The day had been long and stressful, but it was far from over. This evening’s performance had been scheduled since before Dance’s first show, and he eagerly awaited it, for King Alfons would host a dinner for his closest relatives, some of whose names appeared on Lieutenant Tinetta’s list of suspects. The king’s jester had planned an after-dinner performance for them they would never forget.
Officially, the event began at sunset with the usual cocktails and appetizers, but the guests had to wait until seven for the meal to be served. Dance’s performance would start an hour later. For it, he wore his “formal” costume, a form-fitting leotard of red and black squares trimmed in gold, over which he had draped a black cape. His shoes were gold, the toes flaring upward to a point and tassel, and a three-pronged cap matching his leotard sat on his head.
Arriving a quarter-hour early as the last course was being laid before the guests, he staggered a little as he guided Red through the tables to the stage. Tonight, she wore a white gown with a plunging neckline and a red silk sash around her waist. Borrowed diamonds and rubies sparkled from her ears, neck, and fingers. But for the queen, she was easily the most beautiful woman present. But Liandra is giving her a run for her money, Dance thought as he spotted his new acquaintance sitting attentively beside the Dowager Queen.
As if tipsy, he stumbled again just in front of the stage, sitting heavily on its edge with a loud and exaggerated sigh. “Oh, there was food, too?” he cried a moment later, sounding affronted. “I thought this was just a cocktail party.” A few chuckles rippled from the crowd.
Dance massaged his belly with his fingertips. “They never invite the jester to the meal, do they? They always give you some knuckle-headed excuse like, ‘No one wants to get indigestion.’” He belched loudly and gave a contented sigh. “That was a relief! Well, go ahead and finish your dessert. I can wait.” Lying on his side, he held up his head in one hand and drummed the fingers of the other noisily on the stage, whistling a tune.
“If you don’t mind, very slow dessert eaters, I’ll just warm up.” He stood and stretched his arms, singing the scales, making sure his voice cracked and went flat. After a moment, he switched to jogging in place, his feet pounding loudly on the wooden stage. Finished with that, he bent over to touch his toes. A loud ripping sound cut through the quiet banquet room, and Dance stood up quickly and wrapped his cape around his rear end. The audience laughed as he gingerly felt around for a tear in his pants. Finding no tear, he shrugged and smiled sheepishly, then suddenly made a disgusted face, waved a hand in front of his nose, and mimed fainting dead away. Even self-important aristocrats laugh at that kind of humor, he thought as the crowd roared.
Like a dancer, Red skipped lightly over to him with his lute and dropped it unceremoniously on his stomach with a clang. Dance let out a loud grunt, grabbing his instrument before it hit the floor. He glared at Red and threw his arms wide, palms up in a questioning gesture. She pantomimed strumming, and he mockingly saluted her and stood, tuning his lute.
After a long moment, he played the introduction to the piece, and she launched into an old song that many Margonni considered their national anthem:
From the southland’s long golden strand
To the northland’s far mountain peaks,
From the eastland’s forest uplands
To the westland’s bright meads and creeks,
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
The south’s warm breezes fill the air.
The north’s cold snows blanket the ground.
Rains of east and west fall so fair,
The yields of farm and field abound.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
Founded by folk from many lands,
Bringing their strength, their skills, their care,
Building the kingdom with their hands,
Grand Margonne stands without compare!
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
Dance continued strumming the chorus as he shouted, “Isn’t she wonderful, ladies and gentlemen? Beautiful and patriotic!” Though the crowd was small, the roar of appreciation rang off the rafters. Red curtsied, a radiant smile lighting her face, before she waved to them, blowing kisses, and stepped back.
“The song’s not quite finished,” Dance said. “I have added a few more stanzas. They’re quite good, if I say so myself.” He improvised a dramatic bridge to a new stanza and sang:
Margonne the Strong and his proud lords,
Brave Qadira in dragon’s guise,
Fought to defeat the savage hordes
Of Chogan’s evil enterprise.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
On the eve of that fateful fight,
’Ere donning dragon form ever,
Qadira gave Margonne a knife,
A dagger to bind together.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
In peace have lived generations,
Yet now a base traitor conspires
To rend asunder our nation,
And to the throne, this snake aspires.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
To you, we gravely testify,
Vile knave, we pledge on our good name,
We will not rest until you die,
And we Margonne’s dagger reclaim!
