Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  “Tristan’s dead,” I said suddenly.

  She made a strange sound. She didn’t stab. “He’s not.”

  “He is.” I dropped the accent and leaned in to my American vowels. “Gram’s in charge now.”

  “Gr—Rebecca?”

  “You knew her as Melisande? I’m their grandkid.”

  “You are not.”

  “Tristan died in a boating accident a couple years ago, while they were on their sixtieth wedding anniversary. Gram’s come out of retirement be—”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What year are you from?” she demanded. I didn’t answer. She poked my shoulder with the knife.

  “Ow! Crazy bitch. I’m from 2073,” I said in a churlish tone.

  “So I’ll be at this awhile,” said Gráinne, the steeliness returning to her voice.

  “Well, not really, cuz—oh, I’m not supposed to tell—okay, look, don’t fucking stab me again, nobody gave me details.”

  “What details?”

  “All that shit with the Fugg—wait, what year are you here from? Jeez, I better keep my trap shut or I’m gonna trigger that Diachronic Shear stuff.”

  Gráinne paused. In half a minute she’d have seen the logic gap, but she didn’t get half a minute.

  “Hello,” Ned said in a suggestive voice, thrusting a candle into the room and sticking his head through the doorframe. “Anyone up for a three-way?” Then he noticed us in the corner. “What—”

  “Be you her lover, Ned the lad?” Gráinne demanded. “Be useful, then.”

  She turned from me and rushed at him to grab him with her free hand. Ned thrust the candle at her, daggerlike. On reflex she hunched back from the flame. He raised his right knee, pivoted, and kicked her square in the midriff, slamming her to the mattress on the floor before she could recover enough to slice his leg. He grabbed my arm with his free hand and pulled me out into the corridor, running.

  “That’s the last time you leave my sight,” he said in my ear as we entered the loud front room.

  I pulled my arm from him. “Let go. You just snatched me away from a whore’s bed and you look furious. Don’t give the constable reason to wonder about us.”

  “He’s already asking questions, North sent me back to get you and clear out while he distracts him.”

  I glanced across: North was teaching Harry the Constable how to juggle, using parsnips. Harry the Constable was bad at juggling and did not seem to be enjoying himself.

  “Give me a weapon,” I said. “I want to go back and take that bitch down.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.”

  “Ned!” I tried to pull my arm free. He kept a grip on my elbow. “If we leave her free, she’ll attack me again. And attack Tristan. We must finish her.”

  “Excellent. As soon as you’ve a witch-proof plan for such a thing, I’m your second. Until then, I’m for keeping you alive, and this is the way to do it.”

  We got out without being noticed and hied our asses back to Silver Street pronto.

  I always thought it was a cliché, but the rush of escaping death really does resemble the rush of sex. We both knew the other felt it, as we pounded our way up the outside stairs at Silver Street. Within, lit by a lamp, Will was at his work. He barely glanced up as we entered panting. Head bent over his desk, he ignored us as we dragged the bedroll to the other side of the canopied bedstead for privacy and then tore our clothes off and dove under the covers. As we pawed almost frantically at each other, the steady scratch of pen on paper continued. Ned ran his hand down the whole of my torso and came to rest his fingers at just the right place. I shifted toward him and he lowered himself on top of me. I bit my lip hard, but a quiet groan of contentment escaped.

  Will, writing, murmured, “Oh happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony.”

  Ned lowered his face to my ear, flicked his tongue to my earlobe, and whispered, “Witness how I’ll make you whinny.”

  I did not want to need Ned’s protection—especially given Gráinne was ready to abuse him too—but in truth it was nerve-racking to be out of sight of him. For the next few days, I cleaved to him as much as decency and logistics allowed.

  Each morning, Will would head directly for the Globe, but Ned first walked me up to the Revels Office and wouldn’t leave until he saw that I’d been admitted to Tilney’s presence. I had made the strategic choice not to tell him Gráinne knew to find me even here; he was so determined to be my champion I feared he’d make a fuss that I couldn’t afford to have made. I protected myself by always having an excuse to be near Tilney. Tilney didn’t notice I was doing this—in fact, since he no longer trusted me, he preferred to have me in plain sight as well.

