The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans

by Raymond St. Elmo

  Would hear. As in, someday, someday. Dealer dispensed knowledge as a barman his best whiskey. Slowly. Reluctantly. Grudging each drop. Now he hummed, leaning over the charred portrait till a fleck of soot tainted his nose-tip.

  "Ha. It's a girl. Ah, or a boy with breasts and long hair."

  "Occam leads us to assume the first,” I declared. “What can you tell me of the lines framing the face? They strike me as being stylized. I'm sure I've seen crosses in Ireland with the same knotted pattern.”

  Dealer rolled eyes in contempt for tyros throwing the swine of their opinion before his pearled sandals. He traced a finger along the maze-path of circles.

  The girl wandered gazing, humming. She ran fingers along a Chinese vase graced with dancing cranes. She stood on tiptoe to peer inside for jewels. Her broom handle swept towards a row of German porcelain, the scythe of a near-death-angel.

  I grabbed the broom, leaned it against the counter. The girl danced towards the portraits, meeting all their eyes at once. Henry VII upon a horse, looked slightly askance.

  Dealer, feeling ignored, issued opinion. "Decent technique. Notice how he uses this knot in the wood to make the swirl of hair? Good proportion. Pity it's ruined. Next time keep your art away from flame. I tell people never hang anything of value above a fireplace. They always do. Course they do."

  I turned as if to leave. "Keep it as firewood then, in payment for your opinion." A calculated feint. A bore doesn't want to be brief; but he wants to be heard. I was almost to the door before he hurried out, "Scotland, not Ireland."

  I turned back. "What?"

  "More northern than Ireland. Wonderful ruins up north. Pict, Viking, Roman. Beautiful stone-work to look at, if you can stand the cold. More stark than what you find in Glastonbury. Or Wells. Not that those places aren't ruined too." He frowned thoughtful at the burned boards, shook his head. "The good stuff is always in ruins."

  I debated whether he meant the optimistic 'ruins were excellent places to find art', or the darker 'the good in life is doomed to ruin'. Both, why not.

  Dealer took a ladder to his bookshelves, climbed to cob-webbed clouds, consulted with leather-bound gods. The man would take his time. I watched the windows for shadows of hunters. There was no reason any should seek me here. Doubtful I was followed, or they would have fallen upon me already.

  But it meant death to remain overlong. I should be hiding, resting, shifting positions as I gauged the number and worth of my hunters. What did I care about a burned table-top? Nothing. Mere curiosity to know the identity of the young idiot who defeated me.

  Fine. Yes! Possibly there was also a bit of pride involved. A thimble-full. But no great brandy-sniffer of hubris.

  The girl climbed upon a stack of Persian rugs near high as herself. She curled into a cat- ball. I watched her eyes close, open with a start, slowly close, open, close… Done, and she slept. The figures in the portraits about us relaxed.

  Dealer descended. Alas, empty-handed. He moved the ladder a few steps, ascended again. I studied the curtain covering the doorway to the back-rooms of his shop. Had it moved? Dealer came down to earth again, moved the ladder again. I heard voices in the street outside. Unless it was the wind in the chimney.

  At weary last, Dealer climbed down with a book heavy as five Gutenberg Bibles. Thumped it on the counter, a stone tablet from the Mountain. Dust flew. He waved away each separate mote, opened to the first yellowed page. He stared awhile, then grasped the paper corner with careful thumb and finger, leafed to the second page. No doubt he knew exactly where in the book he wished to go. But no, he intended to turn each page, nodding to himself as if reading long confirmations of his many, many opinions.

  Horse-hooves clip-clopped the cobbles outside. Not the City Watch. Perhaps soldiers from the garrison. I studied the shadows past Dealer's counter. The curtain over the doorway rustled fitful. The chimney muttered the whispers of assassins on the roof. Dealer turned another page. Another page. Once he stopped, eyebrows arching astounded. Then turned the page. I considered cutting his throat. I would do it just under the beard, across the wrinkled jugular. As he bled out I'd inquire if the knife had been Spanish steel or German iron-wrought.

  The curtain rustled again. It was purple velvet, concealing back rooms with doors open to casual winds, tiptoeing hunters. Enough.

