I paused in the doorway, surprised. When he looked up and saw me, he stuck his left hand up to the side of his laptop screen, palm outward, in a stop sign. I deduced he wanted to finish his phone conversation without interruption. His thin brown face was clenched with anxiety.
“Hang on—can I call you back? I just got the call waiting beep and it could be them. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. Right.”
He pressed a button on his phone. Then he lowered the lid of his laptop and took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” he said. “On the phone with my beastly boss.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“Actually, I’m glad you did,” he said. “It can be like pulling teeth getting him off the phone.”
“Happy to be of service, then.” I stepped further inside the room, and then Tad and I both winced as I stepped on a board that squeaked so loudly that during this week’s jewelry class we’d rearranged the tables to make sure no one stepped on it. Maybe it was time to get Cordelia’s handyman to take a look at it.
Later. I gestured to the enormous green background. “What the dickens is that?”
“That,” he said, “is the technological marvel that allows me to be here today instead of up in Northern Virginia in my cubicle. It’s a green screen.”
“So I noticed. The color’s not growing on me—rather a bilious shade of green, if you ask me.”
“Also known as a chroma-key background. Here—I’ll show you.” He lifted up the laptop screen again, made a few swift keystrokes, and then grabbed a freestanding computer monitor that was perched on the far end of his table and turned it so the screen was facing my way. On the monitor I could see Tad, seated at his table, looking into the laptop’s camera. The green screen behind him was so bright it almost glowed.
“Not really your best color,” I said. “Makes your skin look sallow. And what’s wrong with Cordelia’s décor, may I ask?”
“Much prettier, but it’s not the background my boss wants to see me in. He’d rather see this.”
Tad’s fingers flew over the keyboard and suddenly the green background disappeared and Tad appeared to be sitting in an office cubicle made of bland gray fabric panels.
“It’s the same way they do special effects for the movies,” he said. “I have a program that makes anything green become transparent.”
“And instead of the green background you see a picture of your office.” I nodded my comprehension. “Are the pictures actually realistic enough to fool him?”
“I built in a certain amount of picture degradation to make it more plausible,” Tad said. And it’s not just pictures—it’s video.”
As I watched, someone went past the entrance to the cubicle, calling out “Hey, Tad.” The printer against the far wall of the cube erupted into life and spat out several documents. A phone rang in the distance.
“Very impressive,” I said. “But what’s it for?”
“My wretched boss doesn’t believe in telecommuting.” He rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“How twentieth century.” I kept my face deadpan.
“I know—can you believe it? He doesn’t think you’re doing your job unless you’re sitting there in your cubicle tapping on your keyboard. He’d have a cow if he knew I was down here, a couple of hours’ drive away.”
“You can’t just call him on your phone and lie to him about where you are?”
“That used to work, until he discovered webcams and FaceTime and Skype. Now he doesn’t just want to hear from me, he wants to see me and look over my shoulder.”
“But what if he decides to walk down to your cubicle to talk to you in person?”
Tad’s fingers flew. The scene changed from his cubicle to a table at what was obviously a Starbucks.
“If I switch over to my phone, I’ve got even more scope.” Tad typed a few more commands, then picked up his cell phone, stood up, and moved away from the table and laptop. The scene changed from Tad standing in Starbucks to Tad standing beside an industrial-sized copier machine. Then Tad standing in line at a deli. Tad in an office corridor with several business suit–clad people having a conversation behind him. Tad standing by a row of sinks in what I deduced was the office men’s room. The illusion was broken when a man in khaki pants and a white dress shirt came through the door into the bathroom, walked right through where Tad appeared to be standing, and positioned himself in front of a urinal. Tad hastily killed the video feed and the bright green screen reappeared.
“Sorry,” he said. “I already told my on-site coconspirator to take that one down. Not what I had in mind when I told him to put the cameras anyplace I was likely to be if I wasn’t at my desk.”
“So this is a team effort,” I said.
“Yeah. They all hate my boss’s guts as much as I do.”
“But why are you putting up with him at all?” I asked. “You’re Thaddeus Freakin’ Jackson, programmer extraordinaire. There are plenty of places that would kill to hire you.”
“Yeah, but most of them want to hire me as a consultant these days,” he said. “The gig economy is big in IT. And the problem with that is you have to pay your own benefits. Which isn’t such a big deal when you’re so young you have trouble even imagining you might need health insurance someday. But Faulk and I are neither of us kids anymore. One of us has to get a job where we can get coverage.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this. Faulk was only a couple of years older than me, and Tad was at least five years younger—they were both very far from over the hill.
But he was right—none of us were kids anymore. And I knew very well how lucky I was that Michael’s post on the faculty of Caerphilly College included an excellent health plan, among other benefits. If he’d still been working as an actor instead of a drama professor, maybe I’d be thinking seriously about doing exactly what Tad was doing: getting a job—any job, however miserable—for the benefits.