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
The Kingdom of Margonne is my home.
Margonne’s noble kingdom is our home.
As the last echoes of the music faded, the king and the prince stood, clapping and even shouting an occasional “Bravo!” and “I swear it, too!” With the king on his feet, everyone else had to stand and clap, something a few of the stiffer and older aristocrats were unused to doing. The Dowager Queen’s face twisted as if she had just sucked a lemon, standing as slowly as possible and sitting back down immediately, but Dance noticed that her protégé, despite being Satelen, had been among the first to shoot to her feet.
The crowd quieted, and Dance stepped forward, bowing. “Thank you all. You make me feel like part of the family. I wish my mother were here to see this.” He clasped his palms before him and shook them toward the king and then the crowd in a heartfelt gesture of thanks.
“In fact,” he said, “I am so touched, I think I might cry.” He pulled out his handkerchief—and pulled and pulled and pulled until he had a string of them a full four yards long. Looking back and forth between the multi-colored pile of handkerchiefs and the audience, he shrugged, saying, “As you know, I sneeze a lot. It’s good to be prepared, just in case. In that vein, ladies, I hope you left your cute, detestable kittens at home.”
With a flourish on his lute, he sang a ludicrous—and too long, overly dramatic, yet oddly compelling—song about how cute, detestable kittens banded together and took over a town by knocking things off tables, mantles, shelves, and every flat surface. They broke every piece of crockery (and many other items) except their own bowls of milk and kibble, of course. Soon, fear, frustration, and hunger drove the townspeople to behave like beasts and run away into the wild. Then, a shepherd boy from the countryside came to an agreement with a local wolf pack, which he led into the town one night by the light of a full moon. A terrific battle ensued between the cats and the wolves, decimating both factions. The survivors licked their wounds and, before long, slunk away. In the battle’s aftermath, the people returned to their homes by ones and twos and begged the shepherd boy to become their mayor. But none of them lived happily ever after because that is extremely hard to do in a town that has been ruined by detestable cats, despite their cuteness. The moral of the story, he sang, is never, ever trust kittens and always carry a handkerchief or two or several dozen strung together.
Good-natured boos cascaded down on him, and a few of the younger lords threw dinner rolls at him, one of which he caught. “Thank you,” he told them seriously around a mouthful of bread. “You must have realized I missed dinner. Throw me one with meat in it, will you?”
He handed his lute off to Red and returned to the front center of the stage. “I’m sorry, fair lords and ladies of the Court! Our dear king asked me to keep it short tonight, as it has been a long day for some, and for others, the workday is not yet over. Good night!”
He and Red waved as they bowed and slowly backed away. Suddenly, Dance sneezed hugely and snapped, “Where’s that kitten?” He smirked and winked and skipped off the stage.
A note:
Dance’s new words to the song mention “Chogan’s evil enterprise.” A power-hungry cousin of Qadira, Chogan took it as his life’s work to prevent a Leitan prophecy about its fall to an Angevan prince from coming to pass. After several attempts on the lives of the three sons of King Dontine of Angeva, he settled on Margonne as the most likely prince of Angeva to fulfill the prophecy. Chogan tried for years to kill him but failed repeatedly. In the meantime, he plotted to become Leitan’s Great Chief and began using the whole nation’s resources against Margonne. A loyal worshipper of the demon-god Azuri, he prayed for aid. In exchange, Azuri promised him success if he sacrificed the lives of Leitan’s virgin daughters. The god would pass on to Chogan some of the power he gained from these devoted lives. As the Great Chief, Chogan decreed each Leitani family must dedicate a virgin daughter to the cause or give an exorbitant offering of money in her stead. News of this horrible atrocity provoked Margonne into action, and he immediately began planning an invasion of Leitan to remove Chogan and his murderous followers.