The King's Players RPG

[Anguirel]

Riding through the city

Distress was not quite the right word for Cirdacil's apparent state. Mania might have been closer. There seemed an uncontrolled slant to his words and actions, which in such a normally ordered man had an undeniably comic aspect. Vëandur, on the other hand, might not have recognised this piquancy, as his great-uncle had first entered this disturbed state on recognising him, and had never since entirely shaken it off.

"I asked after you at the King's Admiralty," the old fellow began to mutter now, "and the name the surveyor gave me for your vessel, and your captain, could not but give my some dismay; to my surprise, my own creatures at the Treasury have had to become familiar with your ship's affairs; and I caught the familiar ring. There is embezzlement from the King's own Excise going on aboard her...though whether captain, officers or crew drive it, none of my men have traced...needless to say, I hold you innocent in this, boy, and I shall speak for you if it be needed. Yet you are right; it is not of this matter I came to bandy words with you..."

He spoke as he cantered, displaying a more ingenious and manouvreable grasp of the reins than seemed usual - even appropriate - to his age, and station. Vëandur would only now notice that his uncle was not merely a short man by the City's lights, but a bow-legged one too. Lacking such routine fluency, the younger man began to struggle to weave beside the elder as they left the Third Circle behind them. No courtesy troubled Cirdacil now, and he barked his odd form of 'conversation' back.

"You're a polite boy, and a wise one too, I think, and when you remarked that you would be interested to know of my cares at the Exchequer - aye, and the Revels, too - I took you quite at your word."

They now passed under the white gate to the Fourth, spangled with new copper hinging and bolting; the Guards of the evening faltering back as they had done on each occasion before.

"Ha, you had days in the City on leave before I interrupted you, young Berenson; perhaps you can tell me some things frankly. Did you hear of the King's Players? And what did you hear?"

[Pitchwife]

Coldan was at the end of his wits. Asta seemed to have entered into a state of mind resembling a berserker's battle fury which rendered her impenetrable to arguments and reason. If there was no stopping her, the best he could do would be to stick with her and try to see her through this venture with as little damage done as he could manage - both to and by her; he wasn't sure himself which worried him more.

"No, I von't," he grumbled and began to disrobe their unconscious victim. "But zese clothes von't fit me, he's too zin; and I vill look most credible as a captured villain to zese Gondorians, unvashed Easterling zat I am in zeir eyes. If Harry von't do it, you'd best play ze servant yourself, Asta; it von't be your first male role either."

Mumbling something that sounded like "...about time you came to your senses," Asta caught the garments he tossed to her, then quickly stripped down to her shift and donned the servant's livery. It wasn't the first time Coldan saw her changing costumes - over the years, the forced intimacy of cramped backstage spaces had given him a good idea of what he was missing - , so he wouldn't have bothered to look the other way if Harrenon hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

"You can't just go along with her, Coldan!" Harrenon insisted frantically. "We'll all end up in jail if you're caught!"

Coldan shrugged wearily. "I must, Harry, since I can't dissuade her. I hev given Asta my vord I vould stand by her, and to a man of Dorvinion, such a pledge given to a voman is as binding as ze Oath of Fëanor. Zis vas my plan as much as hers, and I can't let her valk into danger alone now. You're under no such obligation, and I can't blame you for backing out - it's ze most sensible zing to do. If ve're not back by ze morning bells, find one Captain Bregolas of ze Tower Guard and tell him vat happened - he's a friend of Aldarion's and should know vat to do."

"Are you done talking?" Asta interrupted them, gathering her long hair into a knot and hiding it under the powdered wig. "We've got to hurry." If not for the false white hair, she would have looked like a young page who still had to grow into his blue uniform with lots of lace and little black and white lions all over the front and marching up the sleeves. She ripped a few strips of cloth off the seams of her skirts and handed the ribbons to Coldan, who tied the senseless lackey's hands and feet with them and stuffed his handkerchief into the man's mouth, while Asta hid her bundled clothes under the hedge next to him. When all was done, he stood up and nodded to her.

"Let's get going!"

"Then come, you scoundrel, and don't you try no tricks!" Asta took him by the arm and marched him back to the demolished door, followed by a desperate Harrenon. Somehow Coldan got the impression that this distribution of roles didn't displease her at all - she rather seemed to be enjoying herself. He wasn't sure he liked that.

On the threshold of the door gaping before them like the entrance to the Cracks of Doom he briefly turned back to Harrenon. "Remember, Harry - Captain Bregolas of ze Tower Guard. And tell Brinn I'm sorry."

