The Crown of the Bandit King

by Matti Lena Harris

  What was the matter?

  “Yeah, sure. All right.” The Messenger’s voice shook. “I’ll take it to him personally. But make it quick. I have places to be.”

  No, no, no.

  Things were going wrong already. When I’d told the Messenger my plan in the Professor’s study, he’d agreed to help us on one condition. He didn’t want to enter the Oratorium. Delivery at the door, then he could go. And the Detective had agreed. In fact, the Detective had seemed relieved to hear the Messenger’s condition, though I didn’t understand why then. But now, I understood.

  By entering the Oratorium, the Messenger had placed himself in a lot of danger.

  I could feel the crate being moved, and then we seemed to be traveling down a hallway of some sort. All I could hear was the Messenger’s bubble gum. He wasn’t blowing bubbles anymore, though. Now he was cracking his gum. Loud, too. A quick knock on a door, and after that, the door opened. The Messenger cleared his throat.

  “I have an urgent delivery for the Actor.”

  “A delivery for me?” the Actor said. “How wonderful! Bring it in!”

  “I’ll need you to sign here, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Crack, crack, crack went the Messenger’s bubble gum. There was a snuffling sound at the outside of the crate, followed by a growl.

  “It’s a big box, isn’t it?” the Actor said.

  “And it’s all yours once you sign here.”

  “Hmm.”

  Between the wooden slits, I caught the glimpse of a shadow moving around the crate. After that, a loud tapping right above my head and another near the Detective’s side. It must’ve been the Actor, investigating the crate.

  “Yes,” the Actor said, “very large indeed.”

  Then he started giggling—quiet at first, but it quickly turned into a roar of laughter.

  What was so funny?

  The Detective was holding his breath, and the Messenger’s gum had stopped cracking. I could guess what they were thinking because I was thinking it, too. This was the end. The Actor must have figured out we were inside.

  “Brilliant! Oh, brilliant!” the Actor said, clapping his hands in applause. “What an entrance! I was expecting this, you know! Something exactly like this! Of course, I’ll sign for it. Who am I to disappoint my adoring fans now? Especially when they’re so anxious to show their appreciation. Urgent, indeed! Where do I sign?”

  The sound of a pen scrawling on paper. This was torture. Did the Actor suspect us? I glanced at the Detective, but the light was too dim to see his face clearly. His hand grasped my shoulder and squeezed it a little like he was telling me to hold still and wait.

  But wait for what? Were we caught?

  “You know what I bet it is?” the Actor said. “A throne! What else do adoring fans get their favorite Actor? And now their king, too! Yes, definitely a throne. Only one way to know for sure, though.”

  The crate shook and creaked as if the Actor was starting to pry it open.

  “Stop!” the Messenger cried. “There’s a note that goes with it. You’re not supposed to open the crate until you read the message.”

  A pause.

  If the Actor wanted to open the box right away, there was nothing to prevent him. He could simply use the Bronze Crown and command the Messenger to step aside. And then the Messenger would have to obey.

  Or die.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Silly me,” the Actor said. “My fans wish to express their adoration in writing first. Fan mail. Cards and letters, cute artwork and whatnot.”

  The Messenger must have handed the Actor my message. There was another long pause.

  “Oh,” the Actor said. He sounded disappointed. “Is that all? No cards or letters, then? No fanfic or artwork? Just this message?”

  Some voice called out in the hallway that the curtain would go up in three minutes. The Actor’s cue was approaching. Places, please. That seemed to settle it.

  “All right, all right,” the Actor said. “The crate can wait. You’re staying for the performance, Messenger?”

  “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Official business I must attend to. A messenger’s work is never done.”

  “Oh, but you can’t leave now,” the Actor said. “You’ll be missing the experience of a lifetime. Stay and watch the performance. I insist.”

  The Actor’s voice had a sharp edge, and the Messenger wailed as if he’d been stabbed or struck. After that, there was a heavy thump, like maybe the Messenger had collapsed onto the floor.