“Okay, it’s a pretty cool tactic.” I waved at the green screen. “And I bet it’s a lot of fun to put one over on your beastly boss, as you call him. But if he really would be that upset to find you away from the office—”
“He’d go ballistic.” Tad shuddered slightly. “He’d can me on the spot.”
“Then why not play it safe? Clock in at the office the way he wants you to. Why risk everything this way?”
“I want to be here for Faulk. He needs me.”
“Is there something wrong with Faulk?” Ironic that the conversation had finally come around to the very question that had inspired me to hunt down Tad in the first place.
“He’s not himself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’d noticed. What’s wrong?”
Tad shrugged and avoided my eyes.
“Is he depressed? Because that’s what it looks like to me.”
Tad sighed, closed his eyes, and nodded ever so slightly.
“Is he seeing someone? Like a therapist? Because if he’s depressed, it isn’t something to take lightly.”
Tad’s face had relaxed a little. Maybe hearing me say it out loud took some of the weight off him. He took a deep breath.
“I know that,” he said. “But until I got this job, we didn’t have health insurance. Even now that we do, it’s not exactly the greatest plan I’ve ever seen—takes forever to work through all the red tape, and you wouldn’t believe the time I’ve spent on the phone arguing with them. But any day now we should be getting the referral we’ve been waiting for.”
“Damn.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer. If Faulk really was suffering from depression—
“Talk to Dad.” I could see Tad frown at the suggestion, so I added, “He might be able to help—and keep it off the record, if he knows the situation. You don’t want Faulk giving way to despair or anything this close to getting help. I know it’s probably a little hard to believe, but Dad’s actually not bad at crisis counseling.”
“I’ll think about it.�
�
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
I had intended to ask how long Faulk had been depressed, but seeing how Tad braced himself—almost flinched, in fact—I decided to drop the issue. For now.
“I always thought you used blue screens for that kind of special-effects stuff.”
His face relaxed.
“Well, yeah. Blue screens used to be more common. And they’re still around—you’d have to use them for some things, like if you were trying to film Robin Hood and his merry men with the Lincoln-green outfits. But green screen’s the gold standard these days—it works better with digital cameras. And Robin Hood and Peter Pan aside, people are less likely to be wearing green than blue. I have a blue screen and a program to use it, just in case. But so far the green’s done the trick.”
“Useful to know,” I said.
“And now I’d better actually get some work done before the beastly boss calls again.”
“Well hinted,” I said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I shut the door and headed back upstairs.
Chapter 9
I paused when I reached the main floor landing. Why hadn’t Faulk said anything? And why hadn’t I noticed? Okay, I’d noticed that Faulk was not quite his usual energetic, good-natured self, but I’d put it down to his being worn down after months of the kind of grueling travel schedule you had to keep to make a living as a blacksmith on the craft fair circuit. But apparently it was more than that.
I’d talk to Dad. Ask him to keep an eye on Faulk. Tad probably wouldn’t want me to—but he hadn’t actually forbidden it.
I made my way back to the main floor, being careful to lock the door to the lower level behind me.
In four of the six classroom studios tourists were watching demonstrations, buying craft items, and, with any luck, signing up for future classes in basket weaving, watercolor painting, gourd crafts, spinning, weaving, leatherworking, carpentry, sculpture, jewelry making, and—of course—blacksmithing. The other two studios contained the custom costume shop, where visitors who’d been bitten by the Ren Faire bug could order the costume of their dreams for wearing at future festivals. George was standing at attention in front of Mother, who was holding up half a dozen swatches of blue or green velvet in front of him, evidently trying to decide which was the most flattering shade for his new costume. I nodded approvingly and hurried on. Not a bad idea for me to get back to the booth. Do what I could to keep Faulk in a good frame of mind. I could stop by the first aid tent on the way and put Dad wise.
Out in the Great Hall I found Grandfather studying the decoration over the fireplace, which consisted of two swords crossed in front of a shield that bore the fake crest of the Kingdom of Albion—a large ginger cat holding a tiny black-and-gold dragon by the scruff of its neck.
“There you are,” Grandfather said. “Can I have one of those swords?”
“No,” I said.
“Not to keep—just for today.”
“No.”
“Why not? It’s not as if—”
“Those two swords are welded to the shield,” I said. “To keep the tourists from grabbing one of them and doing stupid things with it. If you want to carry around the whole thing, be my guest, but I should warn you, it weighs somewhere north of fifty pounds.”
Grandfather studied the swords with a peeved expression on his face. I headed for the door. As I went out onto the veranda, he fell into step beside me.
“Well, then, where can I get a sword?”
“The first question is, why you think you need a sword? Can’t you do enough damage with that?” I pointed to his staff, with the elegantly carved raven on the top.
“Everyone else has a sword.”
I paused, put my hands on my hips, and gave him a look I normally saved for the boys.
“Well, not everyone,” he said. “But there are an awful lot of weapons here. Even some of the tourists are wearing them.”