To Sammath Naur and back, he reminded himself, drawing a deep breath. Then he resigned himself to whatever fate might lurk behind that door and let Asta drag him into Sador's den.

[Inziladun]

"Ha, you had days in the City on leave before I interrupted you, young Berenson; perhaps you can tell me some things frankly. Did you hear of the King's Players? And what did you hear?"

Vëandur heard the last questions the old man had asked, but his mind for the moment was still fixed on what had been said just before.

The Exchequer's office was investigating his ship? If one or others were involved in something illegal, that might at least explain all the late drama aboard that had become by degrees harder and harder to ignore. It could also be the reason for the captain's strange behaviour. Vëandur would not allow himself to yet believe the captain was guilty, at least not without evidence, but worry over the matter could have eating at the man's mind.

As those thoughts ran through his head, Vëandur knew Cirdacil was waiting for answers. Time enough for the rest later. Their steeds raced through the sleeping city streets. The dark sky revealed no stars, and now lightning began to flicker in the direction of the mountains to the east, though no sound of thunder was yet heard.

"The King's Players?" he asked. " I know little: merely that they are a traveling group of actors portraying the events of the War of the Ring. I did happen to meet one of them, though. A fellow who named himself 'Aldarion'. I thought him at first a noble soldier by his looks and speech, and was in truth disappointed to find myself mistaken."

Puzzled, Vëandur asked the question that rose to his mind.

"What trouble have these Players caused, my lord? I said I would aid you if I could, and that word I shall keep."

[Galadriel55]

"I don't think anyone in this Middle-earth leads a dull life, least of all you. And if you think you do, what's stopping you from making it a little more interesting yourself?"

Thiliel looked down, sighing slightly. Ingold's words rang in her ears: You are almost grown up, and you have to act as such. What is stopping her? You have to act like you are expected to, like your sires want you to. Are they the ones who always cut short the wings of glory, risk, excitement, - adventure? Have to. But are they? Do they not want every child to live a tale worth telling?

What tale? All the Great Tales are of the past. Would I that I have lived then! No, I do not wish for War to come again upon us, but rather to have a part in that War. Peace is for those who have done their work in battle - they truly enjoy the rightful peace. But for others, those like me, who only heard an echo of the War, and who have only seen its reflection in the eyes of the older and on the unused swords? If I was a part of that echo - as small as it would have been! How could Celebrindal think that something done now - today - this minute - could possibly compare with the deeds of the past?

Celebrindal. She was leaning forward, looking intently at Thiliel, her supper forgotten. Her eyes shone. A lock of hair fell on her check. She looked like a lass herself. No one told her to act her age… She travels with the troop, free from everything.

“Mistress Celebrindal, may I also journey with you and the others?” the question came out unexpectedly, but was not unwanted. Thiliel’s chest swelled with exhilaration at the idea, although reason told her what the answer will be.

[Anguirel]

Sador and Circilie led their sister-by-law, and their player guest, into a lower, but long room off the ball-room, Sador falling back as Aldarion and Gloredhel moved past him to swing the door to.

"There, good," he mumured, all off-hand, "for the moment I wanted to be certain of discretion."

The chamber might be less grand in its capacity, but there was still an impression of ornate, recently implemented luxury in Ecsichil's* Music Room. Walls and ceiling alike were festooned with airily gorgeous frescoes in gentle, light colours, illustrating birds, trees, and fantastical architectural caprices; interspersed everywhere with scenes of minstrelsy. In Dol Amroth the visitors would have seen purist, classical portraiture and sculpture on such themes, illustrating particular episodes; Maglor singing the Noldor's fall by the sea, or Daeron in his final flight. These images had no such ambition of conception; they were gaudily done lads and lasses, playing at lutes and zithers, yellow-haired as Circilie for the most part, and as carefree, too.

The room was actually rather sparing on musical instruments themselves; there was a harp, that looked too prettily and heavily decorated to be played with any harmony; there was a kind of Eastern drum that proved on closer inspection to be an exotic form of table; a flute hung on one wall beside several swords, but none looked very given to practicality, whether in battle or song. The Music Room's name was a conceit as insubstantial as music's own charm. Sador conceded no attention to any of it, moving swiftly into the middle of the room and securing his three companions' attention with several swift, eager glances.

"Right. Master Lameleg's latest drama is a tragicomedy - you are of course all aware of the genre..."

"It is not generally allowed as a genre at all, at Dol Amroth," Aldarion interposed in a quietly stern tone.

"Well, I shall hope my, ah, direction can seduce you from your early training, then, friend. The play I wish to set before this gathering, Celebrindal, is set in Gondolin - ancient Gondoline the piece generally calls it, for ease of melody - long before her fall. The argument concerns the marriage of Princess Idril the Silverfoot, always referred to in the text as Celebrindal...like the leader of your fine troupe, Aldarion; a happy coincidence. Celebrindal loves and is loved by Tuor the Adan, but Maeglin, her cousin, also by untimely fate desires her. He tries to seduce her and present proof of her infidelity to Tuor; he initially succeeds, with the help of his rascally minstrel friend Salgant, but is uncovered as a liar in the resolution. We shall play only two extracts; the attempted seduction, and the gulling and grief of Tuor. Here are your parts. Read them well; ."

He handed screeds of parchment to each of them, keeping one himself. Gloredhel's read Celebrindal of old Gondoline, Circilie's Salgant of the Harp, Sador's own Tuor the Adan, and Aldarion's, Prince Maeglin of the Sharp Glance.

"A chance for our errant swan to unstretch his feathers," Sador joshed as he handed out this last part. "And it is he who shall begin our first reading..."

The top of Aldarion's part was a short enough speech:

Change you, cousin?
The worthy mortal Tuor is in safety,
And greets your highness dearly.**

Sador mouthed it as if he knew it by...more than heart, but soon swallowed back his too enthusiastic disposition...


*City records of the early Fourth Age refer to the minor noble Cirdacil Cirdacilion as both Ecsichil and Echsicil; this was a lesser title he held by marriage, by which he was generally called to distinguish him from his father, the more famous Cirdacil, Lord Warden of the Exchequer and briefly Master of the Revels.

**Seventh Age scholars might wish to compare this scene to Cymbeline, Act I scene 5, by Edward de Vere Earl of Oxford.

[the phantom]

"Right. Master Lameleg's latest drama is a tragicomedy - you are of course all aware of the genre..." said Sador.

"It is not generally allowed as a genre at all, at Dol Amroth," Aldarion interposed in a quietly stern tone.

Gloredhel shot Aldarion a puzzled glance as Sador went on to explain the setting. Why is he taking this angle? Since when has he had such a dislike for tragecomedies?

Gloredhel smiled politely as she was handed her part. She was actually a bit disappointed to be Idril, as she expected that roll to offer the least in the way of humor, and assumed her character would be that of a standard beautiful elf princess.

She looked sideways at Aldarion's part and was surprised to see that he had received the part of Maeglin rather than Tuor, assuming that his look and bearing would have spurred Sador to follow that route. But this change was probably to Aldarion's liking, as he had always enjoyed being a villain. She and Amlach had always joked that Aldarion was a bit too comfortable in such roles.

But Aldarion was already reading! Gloredhel scrambled to find her bearings. He had not even bothered to question Sador as to the specifics of the situations and the character overall within this particular work. Plus he wasn't bothering with a Noldorin accent, which was extremely strange, as Aldarion simply loved to disguise his voice.

"Change you, cousin?
The worthy mortal Tuor is in safety,
And greets your highness dearly...."

[Anguirel]

Sador seemed as surprised as Gloredhel by Aldarion's blunt, unadorned approach, and not a little dissatisfied, too.

"Hang on, friends, let's pause here, I feel that wasn't quite right. Do it again, Aldarion. Bring out the expression that made your Ar-Pharazon infamous, sir! You are the most notorious turncoat of the Elder Days now, and one of the slyest speakers. You are delivering an apparently innocuous greeting, but some of its words carry deeper meanings. Stress them:

"Cousin. Your knowledge of an incestuous draw burns at your heart day and night. Mortal. You know your rival is doomed to wither and die. Dearly. More dearly that the upstart can afford. These words drive you mad, and reveal your soul to each spectator...if not to Idril herself. Like this...if you'll allow me?"

And Sador, who seemed to be acting under a quite extra-rational impulse, took Aldarion's first leaf and read out the snatch of blank verse again. Like the player, he scorned to attempt any Quenyan lilt. This was no stylised imitation of an Elf from legend, but the heartfelt cry a man in pain. He was playing himself, intensified, simplified, purified. Most striking of all, he had slipped into addressing not the whole room, but one other, facing Gloredhel in the most naturalistic manner.

And he absolutely had not intended to. As he reached the third line he reddened in abashment. "Of course, I lack your experience, Master Aldarion, and you must forgive the liberty I have taken. Your Maeglin must be your own, not mine, and...I shall be interested to see it." He passed back the sheet of vellum with a slight but palpable shudder...