  “You may not be the most powerful Artisan there is,” the Actor said, “but you’re still useful to me. After all, if there’s no one to deliver the news, then no one will hear of tonight’s magnificent performance. I’ll kill you if I have to, but I’d really rather not. So I’ll give you one last chance to decide if you’ll stay.”

  When the Messenger replied, his voice sounded breathless. Weak.

  “Of course, I’ll watch the performance, Actor. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Fantastic. Off you go to find a seat. Try the second row.”

  The door opened and closed while the Actor chuckled.

  “Ah, fans,” he said.

  And then he went out the door too, leaving the Detective and me alone in the room.

  This was bad. But I hadn’t realized just how enraged the Detective was until he smashed the crate open with one blow of his fist.

  “If he hurts the Messenger again,” the Detective said, “if he hurts any of the Artisans again, or anyone else, I swear it’ll be the last thing he does. On my life, on every power I have, I swear it!”

  We stepped out of the crate and into the Actor’s dressing room. A big, shaggy sheepdog stood near the door, his fur raised and his teeth bared, but a single look from the Detective made him sit on his haunches and whine.

  “Down, Stanislavski,” the Detective said.

  “Stanislavski?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Why? Something wrong?”

  “The last time I met an animal with that name, it was a killer pigeon.”

  The Detective shrugged. “It’s the Actor’s dog, kid. He can make it look like whatever he wants. Well, within reason. It has to suit the role the Actor’s playing.”

  “How about a seagull, or a fluffy white poodle?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s nothing. I once saw Stanislavski perform as a polar bear.”

  An Artisan super-pet? Yikes. I liked him a whole lot better as a sheep dog than a carnivorous pigeon, though. That pigeon was just creepy.

  And I didn’t even want to imagine a dog pretending to be a polar bear.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” the Detective continued. “The dog won’t bother us now. Let’s get to work.”

  We both started searching the Actor’s dressing room. One side of the room was full of lighted mirrors and tables with tubes of makeup and creams and wigs. On the other side was a huge rack full of costumes. There was a black dress, like the one the widow Hiddleburg wore, and a businessman’s suit. After that, I found fisherman Jack’s outfit and the black clown suit. Then the student’s blazer, and even a trench coat like the Detective’s.

  But those weren’t the disguises I was looking for.

  “Detective, here,” I said, pointing to a section of colorful tunics. “What about these?”

  A distant applause sounded. Richard the Third must have started its opening scene.

  “We don’t have much time,” the Detective said, joining me at the costume rack. “These should be fine. Try this on.”

  The tunic he handed me was blue with a large silver cross on the front. For himself, the Detective took off his trench coat and slipped on a green tunic. Then we stood in front of the dressing mirror.

  “Mine is a bit loose in the arms,” I said, “but that’s okay. Just so long as I don’t have to wear tights. How about yours?”

  I glanced up when the Detective didn’t answer me. He wasn’t looking at his costume—his gaze was on the dressing table, where my message
sat forgotten next to a black wig. The message I’d sent was short: Do not open until after tonight’s performance. Simple, but it’d worked.

  Almost.

  “We’ll get the Messenger back,” I said. “We can fix this. All of this.”

  The Detective nodded. “Not stuck here in this dressing room we won’t. Come on.”

  He opened the door soundlessly and peered out, then motioned for me to follow him. The backstage area was completely dark now, and the Actor’s voice floated through the corridors.

  “Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, that I may see my shadow as I pass.”

  There was more applause. The Detective guided me to the side of the theater, where we stood just off stage, and we both ducked into the folds of the theater curtain.

  “We’ll hide here until the right time,” he whispered in my ear. “Remember what I told you. We can’t un-king a character who’s not king yet, so we have to wait until after he’s become King Richard in the play. And we can’t make our move until he’s offstage between scenes. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  But waiting was the hard part. What if I forgot the lines I had to say? Or what if I got them switched around wrong? So far, I’d messed up everything—why not this too? How could I expect to remember a few lines when I couldn’t even remember my own name?