“We try to talk the tourists out of weapons when they enter,” I said. “And if we can’t, any that aren’t fake are supposed to be peace bonded.” As I set out again, I fished into my pocket and held up one of the fluorescent plastic zip ties we used for that purpose. “Which means as soon as they enter the grounds we make them wrap one of these things around their weapons to keep them from being drawn.”
“And if they object to this peace-bonding thing?” he said. “Because it kind of spoils the look of the costume.”
“That’s deliberate,” I said. “We’d rather not have weapons at all.”
“Or if they pretend to cooperate and then rebel later? Wouldn’t take more than a quick slice with a pocket knife to liberate their weapons.”
“If you see anyone who’s done that, you just report them to one of the palace guards.” I pointed to the one who happened to be passing, resplendent in a black-and-red uniform that echoed Cordelia’s favorite garb. “You can spot them at a distance by their bardiches.”
“Their whats?”
“Bardiches. It’s a type of pole arm.”
“You mean that long staff with the wicked curved double-headed ax on the end of it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Those were fun to make.”
I admired my handiwork for a few moments, and felt a brief twinge of regret that safety concerns had prevented me from putting an authentic razor-sharp edge on their crescent-shaped blades.
“One of those would do nicely,” Grandfather said. “You have any spares?”
“They’re reserved for the palace guard,” I said. “You want to be a palace guard? It’s a lot of work, and I’m not sure you’d pass the physical. Stick to the staff.”
“Wait.” Grandfather pointed to the figure carrying the bardiche. “Isn’t that palace guard your cousin Horace?”
“It is,” I said. “Both of the guards are off-duty law enforcement officers—Horace, and one of Chief Heedles’s officers from here in Riverton. And the chief deputized Horace, so he’ll have powers of arrest if needed. So I’m serious—you see anyone waving real weapons or doing anything else illegal, you find a palace guard.”
“Simpler just to turn them into toads.”
“If you can manage that, go right ahead.”
“Rhinella marina would be best,” he mused. “The cane toad. One of the most poisonous toads there is. Although Phyllobates terribilis—the golden poison arrow frog—would be a lot more decorative. Fascinating as cane toads are, there’s no getting around the fact that most people call them ugly.”
“You do realize it’s all pretend, right?”
“Well, I know that.” He gave me an irritated look. “That’s no reason not to enjoy ourselves. I was just thinking. We’ve got an exhibit of the Phyllobates terribilis back at the zoo. I could bring a few of them along next time. Have conversations with them. Threaten to add to their number if people don’t toe the line. Make the malefactors nervous.”
Next time? Had I done too good a job of amusing him? What would Cordelia think if Grandfather decided to become a Ren Faire regular?
“Let’s see how it goes this weekend,” I said aloud. “For now, just sic one of the palace guards on anyone who’s misbehaving.”
“You’re no fun,” he grumbled. “Where do I get one of those?”
He was pointing at a tiny little girl eating a roasted turkey leg not much smaller than she was. I wondered if her parents had noticed that when not gnawing on it, she sometimes grew tired of holding it up and let it drag on the ground behind her.
“I assume you mean the turkey leg,” I began.
“Yes, it looks much tastier than the toddler.”
“Do you see the lute maker’s shop?” I pointed down one of the curving lanes of tents and booths, at the end of which you could spot the shop in question, mainly because of all the lutes, guitars, citterns, violins, lyres, dulcimers, and harps dangling from its roof.
“They sell food there, too?” Grandfather asked.
“No, but if you walk down to the lute
maker’s shop, you should be able to spot the turkey leg stall. Or take a deep breath and you’ll smell it.”
“Not really in period, you know,” Grandfather pointed out. “Meleagris gallopavo, in either the wild or domestic variety, is native to the New World, not the old.”
“But the Spanish started pillaging the New World in 1492,” I said. “And turkeys were one of the things they brought back. William Strickland, a navigator who sailed with one of the Cabots, is supposed to have introduced them to England. In 1550 they gave him a coat of arms with a turkey on it.”
“You just happened to know that?” He sounded almost impressed.
“No, I got tired of people saying the turkeys were anachronisms, so I did a little research on the subject. Of course, in England, it’s unlikely that the common people would be eating turkey—they were a luxury item up until about the twentieth century. That’s why it was such a big deal in A Christmas Carol when Scrooge brought the Cratchit family the prize turkey. But here in Albion, Good Queen Cordelia has helped encourage the turkey industry.”
“Good for her.” He didn’t sound all that sincere. “I think I’ll go sample one. See if they were worth encouraging.”
He strode off, flourishing his raven-headed stick.
I wondered what time it was. One of these days, I’d pick up some kind of pendant watch that wouldn’t scream “anachronism” if I pulled it out of my pocket in public. For the time being, I ducked behind something and sneaked a peek at my phone. One thirty.
If I set out now, and wasn’t interrupted by too many people with crises along the way, I could pick up lunch, eat it somewhere quiet, and still get back to the forge in time for my two o’clock demonstration.
The Falcon Always Wings Twice Page 6