  "I go home to collect fresh clothes, a full purse," I informed Dealer, walking around the counter. "Find what you can."

  Dealer looked up. “Give Elspeth my greeting. Remind her to visit. Tell her to leave your crass and blood-drenched employ and work with me. For the holy cause of Art.”

  I sighed. The man had lost his heart to my house-maid. Well, he was a collector, she was art. I pictured Elspeth naked on a shelf, smiled. Mine. I studied the velvet curtain to the back of the shop. It lurked and loomed, hiding menace.

  Dealer turned to his display of rugs. "What about your beggar-girl?"

  "You mean my body-guard. Let her lie where she is, and I do promise to purchase the top five rugs, upon my return."

  Dealer considered. "Done." Succinct at last!

  A thought occurred. "And sketch a copy of the carving. I can't carry a burned table-top about the town. People will think I've gone mad.” I drew my foil as though idly checking the blade, then snarled “A rat!"

  I lunged, thrust my foil through the curtain. It made an unsatisfying rip through velvet and air. Finding neither bone nor blood. But my form was good. That was something. Dealer sighed for his murdered velvet, turned another page. "Ah. Remember to bring payment for that as well."

  I twitched aside the curtain with the tip of my foil. No body lay dead before me, not assassin nor Polonius. I shrugged excuses to Dealer and Hamlet. Exit spadassin, stage left.

  I needed sleep. I needed a bath and clean clothes. Fresh bandages would be welcome. Last-night's wounds seeped. Today’s wounds wept. I needed a coin purse less empty than my stomach. Food, drink, money: all things I kept in plenty at home. How tempting to sneak back. Of course hunters would be waiting. Hiding in closets, spying from the surrounding roofs, lurking on street corners. Suicidal just to approach the gate. Only a master assassin-burglar spadassin would stand a chance.

  Right. Then it was decided. I would go home.

  Chapter 7

  The Charge of the Beggar Army

  Viewed from roof-tops, a city at night resembles a battle-field. You gaze down at torches and smoke, walls and trenches. The wind brings distant shouts, sudden cries, horse hooves, silence then sudden hammering. A gunshot, a bit of music, a choir of dog howls. You study the dark plain seeking the position of the enemy, knowing they study the same dark earth, calculating your next move.

  And every so often clouds part and you stare astounded. Present all along, but forgotten as you looked across the earth… was the sky. Above you all along, waited the fields of stars. So greater in significance than your battle plain, your city-scape. You fight the urge to drop sword and wander from trivial war. Walk away, face turned up to stars.

  Don't be fooled. They war up there as well. On Earth as it is in Heaven, no? I watched from rooftops as my army gathered along the street to my house. When the force looked sufficient, I descended to lead. I came to earth streets away, doubting the safety of the roofs nearest my house. On the cobbled earth again, I walked with eyes raised upward, but not to heaven. I scanned chimneys, eves, windows. And I saw shadows, tops of hat and tips of nose, pigeons that circled in alarm. My house was set about with hunters.

  They expected the Seraph to come in secret. Across the roofs, through the sewers. No doubt below the street hunters now lurked, daggers waiting. Or perhaps the rogue would attempt disguise? Clad in officer uniform, waving papers, demanding immediate entry. A priest mumbling Latin, a doctor in ermine and satin, a footman in livery, a milk-maid making delivery. Unless he dropped from a cloud of eagles. The Seraph has a reputation for originality.

  But not stupidity. I approached home in no disguise but worn work-clothes. Sensib
le, because I walked with a growing crowd of beggars, street-idlers and dock-workers, rough and worn-looking as my current self. We marched to the gate of the Seraph. There we gathered before the frightened city-guards, shouting for entry.

  Some instigator had gone patiently from tavern to corner, alley to dock, spreading the rumor that the Magisterium declared the house of the Seraph open for plundering by all whose employ and property was lost in last night's warehouse conflagration.

  A ridiculous idea, but appealing. It had the flavor of life as it should be, if not as it was. I stood with the shouters and howled against the feuds of the Magisterium and the Aldermen. I denounced the arsonist adventurer Seraph in language so foul the crowd gasped in shocked approval, before repeating my words. Less well than I delivered them. But I've trained upon the stage. Part of the job spadassin.