  The Detective tapped me on the shoulder—our signal. This was it. I pushed down the jittery feeling in my stomach and stepped onto the stage.

  Out into the dark.

  The lights came up with a glare that was way too bright. I blinked and blinked, trying to make my eyes adjust after spending so much time behind a thick curtain. At first, it seemed like the world ended right at the edge of the stage. Just lights, and then nothing.

  But as I stared into the darkness, I started seeing faces. The front row first, and then the next three, and then slowly the whole theater was like a dim shadow in front of me. Every seat had an Artisan in it—I could tell by the way my head was buzzing. They looked so strange—each one dressed so differently. One man wore a large, white apron. The woman next to him wore a ballet tutu. Then a woman wearing a firefighter’s jacket.

  There was the Messenger in the second row. I recognized his blue uniform.

  As different as they each were, though, everyone had the exact same expression. That was the creepy part. A strange, fixed smile, like they were manikins made from the same plastic mold. The smiles made them look like they were enjoying the play immensely, but when I gazed into their eyes, my stomach flipped so much I almost thought I might throw-up.

  Their eyes looked terrified.

  Then I glanced at the front row again—bad idea.

  There sat the Professor, with Deeter and Sweet Pea sitting beside him on his right and his left. They were alive. But my relief only lasted a few seconds. Because they too wore that same horrible smile, and their eyes still held that same terrible fear. They sat there rigid, unmoving, watching me.

  And suddenly, I couldn’t remember a single line I was supposed to say.

  Chapter 31

  King Richard

  The fate of the whole world depended on me, and I just stood there center stage, staring out into the audience and mumbling sounds that not even a caveman would make.

  “Uh, ungh, egh….”

  It was not a pretty sight.

  Someone in the audience coughed. There was a rustling shuffle here and there like people were flipping through their theater programs to figure out what was going on. I glanced over at Sweet Pea and Deeter. They were counting on me. Everyone was. And here I was blowing it all over again.

  Then I looked at the Professor. His creepy smile hadn’t changed, but his eyes had. The terror was gone, and in its place—not joy exactly. Not happiness either. But something almost like joy and almost like happiness.

  Triumph.

  That was it. In his eyes shone the look of triumph. The Professor believed in me. He honestly thought I could pull this off. And then he did the oddest thing of all.

  He winked.

  “Fetch hither Richard,” I said, “that in common view he may surrender.”

  A murmur rose up from the audience while the rustling shuffle of programs got louder. Then the Detective stepped forward as the Duke of York.

  “I will be his conduct,” he said, and he exited.

  Calm. I had to stay calm. I inhaled a breath and shifted on my feet. I was supposed to be playing the role of Henry Bolingbroke, the new king who deposes Richard the Second. But could I really out-act the Actor?

  The sweat started running down the back of my neck. At least when the Detective was on stage, I wasn’t completely alone. But now, the only other thing with me was a big wooden throne behind me. I stared off stage, waiting. Which Richard would enter next? Richard the Second, or Richard the Third?

  And what was taking so long?

  Finally, with the Detective at his side, the Actor entered stage right. Behind him trailed a long, heavy robe woven of gold, and on his head was the Bronze Crown. He strode across the stage, hesitated by the throne for a moment, then turned to face me.

  “Alack,” he said, “why am I sent for to a king, before I have shook off the regal thoughts wherewith I reign’d?”

  Richard the Second.

  It’d worked.

  We’d swapped plays. We’d high-jacked the performance. So far, so good. But there was a shadow in the Actor’s eyes as he finished his speech.

  “To do what service,” he continued, “am I sent for hither?”

  “To do that office of thine own good will,” the Detective said, “which tired Majesty did make thee offer: the resignation of thy State and Crown to Henry Bolingbroke.”