  There was a brief breakfast of maslin bread and ale in the refectory, and then a few hours later a longer break for dinner (bread and meatless pottage, because Lent), at which Tilney led the grace. I was generally let go about an hour after dinner. This was the worst part of my day: traveling to Southwark unescorted. I was all eyes and ears, and antsy. Anyone seeing me must have marked me as possessed.

  But once I reached the Globe, I felt safe again—ironic, given that is where I knew Gráinne would eventually come after my brother. I regularly found myself counting down the days, and then the estimated hours, until he’d show up.

  Each day, I entered from the tiring house and then snuck into the yard with the groundlings—the common folk who’d each paid a penny to get in. Once during a show, I caught a glimpse of Andrew North selling oysters to the groundlings; another time he was peddling crabs and dried figs to the gentry in the cushioned upper tiers. It was not uncommon for the aspiring actors to also work what we today call “front of house.” But North had a genius for playfulness. I don’t know what he was saying to those lords and ladies in their high-topped feathered hats, but they all looked charmed. He sold more meat pies than anyone.

  Each day I studied the space. I memorized how many steps from entrance to stage, from gallery to stairwell, how long it took to run, how long to walk, how far I could throw a stone. I ran endless offensive moves against Gráinne in my mind, worrying how ineffectual my stage combat tricks would turn out to be.

  Ned was not in any of the plays this past week but wanted to watch them all. (He needed to study the great performers of his age, to learn his craft. Kudos to him for being so dedicated, and who am I to comment on his lack of talent?) So I did my sleuthing against the backdrop of Ben Jonson’s Volpone, starring Richard Burbage. Also, Shakespeare and Fletcher’s Cardenio, starring Richard Burbage. Also, Beaumont and Fletcher’s Philaster, starring Richard Burbage.

  Yesterday, or maybe I should say earlier today—it’s confusing to think about time this way—anyways, very recently, I coaxed Ned out to Rose’s to double-check if Tristan had arrived yet, even though I knew he hadn’t, but I had to check anyhow. He had not arrived. Rose, polite and sweet, would share no other intel with us.

  By the time we were back in town, the day’s performance was over, and the players were headed for outdoor bowling in a yard near the theatre and then to the Dolphin for ale (hyssop-seasoned). Ned and I were glued to each other’s sides all evening. A fiddler was playing in a corner, but he was upstaged by Andrew North bursting into a song that I didn’t have to join him on because I’d never heard of it: “Good blacksmith, take my corset off, and give it back to me.”

  Suddenly Ned grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the Dolphin into the street and said, “I think I saw her in there. Let’s get you safe, this is madness.” He marched me back to Rose’s, and she Homed me.

  Also, tbh, I could really use a shower. Linen shirts and hose absorb BO, but I’m a twenty-first-century girl and I’d love a shower. And a meal! But mostly I’m back to avoid Gráinne, and it would be awesome if we could fast-forward my return so that I arrive just a day before Tristan is due to. Please?

  [Edit: Mel has explained that I can have a shower but not a meal, because if my twenty-first-cent
ury poop gets excreted in seventeenth-century sewers, who knows what could happen. OK, I’m filing this and going to take that shower now and douse myself with all of Erzsébet’s flowery stuff.]

  AFTER ACTION REPORT

  DOER: Chira Yasin Lajani

  THEATER: CLASSIFIED

  OPERATION: CLASSIFIED

  DEDE: CLASSIFIED

  DTAP: 4 March 1397, Ascella, Commune of Florence

  STRAND: 5 of a projected 87

  MUON Cassandra Sent me via ODEC #3 at 11:43 a.m., Day 2018 (6 February, Year 6) without incident.