  I wondered if any here had truly lost property or employ in the fire. I doubted so. Those about me smelled of night roistering and alley-employ, not daily labor. I took a quick shallow breath, shouted for my hanging; another quick breath, howled for justice.

  Justice! You suppose I mocked. I deny it. I stood in that crowd of dishonored poor, and meant every word I screamed. Down with the Magisterium! Down with the Aldermen! Death to Black and Green and the rascally whore-son Seraph! Where was justice when the rich feuded upon the backs of the poor? Hang them all!

  Still it made me wonder, to hear shouts for my death. Yesterday I strode city streets a popular man. Watchmen nodded respectful. Tavern lurkers showed empty-hands, eyes down in sign they sought no trouble with the Seraph.

  The crowd had cheered as I strode to the Aldermen’s Chamber and denounced tax and ordinance that had no purpose but fatten the rich, herd the poor into workhouse cattle-pens. The Merchantry listened respectful. Black himself stood at my exit from the Chamber. Wise of him, while window-glass shook with chants in praise of the guardian angel of the oppressed. How was it possible for a crowd to shout insults now?

  I know. Crowds are fickle. Opinion is wind. For any collection of humanity, rout comes easily as charge. War taught me all lessons of the human soul years past. Including my own. So smile my soul, at Lady Fortune spinning her wheel. Whistle at how her skirt rucks, revealing legs that kick a man easily as wrap about him. Laugh at the turns of the world, the better to keep your footing upon it. Death to the Seraph!

  Was not I that threw the first cobble. I admit I was first to rush the gate. I'd become enthused. The guards retreated, waving pikes and muskets to say ‘we would fight, if we chose’. We threw down the gate and rushed to the door where a brave idiot met us, sword drawn.

  I tossed my cloak about the blade, stepped on his foot and hand-parried his lunge to prevent the death of the man behind me. A fore-knuckle to the side of his head, and I dragged him to safety before he could receive the usual reward for heroes who can’t count. The crowd poured through the door, pulling at furnishings and paintings, seeking anything of worth to pocket or destroy.

  I have a well-furnished house. Had, I should say. A large painting greets… greeted the eye as you entered the front door. Battle by Three Rivers. I took part in that action, I very casually mention. The picture shows, showed me nobly horsed, my rugged features fire-lit. The King stands in the center as befits a monarch, studying a map, advising generals. Artistic fiction. His Majesty couldn't read a map tattooed upon his inner eye-lids, the generals never were fool enough to ask his advice and I never ride in battle. Horses are for those who seek attention. My strategy is to avoid it.

  Still, I sighed to see the work pulled down, ripped to shreds. No doubt the canvas fragments would be used to patch clothes, line boots. Vida longa, Ars brevis. Life is longer than most art.

  Crash! And there went my collection of Chinese porcelains. The mob scrambled and squabbled for the pieces, in hope that fragments of masterpiece held fragments of worth. Alas, the value is not in the parts, but the whole. I stopped to watch one rioter mount the shoulders of another, to reach the tinkling crystals of the entry-hall chandelier. He began plucking them like apples, generously tossing them to the crowd. We shouted and shoved, they glittered so. I caught one myself. I have it still. A memory of the light of my house.

  We shoved through doors, raced down halls. The thirsty sought the wine-cellar, the hungry sought the larder; the practical sought closets and cabinets. I raced towards the library. Others followed. The door was locked. Surprising. A spare key waited atop the lintel. But in the spirit of riot I organized three of the biggest. We hit the door together with our shoulders. It burst in a satisfying crash.

  Those with me stared disappointed at book shelves, measuring worth versus weight. A man could run with ten volumes; each might sell for a shilling… most turned back, longing for silverware. We that continued, stared at what waited upon the floor.

  There lay Elspeth, my maid and cook. I knelt, checking pulse in the neck though I knew better. Dead some hours. I closed her eyes. They gazed neither frightened nor at rest. She might have been frowning at dust atop the curtains, deciding the time had come to take them down for a good cleaning.

  Stabbed in the chest, not quite the heart. Triangular wound. Dirk, not sword. City guards were violent; particularly to the poor and weak. This was not guard-violence. They'd have bullied her, beat her senseless. And why lock the door afterward?