  Cue the Artisan mega tantrum.

  Or so I thought. But the Actor was too smart for an onstage meltdown. His lips curved up into a long, slow smile, and his hands lifted the Bronze Crown from his head to hold before him. Clearly, he was up to something. The Detective positioned himself slightly in front of me, his shoulders tense, as the Actor continued his lines.

  “Here Cousin,” he said, “seize the crown!”

  A command. The Detective stiffened beside me while a few people in the audience gasped. But I didn’t feel any punishment from the crown when I disobeyed. No agonizing pain. No torment. Nothing at all. Not that I was about to complain or anything, but what was going on?

  Why didn’t the crown hurt me?

  Whispers started in the audience, hushed and intense, but they stilled with one glance from the Actor. He ran his fingers along the crown’s edge, his eyebrows furrowing. Then he offered me the crown once more, but this time, he didn’t rely on the crown’s powers. He used his own instead, a mix of command and entreaty and persuasion. All the talent he possessed.

  “Here Cousin. On this side my hand, on that side thine.”

  I gazed at the crown. The way its engraved star shimmered in the stage lights. And the graceful curve of its rim. So much beauty. So much power. Just a touch, probably that’d be okay.

  I placed my hand on the crown.

  Has it ever been okay to touch fire? To touch lightning? The power of the crown—it didn’t hurt, not exactly. But the energy that passed through me nearly knocked me out, all the same. I swayed while the rest of the stage dimmed—the throne, the Detective, even the Actor in front of me. As for the audience, I couldn’t see them at all.

  No. I couldn’t let my friends down. Not again.

  I inhaled through my nose. Blinked my eyes. The seconds passed until my head cleared. Then I looked up. I was still holding the crown on one side, and the Actor was holding the other. This was it. The Actor had offered the crown to me. The moment I’d been hoping for. My chance to defeat him.

  So why was he still smiling? I didn’t trust that smile. I never had.

  Something about this wasn’t right.

  Seize the crown. That was what the Actor had said. If I seized it, I’d be taking it from him. He wouldn’t have given it up w
illingly, and it wouldn’t break the crown’s power.

  I released the crown, and the moment I did, the Actor’s smile faltered. Time for my next line. If we could just make it to the end of the scene, there still might be hope.

  “I thought you had been willing to resign,” I said.

  A new glint entered into the Actor’s eyes. He took a few paces away from me, closer to the throne. Then he tossed his head back and adjusted his robes.

  “I am not in the giving vein today,” he said.

  “Uh, uh….”

  My thoughts searched and searched for my line. What was I supposed to say next? The Detective still stood beside me as York. Was it his cue? I glanced at him, but he shook his head. The next line wasn’t his, and he seemed just as confused as I was.

  I dared a look back at the Actor. And this time, a smile formed on my face, not his. Probably out of character, but I couldn’t help it. Because the Actor was too good an actor—and that was his weakness. It wasn’t Richard the Second standing next to me anymore. He was Richard the Third again. The expression on his face gave him away. He’d switched plays on us, trying to catch us with our own trick.

  But not if I could stop him. I went on with the scene.

  “Are you contented to resign the crown?”

  The Actor gripped the crown more tightly, but his hands were trembling. The next line was essential. Our whole plan depended on it. But would he say it?

  “Ay,” he said, as Richard the Second.

  Then he seemed to realize what he’d said, and he stepped back.

  “No,” he continued, this time as Richard the Third. “No.”

  His voice was soft, and he stood there on the edge of the stage, staring out at the audience. He may have intended to play the part of Richard the Third, but now the play was Richard the Second, and his was still the lead role.

  The play had him.

  He could continue the performance and surrender the Bronze Crown willingly, or stop the play completely. But if he stopped acting, then he wouldn’t really be the Actor anymore. Because that’s what actors do. They act. The show must go on.