  CLASSIFIED

  (remainder of document redacted)

  Text message from burner phone to Mortimer Shore

  DAY 2019 (7 FEBRUARY, YEAR 6)

  DODO’s paranoia is increasing: as I was typing the words of my most recent after-action report, each time I hit the space bar, the word I’d just typed was blacked out, so I was not able to review my own story or take pictures of it to send you. This means either someone in IT is helping Gráinne or she’s convinced Blevins that my DEDE requires this level of hysterical-paranoid security. In any case, once again, I fabricated a story in which, despite my best attempts, I failed to free Dana. This time I included a chase scene in which I got slightly injured. In truth I simply waited longer with KCW Lucia, and then to her confusion, I scraped myself up a little bit before asking to be Homed (to “validate” my claims of injury).

  This remains excruciatingly terrible. My nightmares worsen. If I continue to “fail,” I am compromising my family’s safety. I NEED ANOTHER PLAN. Please advise. —CYL

  Post by Melisande Stokes on “Chira” GRIMNIR channel

  DAY 2019 (7 FEBRUARY, YEAR 6)

  Next time, she should just tell DODO she accomplished it. I don’t know if that claim will stick; we’ve never deliberately fed the Chronotron false data before, so we don’t know how significantly it will alter the certainty, given other external data points. A sysadmin could question her claim. But if Gráinne is trying to run this DEDE with very few people knowing about it, Chira’s report could just end up an internal blip that nobody pays attention to.

  I know she’s having a hard time with this—so am I—but this is how we have to roll.

  Secure message exchange between Dr. Roger Blevins and Dr. Paul Livermore (Director of Psychiatric and Mental Fitness Division)

  Day 2020 (8 February, Year 6)

  From Dr. Paul Livermore:

  Dr. Blevins,

  I am confused by some data we are receiving about DOer Lover-class Chira Yasin Lajani. I received a notification that she had been placed on a PEP (Performance Enhancement Plan) by your office, but there is no actual plan in place—the PEP designation seems to be used punitively as opposed to correctively.

  Also, it is routine for an employee to participate in an in-depth intake questionnaire, a full blood panel to measure cortisol levels, etc., when they are assigned PEP, so that our office can determine what psychological tools might be most relevant and useful to the PEP. Her results of these tests suggest she is experiencing some form of PTSD, the treatment for which includes talk therapy and possibly medication. However, when I attempted to set up an initial eval, the system would not allow me to schedule her to meet with a therapist. Assuming this was a technical glitch, I reached out to IT, but they informed me that all is in order on their end, and that her employee status does not allow her to receive necessary mental health treatment. This is obviously a clerical error, but it requires your authorization to alter it. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

  —Dr. Livermore

  Dear Dr. Livermore:

  There is no clerical error. DOer Chira is not authorized to see a human therapist because of the highly confidential nature of her work. I’m sure we have access to Ellie, the AI therapy program the military has been using for PTSD cases. DOer Chira is authorized to talk to Ellie.

  Blevins

  Dr. Blevins,

  We no longer use Ellie. We attempted to work with that AI, but the bot’s frame of reference for most of the patients we have here is suboptimal. Ellie works very well with Fighters (unsurprising, as it was developed for military use), but most of the other types do not find Ellie to be a useful modality. After some promising initial work, we came to realize that human mental health experts, calibrated to modalities that feel organic to the DOer’s home culture, work better (e.g., priests, shamans, traditional psychotherapists, etc.). Can you explain why Chira is not authorized to speak with a human?

  It is a fundamental requirement of therapists to remain strictly confidential in all circumstances, so confidentiality issues are innately irrelevant.

  Paul Livermore, M.D., Ph.D.

  Dr. Livermore—

  Aren’t there other AI therapies? That use some other MO? I recall hearing that Harvard had some interdisciplinary wunderkinds working on some psych-bot program, I think they called it JEAN, and you can get it on CDs so that it will function on an offline computer. Set her up with that.

  Roger Blevins

  Dr. Blevins—

  I am aware of JEAN. It is available as shareware.

  Dr. Livermore—

  Even better! If it’s free then it will not impact your budget.

  Dr. Blevins—

  There’s a reason that shareware is free.

  Dr. Livermore,

  I’m not interested in the philosophy of ethics behind computer programs. Set Chira up with JEAN.

