Shakespeare for Squirrels: A Novel (Fool #3)(51)

Oberon sat. “You command many sprites like that?”

“Sprites, demons, pixies, spirits, a firkin full of fucking ghosts. There’s always a bloody ghost. But, yes.”

Oberon sipped his wine, as if he was not trying to steady his hand. “With the Puck gone, I am in need of a fool.”

“Oh?” said I, thinking I should give thanks to Rumour, for I could not have laid down a better testament to my magical powers if I had actually had them. “I am in the service of another at present, but when I finish my current task, I would consider it. I am no slave, though, good king, I will require payment, and favors in advance as my retainer.”

“What payment?”

“There is a flower, I know not where it grows, but the liquor from it, when dropped into the eyes, will cause a sleeper to fall in love with the next thing he sees. I will require such a flower.”

“I know of such a flower. For this you would serve me?”

“That, and my valet, Bottom, has been transformed by the Puck into a donkey, and I would have him changed back. This spell is not among my powers.”

“I thought you did that when he displeased you,” said the shadow king.

“The Puck did it on my request. Professional courtesy, innit?”

Oberon removed his great crown and set it upon the table, then rubbed his temples so I thought he might gouge out his own eyes with the sharp silver fingertips he wore.

“Alas, these things are not in my power. ’Twas the Puck who fetched the purple flower that enchants a lover, and I never thought I would have need to find it myself. It is the same with the spell on your valet. What other price would you ask for your services, for even by these requests you see I am in need of a jester? Silver, gold, the sweetest perfumes. I command the moon and the tides, the goblins and fairies do my bidding and could as well do yours. Name your price, fool, and I shall list the tasks I require of you.”

“A night in your harem,” said I. “Unattended and unrestrained, to do as I wish.”

Oberon grinned like a child at the prospect of a spoonful of honey. “Done,” he said.

“And when I leave, I bring with me the retainers who accompanied me. The fairies. I require them for my work.”

“They are nothing, take them. But when you finish your task, you will bring me the Indian boy from Titania’s camp. Deliver him, and she should not know where he has gone.”

I scratched my chin as if I were considering it. “This I can do.”

“And I would have you spy on her, in the manner of the Puck, so she knows not that she is observed. I would know if Titania has taken a mortal lover.”

I measured my answer here, tempted as I was to wax poetic over what an obvious and egregious slut was the queen of the night, it appeared that this information had value to Oberon. “This I will do,” said I. “She shall not so much as smile at a passing hedgehog that you will not know of it in an hour.”

“And I shall need you to convey me to the Duke of Athens’s wedding tomorrow night.”

“That, I cannot do, Your Grace, for my task at hand is to perform at the very same wedding.”

“You are in service of Theseus?”

“Among others. But when you see me, let us pretend we are strangers.”

“Agreed.”

“And, Your Grace, see to the security of your castle. For having so many goblins at arms, your fortress is as porous as a sieve.”

“I have no fear. I am immortal.”

“So was the Puck, Your Grace.”





Chapter 14

The King’s Dread Pleasures




I pretended to drink, and regaled Oberon with lies of my travels and magical exploits well into the wide posterior of the night, when finally, the shadow king staggered off to slumber and a goblin servant led me to the harem as the king had instructed. Two guards with halberds stood outside the double doors, and between them, on the floor, lay the dead goblin that Oberon had shot with the crossbow. Over him crouched Gritch, his bat-wing ears drooping like wilted leaves. Nick Bottom sat leaning against the double doors, snoring quite loudly.

“Ring the bell,” Gritch commanded a guard, and the goblin turned and pulled a cord strung through the wall over his head. Somewhere on the other side of the door a bell chimed.

“Gritch, you needed only to bring the dead goblin here. You didn’t have to stay.”

“Was my mate,” said the goblin, stroking the dead goblin’s brow.

“This monster was your wife?”

“My friend,” said the goblin.

“Oh, quite right. Condolences.” I reached into my belt and retrieved the button from Bottom’s waistcoat and handed it to Gritch, who took it and stared mournfully at the silver Celtic knot pattern.

The two guards each bent over and regarded the button as if it were a holy relic. Gritch growled at them and they returned to attention.

A small brass portal in the door opened and a painted face filled it. “What?” she said. The face was tarted up, but from the white hair around it I could tell it was Moth.

“It’s Pocket, love. Let us in.”

“What’s the magic words?”

I looked to Gritch. “Magic words?”

The goblin shrugged.

“I don’t know the magic words,” said I.