James Roy - The Gimlet Eye

‘Of course you do,’ Fontagu replied quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest -’

‘Oh, do shut up,’ Florian sighed. ‘So, are you going to do it or not?’

‘The play? Yes, of course – it would be a great honour.’

‘Yes, indeed it would. And you’re to spare no expense, do you hear?’

Fontagu bowed his head. ‘None shall be spared, my lord. Is there someone I should talk to about the production budget?’

Florian frowned. ‘I fear you misunderstand Us, Actor. You are to spare no expense.’

‘Um… Oh!’ Fontagu suddenly burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you mean my money! Of course, how silly of me!’

Janus put his hand to his mouth and disguised a laugh with a cough. ‘You didn’t think the Emperor was going to spend his own money on a birthday gift for himself, did you?’

‘No! No, definitely not,’ stammered Fontagu.

Tiredly, Florian raised one hand, and Fontagu fell silent. ‘All right, you’re wasting Our time. Tell me, Actor, what play have you chosen to perform for Us?’

Fontagu reached under his cloak and took out his manuscript. ‘If it please my lord, I would be honoured to present for your edification my original production of The Gimlet Eye.’

‘ The Gimlet Eye, indeed?’ Florian replied. ‘We’ve seen that once before.’

‘All respect, my lord, but you’ve never seen it done like Fontagu Wizroth the Third shall do it.’

‘We’ll see,’ Florian grunted.

‘Is that the script there?’ Janus asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Bring it to me,’ Janus said, reaching out his hand, and the man in the skullcap hurried over, took the script from Fontagu and carried it to Janus.

‘Um… that’s my only copy,’ Fontagu protested.

Janus flicked through a couple of the pages. ‘Very well,’ he said after a moment, handing the script back to the servant, who returned it to Fontagu.

‘We’re done with this one,’ Florian said with a tired wave of his hand.

‘All right, Actor, go back to where you lodge,’ Janus said. ‘You’ll hear from us in due course.’

‘Thank you,’ Fontagu said, bowing low. ‘Thank you, my lord. Thank you everyone.’

Florian said nothing. He was somewhat distracted by the pigeon that had flown from its perch at the top of the large window behind him, swooped down into the throne room and, with perfect accuracy, dropped a small, runny spatter of white onto his shoulder.

With a quiet little thought of thanks, Tab extracted her mind from that of the pigeon. ‘He’s all right,’ she told Philmon. Then she laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ Philmon asked.

‘The pigeon – it left a little present for Florian. Right here,’ she added, patting her shoulder.

‘You made it do that?’

She smiled. ‘I might have.’

‘You’re terrible, Tab,’ Philmon said, breaking into a grin as well. ‘So what happened? Did your trick with the pigeon work? Did you get a good look? Could you hear anything?’

‘I saw everything, and I heard everything. He’s doing a play, like he said. He’s doing The Gimlet Eye.’

‘ The Gimlet Eye?’

‘Yes. I remember Stelka used to talk about it from time to time. It’s famous. In fact, I think I might have seen it once, with some of the other magicians. It was very long,’ she added. ‘I quite possibly fell asleep in the middle of Act Five.’

Philmon coughed. ‘ Five? How many acts are there?’

Tab shrugged. ‘I’m not actually sure. Six, maybe. I was asleep.’

‘What’s it even about?’

‘It’s one of those hero plays. You know, big scary monster thing roaming the land, terrorising the little people, until the hero stops it with some heroic act. Or something,’ she added. ‘Like I say, it’s all a bit hazy.’

‘Huh,’ said Philmon. ‘And I bet I can guess who the hero is going to be.’ He stopped walking, puffed out his chest and slipped the end of his right hand inside the opening of his shirt. He tried to deepen his voice, which made it squeak and crack. ‘It is I, Lord Florian the Heroic, come to slay the… What’s the monster called?’

‘The Gimlet Eye is the name of the monster. It uses its gaze to kill, or something.’

‘And that’s the play he’s doing?’

‘Yes.’

Philmon sniffed. ‘Well, at least he’s not dead. Yet.’

They hurried around the end of the palace towards the main front gate. With his hat and his cape, it didn’t take them long to spot Fontagu, who was walking as quickly as his long legs could carry him.

‘Thank the gods he’s not running,’ Philmon said.

‘He’d never let anyone see him run,’ replied Tab. ‘How undignified!’

‘He’s definitely in a hurry, though,’ said Philmon.

They jogged after him and, after pushing through the crowds near the palace and in the streets nearby, they finally caught up near the Old Tree Guesthouse.

‘Fontagu! Hold up a minute,’ Tab called, but he didn’t appear to have heard her. He just carried on walking.

‘Fontagu!’ she called again. ‘Font -’ Her voice caught in her throat as a short, red-headed man stepped out of a doorway, and straight into the path of Fontagu, who took a sudden, uncertain backward step.

Judging by his broad shoulders and his hefty arms, the red-headed man had once been powerful. Much of that bulk had now softened, and following the laws of age and gravity, had transformed into a heavy gut. Even so, he still formed enough of an imposing figure to intimidate Fontagu.

‘Who is that?’ Philmon said.

‘Just wait,’ Tab replied, reaching out and holding Philmon back by the arm. ‘Let’s see what this is all about.’

‘We can’t hear what they’re saying anyway.’

‘Just wait,’ Tab said again.

She was glad of that decision a moment later, when they saw the red-headed man step behind Fontagu, pinning his arm behind him. A flash of fear flickered across Fontagu’s face, and as he was half-guided, half-pushed into the doorway, Tab saw the glint of something shiny held against the small of his back.

‘Now what do you suppose that’s all about?’ Philmon wondered aloud.

‘Have you ever seen that man before? Because I’m sure I haven’t,’ Tab said.

Philmon shook his head.

‘Huh,’ Tab remarked to herself, turning to look behind them. ‘What do you think we should do – follow them?’

‘No need,’ Philmon replied, as Fontagu reappeared, staggering slightly as he stepped down onto the pavement. His face was pale and his eyes wide as he glanced up and down the street, before setting off towards home. A moment later the red-headed man appeared as well. He too looked furtively up and down before limping up the hill towards Tab and Philmon, who did their best to melt into the crowd as he hurried past.

‘What was that smell?’ Tab said when he’d gone.

‘Tigerplums,’ Philmon replied. ‘He was eating one.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘Some people like them.’

‘Yes, crazy people.’

‘Didn’t you see the colour of his mouth? All stained yellow.’

‘I didn’t see – I was too busy trying not to vomit from the smell. It stinks worse than Vlod’s spoiled boingy deer meat. Come on,’ Tab said, and they ran down the hill in pursuit of Fontagu.

They caught up with him a couple of streets later. He’d been making very good time.

‘Fontagu!’ Tab panted as they reached him.

He spun around, his hand to his chest. Then the back of his hand went to his forehead. For a moment, Tab wondered if he was about to pass out. ‘Oh Tab, must you startle a chap so? You know my disposition is delicate!’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is, especially after you’ve been held up at knife point.’