRA YASIN LAJANI: I understand, sir. I will not fail next time.
ROBIN’S MID-ACTION REPORT, STRAND 1, NEW PLAN (CONT.)
Yesterday, in the evening, Will excused himself to Silver Street. Ned and I, to avoid intruding on his writing hours, joined the rest of the company for a meal and pub crawl, which gave me the opportunity to scout for Gráinne. Not that I expected her to accidentally reveal herself, but when she was spying for Grace O’Malley she hung out in this part of town posing as a prostitute, so perhaps I could get some intel on where she lurked when she wasn’t causing trouble.
Led on our rounds by Richard Burbage, and imbibing one bowl of ale per tap-house, we sampled the Green Dragon, the Boar’s Head, and the Angel on the Hoop. We were a little sauced by the time we reached the Helmet.
The Helmet’s decor was unique among the pubs on Long Southwark Road. As we approached, Ned whispered to me that the landlord was a former soldier who’d lost a leg in Tyrone’s Rebellion. He now allowed down-on-their-luck combat vets to pay for drinks (but not for prostitutes, of which there were more than the usual number here) with remnants of their military gear. It was called the Helmet because there were scores of objets de guerre, mostly iron helmets, hanging from pegs on the walls or ceiling beams or tossed into corners. Some were brimmed and crested, some were lobster-tail pot types. Some looked alarmingly rustic, hacked together by apprentice farriers.
Andrew North had been dragging me into duets at each tap-house. Since we hadn’t yet tormented anyone with “Now Is the Month of Maying,” I figured he was saving that one for the Helmet. But as soon as I’d crossed the threshold, I realized it was not that kind of place. No fa-la-la’ing with this lot. If they did any singing here, which I doubted, ’twould be the likes of “Bedlam Boys” or “Agincourt Carol.” The tobacco fumes hung heavier than any other place we’d patronized. Other alehouses featured games like dice and cards. Here, in the center of the room between two rows of tables, guys were throwing daggers at man-shaped wooden dummies painted to look like Spanish soldiers. Even hearty Burbage looked a little cowed.
But not Andrew North. Oh, no.
Andrew held out his arms and hollered, “There you are, lovey!” to a ruddy-looking young woman in a long apron, her braids falling out of place as she was rushing to bring a bowl of brew to a nearby table. Andrew took the bowl from her, set it down,
and spun her around, grinning. She looked both pleased and exasperated.
“Andy North, you thing,” she said, slapping his hands away and retrieving the booze. “Don’t bother me now while I’m working.” Then she winked at him. “Bother me after.” She went off to make her delivery as the players—like a school of fish out of water—clumped together, well off the dagger-throwing axis.
“It’s never a bother when it’s me,” called Andrew after her. “Don’t let my friends hear you, I’ll lose my reputation.”
“You’ve no reputation to lose,” muttered a man at the nearest table. He was round-faced and bald. Beside his bowl rested an unlit lantern and an iron handbell.
“Hello, Harry,” answered Andrew, doffing his hat while also clapping the fellow on the back. “Meet my friends, the most law-abiding pack of scoundrels you’ll ever find in England. Here’s Harry the Constable, lads. We fought together at Aherlow.” He plopped down on the bench beside Harry.
“You were a soldier?” I was gobsmacked. I know not every military vet has to behave like Tristan, but come on.
Something dangerous flashed across North’s face. “More of a soldier than you’ll ever be,” he said with a crisp, angry laugh.
Operator error: I should have apologized and then found a whore to flirt with. But I’m a dope, so I tried to play the Andrew-and-Robin-vaudeville-duet card. That worked in the civilian pubs. Not here. “Wait’ll my beard grows in, and I’ve a chance to serve His Majesty,” I said. “Then we’ll sit around the fire swapping stories from the front, and I warrant I’ll out-man you, every blow.”
The look he gave me then. I read it clearly as a sermon. Without uttering a word, he informed me:
You’re a woman.
I know you’re a woman.
Everyone knows you’re a woman.
I have never once come close to outing you.
That’s because we’re mates.
But a mate doesn’t diss a combat vet that way.
Therefore you are not really my mate.
Plus, you just gratuitously dissed me.
And you did it in front of a constable, asshat.
You have 0.5 seconds to guess my next move . . .
I didn’t guess in time.
Andrew sprang up from the stool with a clenched fist raised to deck me. But as he drew his fist back, he looked abruptly to his own right and lessened the tension in his arm, as if something had distracted him. It was a feint, of course. He was deliberately exposing his left cheek to me—an easy target to deck while he was “distracted.” Now I had two choices: punch him (in front of the constable, his fellow veteran) or don’t punch him. But if you’re a “real” man in early-modern England and someone is about to strike you, you defend yourself by striking first. Meaning: damned if I did, damned if I didn’t.
So I made a third choice. I did not strike him. When he moved in to strike me after all, I stepped aside—and then as his strike propelled him past me, I reached out and shoved him in the direction his punch was already taking him—toward the cluster of players (less Burbage, who had vanished).
North hurled himself into the block of them. They clapped him on the arm and back and shoulder in a manner that screamed, Okay, you can drop it now, hahahaha, no really, fucking let it go.
But Andrew didn’t let it go. He pushed away from them, glowering, then faced me again with hands clenched, hips squared, knees bent. The men around us pushed away to make space for a brawl. Before I could take a defensive position, Andrew rushed me, grabbed me round the middle, and hoisted me, first to chest height, and hitched me up onto his shoulder. I willed myself to relax—the tenser I was when he hurled me to the floor, the worse it would be when I landed.