  I sighed, stood, measuring worth of soul to weight of guilt. I would kill someone for this. I did not know who, just yet. So not now. Justice later. Justice is usually later. When at all.

  I crossed the room, ignoring the looters now groping at the shelves. My books! It would have enraged me to see yesterday. I'd have turned with sword and quote, defended civilization from barbarian paws. But the body on the floor pushed me to disregard dramatic gesture. Survive. Avenge.

  A door at the room's far end, a long narrow hall and I came to a small empty chamber. No one waited ahead. I was disappointed. I pushed upon a board of the far wall, opening a hidden closet wherein I stored what I thought wise for the inevitable turn of Fortune's Wheel. My best sword, favorite knives, a pouch of colored powders not to be handled without gloves, a small bag of jewels, a comfortably heavy coin-purse, my copy of The Poetical Works of William Blake. A leather wallet of papers identifying me by various names, letters of credit in far places.

  All the things of earth I needed. And would continue to need, the cabinet being empty. A single mocking moth fluttered past my ear, laughing. No wait, a scrap of treasure remained. My copy of Blake.

  I shoved it in a pocket, feeling emptied as the closet. Magisterium Guards might have found this cache. Perhaps Elspeth died resisting them. But the house had not looked torn apart, prior to the beggar-invasion. No, likely my valet Stephano had removed everything as guards shouted at the front. Stephano, former pirate. I like to think I inspire loyalty, but… a privateer with a bag of jewels, the law on his heels? He'd be half-way to Marseille. Buying himself a new ship. Beginning a new life.

  He hadn’t killed Elspeth. We three were wanderers who’d formed a family. He would have protected El to his death. And a good many others deaths, being who he was. But with me on the run, guards pounding the door… yes. I could picture him grabbing what he could, setting forth to wander again. And hardly blame the man.

  I turned in disappointment, and so saved my present life. Busy stuffing pockets I would have died. Saved by a closet empty but for poetry and a mocking moth. The knife was easy to dodge, the attacker struck too soon. Fear or enthusiasm, I suppose.

  I saw past his dock-worker disguise, surely as he'd seen through my beggar rags. Not just an associate burglar-assassin. A former student. Young Richard; eager for reputation, reward, and most of all a striking nom de guerre. I felt a mix of pride and disappointment. I had taught him how to cross a squeaking wooden floor noiselessly. He had just performed this to make me proud. Alas, he did so to kill me, which saddened.

  Also he struck too soon. Disappointing from a teacher's perspective, if a relief from a victim’s
selfish eye. In this mix of sentiments, I beat him senseless. I then emptied his pockets, feeling no remorse. He owed a month's tuition.

  His clothes indicated he came with the beggar army, entered the house with me. Had I thought him responsible for Elspeth’s death, I would have taken from him more than tuition.

  I considered what I might yet salvage from my home. Clean clothes? No time. Perhaps the crystal cups or the silverware locked in the scullery. But the house shook with running feet, doors and cupboards slamming, smashing. Sounds of struggle in the hall, shattering windows, splintering furniture. I heard the whistle of the City Watch. At least one hunter had noticed me. Staying meant dying.

  I looked down at my former student. Past him to the closet emptied by my former valet. Listened to the riot destroying my former home. I considered my former friend Green, my former fellow-revolutionary Black, my former standing in the favor of the city. Note the repeated word 'former'.

  I have a high and clear opinion of myself. In the mirror I look past the wild hair, broken nose, animal disposition and see a man brave yet practical; refined not effete. Experienced without the reek of despair that chokes a soul whenever veterans burn the trash of recollection in long angry tavern-table nights.

  But something was wrong with a man if the world turned so quick against him. This side of the mirror or the other. Whether the flaw lurked in the turning world, or the man. I wondered why I should care. Fortune's Wheel? We do not watch it spin behind the carnival booth. No, we ride upon it, hoping to keep our balance as it rolls. Downhill in flames, no doubt.

  I returned to Elspeth. I checked her pulse again, in case she'd come back to life. She had not. Her blood stained the hearth-rug black in the light of a sputtering lamp, a muttering candle. One stain beside her hand formed letters, scrawled. I puzzled over them, not understanding.