The Jester: Epilogue
Episode 42: "Hope"
Six weeks later, the weather had turned cold. Fires burned in every hearth, and frost rimmed the windows. Outside, a dusting of icy snow had fallen throughout the early evening, but the sky had cleared. The wise warned everyone that it would be the kind of bitter-cold night that took a person by pieces and parts if he stayed out in it too long.
For that night, the king had called a farewell feast for his family and a few friends. On the morrow, his sisters and their children would leave to return to their husbands’ faraway seats, and Prince Lirens would also depart to spend the fall and winter months with his wife and children at their home northeast of Blayne. Soon, Mardans and Tiena would escort Liandra back to Satele, where they would visit the Santinetta and Marini estates before returning to Palisade in late winter. Though absent from the feast, Dinae and Aran would accompany them as far as Delphino.
With dinner over, most of the adults had retreated to the couches and chairs near the room’s enormous fireplace, which a servant fed generously. As king, at the center of it all, Alfons sat on a comfortable settee with his wife, looking with obvious pride at his extended family—the old stalwarts and the new additions. He loved seeing them together, laughing and conversing without rancor. Even his mother had been abnormally placid lately. Knowing it would not last forever, he indulged himself in the peace it gave him. Kings, he thought, rarely get to enjoy such harmony among his relatives.
He frowned, however, when his thoughts jumped to images of Formosis and Désira. Their selfish scheming, murder, and treason had gutted the Tilanta family, and it would take generations for Amancuse and his heirs to rub out the stain of their disloyalty. Since their arrests, Alfons had prayed every morning that House Ankara would never produce such traitors to the Kingdom of Margonne. Having experienced treason against himself, he desired never to do so again. He found it depressing, even vaguely defiling.
Yet, Mardans had done a masterful job finding Margonne’s Dagger and bringing the perpetrators to justice. Choosing him to investigate had been inspired, even if he and Lirens had been taking a chance on an untried and seemingly unsettled young man. Alfons recalled almost scuttling the whole idea when his half-brother had suggested posing as a jester. A jester, of all things! But it had worked well enough, and his efforts had eliminated two of the Kingdom’s enemies.
He had hated signing the order of execution for his cousins, but their peers had judged them guilty of treason, notwithstanding all the other charges. As a monarch, I must be just despite my personal feelings, he reminded himself. Désira’s advocate had tried to argue that her crimes did not amount to treason—she was just foolishly aiding her brother. But his argument fell to pieces when the Crown prosecutor skillfully laid before the court the stunning depth of her clandestine and unquestionably treasonous dealings with the Tanjari.
In the end, three days after hearing the verdict in her case, she had drunk a quick-acting poison that her foreign friends favored, cursing them all with her last breath. For his part, Formosis had gone silently to the traditional chopping block, leaving a note for his father in his cell. While a number of witnesses were present, neither execution was public, a concession the king had made to Amandes and Amancuse. And just that evening, Tiena had whispered to him that Amancuse had buried their bodies in unmarked graves on the grounds of the family’s lower house. I hope that ends the matter.
When Constans rose to join the king’s sisters, Tiena, and Liandra, who were conversing on a nearby couch, Lirens and Mardans immediately joined him, the prince taking the Queen’s seat and Mardans drawing up a nearby chair.
“So, regal brother,” Lirens said, only a little louder than normal. He had imbibed liberally that evening, seeking to enjoy his last family dinner for many months. “I was just wondering if you had considered rewarding our little brother for the fine job he did in defending the Kingdom and House Ankara.”
The king’s jester had his head down and was shaking it, but Alfons smiled. “It’s fine, Mardans!” he said. “You should know by now that our esteemed younger brother speaks his mind with little care for rank or circumstance. He has done it so long I doubt we can break him of the habit.”
“It’s what makes him so endearing,” Mardans said with a smirk.
“So?” Lirens insisted. “Are we just avoiding my question?”
“No, not at all,” the king said. “Mardans and I have discussed it privately.”
“I bet he said he didn’t need any reward,” the prince guessed, nodding and grinning.
“Almost those very words,” Alfons answered, “along with, ‘It was an honor to be entrusted with the responsibility.’”
“I could’ve guessed that, too,” Lirens said, nodding again.
“Am I so predictable?” Mardans asked, slightly peeved.