But he didn’t hurl me down. He hurled me up. Like a father tossing a toddler in the air for fun. And then he stepped away to watch my gangly, awkward fall. Most of my weight landed on my left knee and elbow, which hurt but wasn’t debilitating. I scrambled up, fists raised. He laughed in my face. Harry the Constable had watched the whole thing impassively.
“Mind how you go, you daft lad,” Andrew said, and smacked my shoulder.
As laughter rippled around us, he leaned toward me—so I leaned too and spoke before he could. “I beg pardon,” I said in his ear. “I am ashamed.”
“You better be,” he answered sharply, but he was pleased that I’d said it without prompting. “Disrespect me again and I’ll cut your breeches off.”
I nodded earnestly. He grinned.
“All right then,” he cried out to the rest of the players. “Fancy a drink? Then Robin and I will entertain you with a tune, and then there’s a gaggle of geese in the back.”
“Burbage’s already goosing one,” said Ned. “Perhap Robin and I can share one.”
I shot him a warning look, but too late. Now all the King’s Men knew we were Friends with Benefits, and boy, did they think it was hilarious.
“Like that one we shared the other night at the Mitre,” Ned went on, like the overacting dork that he is, and this only further cemented the company’s understanding of things.
“Surely,” said John Lowin, leering. “That same tart works here, go find her out back—Fanny Absent, I think she’s called! She’s cousin to Dick the Rod. Sounds like you both know Dick the Rod? He lives up Buttshaft Lane.”
Harry the Constable began to listen to the joshing while pretending not to. Indifferent to bar brawls and prostitution, turns out he had a soft spot for homophobia. Andrew noticed this the same moment I did.
“A song first,” demanded Andrew, grabbing my elbow and pulling me down on a bench beside himself. With a warning look at Ned the Moron, he said, “Cool your heels, Neddy.”
“Thanks,” I said under my breath.
“Go off with a whore after the song,” Andrew muttered. “Make sure Harry notices. I’ll keep Ned here.” I nodded, grateful. He grinned and raised his voice again. “All right! You know the treble for that new one, ‘Come, Sirrah Jack, Ho,’ don’t you, lad?”
“Come, Sirrah Jack, Ho” is the tobacco infomercial that Don Draper would have written if Mad Men had a love child with The Tudors. We sang our way through the list of its physiological benefits as Burbage reappeared from the wing of the establishment in which the sex workers plied their trade. He strode purposefully in our direction, reaching us at the final stanza:
Then those that do condemn it,
Or such as not commend it,
Never were so wise to learn
Good tobacco to discern,
Let them go,
Pluck a crow,
And not know,
As I do
The sweet of Trinidado.
Burbage pointed teasingly at me as we finished the final note. “Lad,” he said, “I have just been served by the finest wench in Christendom and am instructed to tell you how she noticed you upon arrival and took a fancy to you. Last on the right.”
Everyone in hearing distance found this worthy of lewd, approving commentary. Andrew pushed me from behind. “Go at it, you lucky dog!” he commanded with hearty lechery. “Ned, my friend, come join me for a moment!”
I chucked Burbage on the shoulder with a manly much obliged expression and strutted toward the back.
The moment I turned the corner, everything changed. No candle branches or table lanterns as out front—here, just one feeble smoky torch, braced to a post. I was in a corridor about eight strides long, as wide as my arms outstretched. There were three stall-like rooms to each side, with closed curtains in the doorways. No tobacco here, but the smell of sex hung heavy in the air—and the sounds of it.
The far curtain at the right was open. I walked toward it. My shadow lunged misshapen before me as I passed by the torch. I was pretty sure I could excuse myself from undressing. I had a coin purse of my own now, and if I was generous with it, the prostitute probably wouldn’t care what I did with the time. I had to hope she was game for collusion against the Patriarchy.
I entered the stall. It wa
s too dark to see, but I knew the mattress would be on the floor, so I was feeling for the edge of it with my foot as I cleared my throat to greet her.
“We’ll be picking up where we left off,” said Gráinne’s voice in my ear, and a knifepoint pressed against my collarbone, which made me jump sideways toward the partition wall. What kind of idiot was I to walk into such an obvious trap? “And we’ll be whispering so none will know our business.”
I shoved her away, but she was stronger and quicker than I expected, and counterbalanced the backward motion of my shove by thrusting forward with the blade. It nicked the skin at my throat. I cursed and winced away, cornering myself.
She grabbed my arm and rested the knife tip on my sternum. “Whispering, I said. Why did Tristan Send you after me, insteada himself coming?”
“He was afraid he couldn’t resist your charms,” I said.
“Oh, lass, if only that were true!” she said with a short, sharp laugh. “’Twould all have gone different, so!” Sobering. “Tell me or I’ll charm it out of you.”
“You’re going to kill me regardless,” I said, trying to remember escape-from-a-corner moves from stage combat training. Drew a blank. Something about ducking under your attacker? “I’m not talking,” I said.
“Well then, I’ll just kill you,” said Gráinne, as if we were haggling over the price of beef. She pressed the tip of the knife against my sternum. It was slender and sharp and poked through my doublet. I tried to shrink away, but in a corner there’s nowhere to shrink to. “I’ve no time to string this out,” she said. “I’ll be telling them you attacked me, so ’tisn’t murder, ’tis self-defense.” And she drew the blade away with a crispness that meant at most two seconds until she plunged it into me.
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