  Dr. Blevins,

  I wasn’t commenting on the philosophy of ethics, I was commenting on the integrity and quality of most shareware.

  To be clear, are you ordering Chira to have a session with the AI psychotherapy chatbot JEAN?

  For the third time, yes, I am. ASAP. And send me the transcripts.

  —RB

  [SOME TIME LATER]

  Dr. Blevins,

  Per your orders, Chira began a session with JEAN, the transcript of which was preserved. It is unorthodox to allow anyone but an attending psychiatrist or physician to read such transcripts, but the patient was willing to sign a waiver allowing you to see it. You will find it attached below.

  > Hello, I am Jean.

  * Hello, Jean, my name is Chira.

  > Names don’t interest me.

  * I have been having terrible nightmares.

  > I see.

  * I want the nightmares to go away.

  > What if you never got the nightmares to go away?

  * That would be terrible. Please help me to make the nightmares go away.

  > Say, do you have any psychological problems?

  * Yes!

  > Are you sure?

  * Yes!

  > Please don’t repeat yourself!

  * Sorry.

  > Don’t be so defensive!

  * Sorry.

  > Do you expect a different answer by repeating yourself?

  * I don’t know. Can you help me?

  > What is your problem?

  * I have nightmares every night.

  > Do you enjoy having nightmares?

  * No!

  > Are you saying no just to be negative?

  At this point, the patient terminated the session in a manner that has rendered the laptop she was using permanently unusable. I do not feel it is in the patient’s interest to continue this process. If you will not authorize her to speak with a human therapist, please advise on best practices in light of this spectacular failure with JEAN. Thank you.

  —Dr. Livermore

  Dr. Livermore—

  What is the value of the laptop she has damaged? Please report it to accounting. It should be docked from her salary.

  —RB

  Dr. Blevins,

  My department does not charge patients for the cost of failed modalities. That expense is embedded in our annual budget. My only concern is that we provide appropriate care for the patient. At present, you have tied my hands. May we please speak in person about this case?

  Thank you,

&nb
sp; Dr. Livermore

  Dr. Livermore,

  Our mistake, it appears that DOer Chira Yasin Lajani should never have been assigned a PEP in the first place. I have recently interviewed her in person, and she is in good spirits and well-adjusted. Please disregard this entire matter.

  Thanks so much,

  Roger Blevins

  Dr. Blevins,

  Thank you for this update, especially the news that you have personally interviewed the patient. However, given the results of her intake assessment, my professional opinion is that it’s imperative that she receives some kind of help. Since I can’t convince the system to cooperate, I have used the phone to schedule her for an initial interview this afternoon with Dr. Larinda Schroeder, who specializes in PTSD in the female military population.

  —Dr. Livermore

  Dear Dr. Livermore,

  No need for the interview with Dr. Schroeder; I have called her to cancel that appointment. MUON Gráinne offered to take DOer Chira into one of the ODECs and use a previously unmentioned form of magic to help her deal with her PTSD symptoms, at which point DOer Chira asserted that she is actually feeling fine and that the intake assessment must be faulty. Thank you for your concern for DOer Chira. The situation is now resolved.

  —Dr. Roger Blevins

  Dear Dr. Blevins,

  That’s extraordinary. May we employ Gráinne and other MUONs in such magic-based healing for other cases? Unsurprisingly, DODO’s per capita rate of PTSD is second only to the population of the armed forces (combat). This would be immeasurably beneficial to diachronic agents.

  Yours,

  Paul Livermore

  Dr. Livermore,

  Your request for DODO to funnel invaluable resources (in the form of MUONs) away from our primary mission in order to make your own work easier is disappointing and points to a systemic dysfunction within your department. You are suspended with pay until HR has the bandwidth to consider a PEP for you.

  Dr. Roger Blevins, Ph.D.

  AFTER ACTION REPORT

  DOER: Melisande Stokes

  THEATER: Fourth-century Sicily

  OPERATION: Guard mosaic

  DEDE: Prevent wagon being overturned