Four

Sunday felt like a rude purgatory to Alison. She was brimming with nervous energy from the events of the night before. Now that the Cavalry Raja was secure, her faction had until the end of the day on Monday to display it clearly in Footman territory. The Theatre Department had plenty of excellent places to stash the goods. Their own objective was currently on display in the Great Hall at Leeds Theatre, in the thoughtfully outstretched hand of a sculpture of Hamlet, where Yorick’s skull should be. The sculpture was white marble, borrowed from Mount Holyoke. The ivory of the statuette blended perfectly, though it was thematically unusual. No one seemed to mind. Now, what an all-women’s college was doing with a Hamlet sculpture, Alison could not say. That play doesn’t have a lot of empowered female characters, unless you count Ophelia’s departure from the breathing club as a final act to keep Hamlet’s crazypants mitts off her.

Four cameras, scattered throughout the hall, had vantage on the Lord Chamberlain’s Raja. A fifth installation, hidden in a camera casing, emitted an infrared beam directly at the Gupta King in question. In the event of an interruption to said beam, a silent alarm was outfitted to send an APB to Control and all live assets. The figure itself was furnished with a GPS receiver, which assets could monitor on their phones. This was all quite reassuring, or it would be, if not for the unfortunate position of facing engineers in a rival faction. They always seemed a year ahead in tech.

By Alison’s math, this was fine. Each faction had unique advantages. English majors had a natural talent for cryptography and document forgery. Also, they seemed pretty up-to-date on tradecraft. Maybe they had a shared set of Le Carre’s spy novels, or spent late nights memorizing The Scarlet Pimpernel. Psychology undergrads seemed to focus on tracking patterns in the movements and behaviors of the other factions. They drew up complex sorties, attempting to predict how others would react under various circumstances. And the Lord Chamberlain’s Men were of course the best liars. The undergraduate career of the theatre major was finely tailored toward a life of professional deception and impersonation.

Alison was laying ponderously on a pile of clean but unfolded laundry when her phone rang. “Hey, Paige,” she beamed, thankful for a fresh excuse to procrastinate on this week’s homework.

“Hey, Aly. When do we deliver the thing to the place?”

“This isn’t a secure line, dear heart,” Alison encouraged. “We can chat about all the things and places during Critical Theory.”

“Speaking of which, do you have a thesis for the Hamlet paper?”

“I have thoughts on Hamlet. Nothing revolutionary, but I think it’s enough for a term paper.”

Paige exhaled a frustrated little breath. “I’m stuck. Will you pitch me your idea? Maybe it’ll kick loose some dirt in the decrepit little mausoleum in my noggin?”

Alison hesitated. “Okay, well–”

“I promise I won’t snag your idea,” Paige reassured, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” Alison bit her lip. Paige, of course, had no way of detecting this, but knew instinctively that this was a lip-biting pause. “It’s just– easy to dismiss and I’m worried that people will think it’s dumb.”

“I’m sure it’s not dumb.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“Okay, Alison,” Paige said through a sigh. “Please tell me your dumb idea and break the earwax rocks in my head.”

“Okay. I think Hamlet is funny.”

“Like, the character?”

“No, the whole play. I think it’s a comedy.”

Paige chewed on this. “Isn’t it, like, our cultural milestone for dark and broody?”

“Yeah,” