So now he had to choose—the crown, or himself?
He turned to face me. And at that moment, I could see in his eyes all the other roles he’d played to fool everyone. The student. The widow. The businessman with the umbrella. The fisherman. The clown. The Detective. Richard the Third, of course, and Richard the Second, too.
I could even see myself.
But there was another face, both like and unlike the others. Probably it was a face no one ever really knew. Yet it’d been there this whole time, hidden in plain sight.
The Actor’s own true face.
“Ay,” he whispered, and this time he said it as himself. “Or I must nothing be.”
He sighed very softly. Part of me figured since his plans for world domination had been ruined that he’d be snarling or growling or quivering with rage, but he wasn’t.
He only looked sad. Empty. Alone. Like he’d lost everything.
And I knew exactly how he felt.
We stood like that, facing each other, for a long time. Almost as if we’d forgotten we were in the middle of a play. But someone like him would never forget a thing like that for long. He turned towards the audience and spread his arms out wide.
The Actor at his best and finest.
“Now, mark me how I will undo myself,” he exclaimed, continuing the play. “I give this heavy weight from off my head, and this unwieldy scepter from my hand, the pride of kingly sway from out my heart!”
As he spoke, a change came over the audience. Those creepy smiles started leaving people’s faces, and the fear was leaving their eyes.
“With mine own tears I wash away my balm, with mine own hands I give away my crown, with mine own tongue deny my sacred state, with mine own breath release all duteous oaths.”
He turned to me with the Bronze Crown in his hands and held it out to me.
“Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev’d,” he said, “and thou with all pleas’d, that hast all achieved.”
He released the crown to my hands. One long, low moan rose from the audience, like everyone had let out a deep breath all at once. The power of the Bronze Crown over them was broken.
“What more remains?” the Actor asked, his voice small.
“Just this,” the Detective said, and he handcuffed the Actor.
The Detective and I both tugged off our costumes. Then the whole Oratorium erupted with a kind of chaos that only a room full of Artisans could create. Some of the Artisans were clueless about the whole thing, and they were demanding to know what was going on. Others knew exactly what was happening, and they were demanding for the Actor’s punishment. Some were even ordering his execution.
That many angry Artisans can make a lot of noise.
“Okay folks, everyone back in their seats please!” the Detective shouted. “We’ll sort this out, I promise! Please settle down!”
No good.
The Professor made his way up to the Actor and began asking questions. A few the Actor tried to answer, but mostly he stood there looking dazed. Many of the Artisans were rushing forward, and everyone was talking at once. They seemed to have forgotten me, standing there in the center of the stage. And the funny thing was, I still held the Bronze Crown.
It was like everyone had forgotten that, too.
But how could anyone forget a thing as magnificent as the Bronze Crown? Just a thin band of bronze, maybe, but the way it gleamed in the stage lights. The way its luster blazed.
How could something so simple and so beautiful be so powerful?
It was then that I noticed how quiet everything around me had become. Silent, in fact. The talking had stopped, and the arguments had faltered. Everyone was staring at me. The Professor took an easy step towards me like nothing was wrong. Like it was no big deal. But his face….
“You can set that down now, young scholar,” he said.
Set it down? I glanced around us. There was no place to set it.
“Where?” I asked.
My voice sounded strange, even to me.
“Oh, just anywhere. You can set it down on the stage there.”
Set the Bronze Crown on the ground? Yeah, right. Was he crazy? The crown might get dirty. A thing that beautiful and that powerful shouldn’t be plopped down on the ground like an old shoe or a battered baseball glove.
The Actor started laughing.
“It’d serve you all right, you know,” he said. “Every single one of you. It’d serve you right.”
What would serve them right?
“Yes,” the Professor said quietly, “I suppose it would. We never give much thought to the Finders. Until it’s too late.”
None of them were making any sense to me. All I knew was that I was still holding the Bronze Crown in my hands. And I didn’t want to put it down on the ground.
I wanted to put it on my head.
Chapter 32
The Higher Authorities
At last.
At last, I had the chance to get my memories. To learn my identity. At last, I could pay the Ragman back for what he’d done to me. I could make him give me back my life. At last, I had my chance. At last, I could go home.
While the whole theater watched, I ran my fingers over the Bronze Crown, over its sixteen-pointed star shining with a gentle glint. I could feel its power coursing along my fingertips. All I had to do was put it on.
The Detective took a slight step towards me. “Rookie?”
“That’s not my name!” I cried. “Stop calling me that!”
All the Artisans, they stood there so still, holding their breaths and staring at me. Like I was a bomb about to explode. Why couldn’t any of them understand? If anyone needed the crown—deserved the crown—it was me. If I could only make them see that.
“I wouldn’t keep it for long,” I whispered, “or use it often. Just for a little while, to set things right again.”
Like my name. I could finally know who I was.
“Of course,” the Professor said. “You only want it to make you happy.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure the crown would bring you that happiness?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Like it has brought so much happiness to its other owners?”
Like the Actor, surrounded by an angry mob and under arrest. Like John Ketter, sitting in his bed completely alone, half-mad and haunted by his loss. But that didn’t have to happen to me, did it? The Bronze Crown was old. Ancient, even. It must have made someone happy in all its existence, right?
I lifted the crown higher, and a few of the Artisans gasped.
“I’m sure you’ll use it first on the Ragman,” the Professor said. “It might be a bit troublesome if he doesn’t want to obey, though.”
I hadn’t thought of that. What if the Ragman refused to give me what I wanted? He’d die. And I’d be the one who killed him.
“He’d deserve whatever happens to him, no doubt,” the Professor continued. “He has always been a rascal. But it might be a bit trickier with your friends.”
Well, I wouldn’t command them. I wouldn’t have to. Unless the Detective or the Professor tried to stop me. Would I have to command them to leave me alone if they did? What if they didn’t obey? Or what if Sweet Pea or Deeter tried to stop me? They wouldn’t, would they?
“And once you had what you wanted,” the Professor said, “you’d quite sensibly stop, of course. Yes, young scholar. It sounds very reasonable to me.”
Would I stop? Could I stop?
If John Ketter became the Bandit King, and the Actor became Richard the Third, what would become of me?
The sound of something hard and round rolling on the stage floor caught my attention, so I looked down just in time to see the Magic Eight Ball stop at my feet. The Professor must have let it fall from his pocket. And this time, it had a question for me.
Who are you?
The one question I’d never really asked.
I’d been too busy asking who everyone else wa
s. Who was the rogue Collector? Who was the creepy student? Who was the widow Hiddleburg, or Jack the Fisherman, or the psycho clown? Who was behind it all? Who was Rose Sullivan? Who was the Bandit King?
And none of those had been the right questions. Maybe this one was.
Who was I?
Was I the sort of person who would claim the crown for my own? The sort of person who would command other people against their wills? Enslave them and force them to do what I wanted? The sort of person who would kill anyone who didn’t?
Was that who I was?
The rim of the crown grew warmer, and the warmth flowed through my fingertips. The crown was just as beautiful, its rim as smooth and its star as bright. But there, on the inside curve…a patch of tarnish. Strange I hadn’t noticed it before. And near the back was a scratch, a slight dent there on the side. After all, it was only made of bronze.
What if I didn’t need the crown to know who I was? What if I already knew?
One last time, I ran my hands across the crown’s plain surface. Everyone was always using the Bronze Crown to command others, but had anyone ever commanded the Bronze Crown?
“Bronze Crown,” I said, “Stop ruining lives. Stop destroying dreams and breaking hearts. Stop murdering the innocent. I command you to stop.”
There was a very long pause, and I could feel its power wavering like maybe the crown was struggling against me, or perhaps against itself. One last surge of power passed along my fingertips, but gently, like the flicker of a candle burning out. The crown’s shine dulled as its warmth cooled. Then I laid it on the stage and stepped away.
“Stop him!” one of the Artisans shouted.
“Get him away from the crown!” another yelled.
“Don’t let him get near it again!”
I looked up. Didn’t the Artisans understand? I’d set the crown down. Willingly. I wasn’t going to use it. I didn’t want to.
I glanced at the Detective for help. But he was doubled over, panting for breath as if he’d been punched in the gut, while everyone was waving their fists and jostling him. The Professor pushed his way past, trying to help me, only to be shoved aside by the mob.
What was going on?
Suddenly a hand was grasping in my direction. A wrist with a broken handcuff. Snatching for the Bronze Crown. Or me. I couldn’t tell which. Without even thinking, I drew Sweet Pea’s feather from my coat pocket and brushed it against the clutching hand.
Too bad no one ever told me how fantastic the Swan Feather was for crowd control.
The hand jerked back as if it’d been stung, and the whole mob of angry Artisans jolted to a halt. A few of the Artisans had seen what had happened, but a lot of them didn’t, so everyone starting talking and pointing.
“What’s going on?” one of the Artisans asked. “What did I miss?”
“The Finder used the Swan Feather on the Actor.”
“Oh. Oh, dear.”
“Well, don’t let that horrible feather touch me. Stop pushing! Get away!”
The crowd parted, giving the Actor space. So much for his daring attempt to escape—he wasn’t going anywhere. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but whatever he wanted to say, he never managed to say it. Instead, he grabbed his stomach as if trying to keep from being sick. Then, the strangest thing of all.
He giggled.
And he didn’t stop.
“You!” he said, gasping between his giggles. “Hee hee! I’ll get you for this! You mark my words! Ha aha ha aha!”
He sank to his knees and laughed until his cheeks were wet with tears. His laughter became a kind of roar, and finally he was rolling around on the ground, silently heaving and shaking, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
So that was the Swan Feather’s magic. Uncontrollable laughter. I had to grin. No wonder Deeter was afraid of it.
The Detective stood beside me. “Quick thinking, kid. That should keep him busy for a while. Of course, the question is, what do we do with him now?”
The other Artisans had different suggestions. Some were pretty wild. One even involved two dozen flowerpots, a twenty-pound sack of flour, and a tub of honey.
“Strip him of his powers!” someone suggested.
“He could have killed us all! We should kill him!”
The Professor waved his hands for silence.
“With all due respect, my fellow colleagues,” he addressed the crowd, “we are far too upset for clear thinking or fair judgment at the moment. Perhaps we should let the Rookie decide.”
They looked at me like they’d never seen me before. Like I was some alien space monkey that had just landed in front of them from a far away planet. I glanced at the Actor as he flopped around on the stage. The suggestion about the flowerpots seemed a bit far-fetched. But strip him of his powers? Was that even possible? And kill him?
The Actor’s eyes gazed at me in a kind of helpless way, and then he rolled over laughing again, making a small shudder as he did.
A tap on my shoulder made me turn aside. It was the Messenger.
“Ah, Messenger,” the Professor said. “Do you wish to contribute a suggestion regarding the Actor’s fate?”
“I could think of a few.” The Messenger glared at the Actor. “But nope. This is official business. I have a message to deliver. It’s from the Higher Authorities.”
Everyone froze. The Detective tipped back his hat and whistled softly while the Professor grew very still. Even the Actor seemed to stop laughing. But only for a few seconds.
“Who is the message for?” the Professor asked.
The Messenger checked his clipboard. “Says here it’s for the Owner of the Bronze Crown.”
“You don’t mean the Actor do you?” I asked.
“Naw, not him. Says here owner. Not thief.”
A murmur moved through the crowd while the Messenger smacked his chewing gum a few times, and then suddenly he turned to me.
“You know what? This message is for you. Gee, you go by a lot of names, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “It can’t be for me. I’m not the owner of the crown. I set it on the stage there. It’s not mine.”
But the Messenger was giving me one of those long Artisan stares.
“I know my business. And I always know a delivery’s intended recipient. Always. This one’s for you.”
He handed me a white envelope once I’d signed his paperwork, and then he stepped back to watch me open it. I glanced at the Professor, but he didn’t say anything. Sweet Pea and Deeter were pressed up against the edge of the stage, but when I looked at them, they only shrugged.
The Higher Authorities? Who were they?
With a deep breath, I peeled open the envelope, and inside was a very small white card. I stared at the writing for a long time, trying to understand what it meant. The Professor cleared his throat.
“Well, young scholar? A message from the Higher Authorities is a very serious matter. I don’t mean to pry, but I am rather curious to hear what the message says.”
It was just as well. Maybe the Professor could help me understand. I showed him the writing on the card.
The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It’s from one of Shakespeare’s plays. Not Richard the Third,” the Professor hurried to say when he saw my face. “Not even the Richard the Second. This line is from The Merchant of Venice.”
“Oh.”
I still wasn’t quite sure what it was about, though.
“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,” the Professor spoke. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice blest—it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: T’is mightiest in the mightiest.”
He glanced at the Bronze Crown sitting in the center of the stage. A twinkle had come into his eyes.
“And,” he continued, “it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown. The Higher Authorities have always been clever. Also not w
ithout a sense of humor.”
“The Higher Authorities want me to be merciful?” I asked.
“It would seem they want us all to be,” the Professor answered, turning to the other Artisans.
“We shouldn’t kill the Actor,” I said. “Or strip him of his powers.”
The Actor rolled over with a fresh wave of giggles.
“But I’m worried,” I continued. “Will he cause any more trouble?”
“You’re wise to ask, young scholar. I fear there will be repercussions no matter what choice we make today.”
The Professor glanced around the stage though who or what he was searching for, I couldn’t tell. He shared a look with the Detective, who shook his head.
“The Actress is gone. They’re all gone,” the Detective said. “Even the dog’s gone.”
“Were they working with the Falsifiers? Or were they working independently?”
The Detective shrugged as he regarded the Actor, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Professor? What’s wrong?” I asked.
The Professor frowned. “Only trouble best saved for another day. For now, I suggest we remove the Actor to the Penitoria, where he can do no further harm in the meantime.”
The Actor burst out with a new roar of hysterics.
“The Penitoria!” he cried. “But what about my theater? Hee hee! You can’t take my stage away from me! My audience! Ha ha! Theater is the only thing I truly love! Ha ha ha!”
“The removal needn’t be permanent,” the Professor said. “That rather depends on your behavior henceforth. What do you think, young scholar?”
I nodded, and the Detective hauled the Actor up by the scruff of his costume robe.
“Right, the Penitoria it is, then.”
He pulled the Actor along off stage. The sound of the Actor’s hysterics slowly faded.
“Professor? What should we do about the Bronze Crown?” I asked.
“What, indeed.”
He approached the crown, bending over to study it carefully. His eyebrows drew together, and he adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He stared at it for a long time, and he started mumbling to himself.
Then, for some reason, he stared at me.
The Crown of the Bandit King Page 25