“Well, you are because you are a humble gentleman,” the king said, “unlike some in our present company.”
“I’m feeling picked on,” Lirens mumbled.
“And well you should,” the king chided him. He went on in a quieter voice: “Anyway, I’ve conferred on our dear brother both a captain’s rank in the Palace Guard and a barony. The first is effective immediately, while the second will be conferred upon his wedding day. And that you will keep secret, Prince Lirens, because it’s meant to be a surprise wedding gift.”
“Sweet,” the prince said. “Congratulations, little brother! So, we’ve got a king and queen, princes and a princess, a duke and duchess, a count and countess, and soon, a baron and baroness. We have the whole gamut of nobility in one family. We are a veritable cross-section of Margonni aristocracy.”
“What does that mean?” Mardans asked, his hands wide. “Do we win a prize or something?”
“I don’t think so,” Lirens said. “I just thought it interesting.”
“Brandy will do that,” Mardans said solemnly, winking at the king. Lirens nodded in agreement, missing his brother’s jibe.
Alfons laughed silently at his brothers’ banter and Mardans’ ability to play off Lirens’ semi-drunken foolishness. It made him realize what he had thought earlier was wrong: Mardans had not posed as a jester; he was a jester. With consummate skill, he could spin just about anything into a punchline or a bit of whimsical silliness that had everyone laughing. Sometimes, he shot barbs of wisdom in humorous disguise or made digs with double meanings. A moment after he had the audience roaring at a pratfall, he would sing a song that had the same people sobbing over lost love or the death of a child. Then he would pass smoothly into a magic trick or juggle balls or dance a silly jig. And after all that, he would interview witnesses, rescue a damsel, plan a trap, and catch a killer!
Every family needs at least one of its own to play the jester now and then, the king thought. For them, it was Mardans, their lost sheep returned to the fold, making his family whole. And it brought him great comfort.
Miles to the south, the cold had settled into the bones of Kingsport, a coastal city usually sun-drenched and warm with cool ocean breezes bringing the smell of the sea onshore. With the cold, news of the Tilanta siblings’ fate had arrived on the criminal grapevine. The thief could rely on its accuracy because criminal informants knew the price of sending false reports up the chain.
Tonight, the thief—the same professional cat burglar who stole Margonne’s dagger from the palace just a few months earlier—looked nothing like a thief. With braided hair pinned in swirls atop her head, she wore a colorful dress of yellows, oranges, and reds appropriate for the dance hall she had owned for several years. It stood in a prime location equidistant from the beach and harbor, a well-known haunt of pleasure-seekers throughout the city. Her clientèle ran the spectrum of upstanding citizens and criminals, locals and foreigners, merchants and sailors, craftsmen and laborers. Even a few nobles found her place to their liking. She called it “Huqsela” after the ancient name of the Leitan capital city, decorating it in homage to the nation’s past.
As the owner, she had a private suite on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. Windows in its rear provided a view of the ocean, which is where she stood, arms crossed, watching the moon’s light glint off the water’s surface. Behind her, the hall was warm, packed with bodies, and raucous, smelling of alcohol and human sweat. Her eyes saw the moonlight, her ears heard the throbbing music, and her nose smelled the rancid air, but they failed to register them. Her staff knew not to disturb her when this mood came upon her.
The Tilantas’ total failure had forced her to the brink of a decision. She had agreed to steal the dagger because Formosis’ agent had not only promised a ridiculous sum for her services but also pledged that the new Tilanta government would make room for more Leitani involvement. But she realized now that no Margonni regime would never do that. They would never share power. In all likelihood, Formosis had instructed the agent to say anything to convince her to do the job. Now Formosis was dead, and dead men keep no promises.
So, the Leitani themselves would have to throw off their yoke themselves, and she would be the rebellion’s mother—no, its nuha; its Wise Woman. It would take time to gather followers and teach them the old ways. She would have to restore their pride and find chieftains the people would follow. Perhaps she could train her son or an unborn grandson to take up the mantle of leadership and lead the Leitani back into power over their own lands. Most of all, she would need to encourage the adoration of Azuri to return strength to her backsliding brethren. If their faith was pure, he might even bestow mystical gifts upon his people.
Nodding to herself, she turned back to the hubbub of her dance hall. She had work to do.
The End
Almost done. All that's left is the bonus! I love the cliffhanger too.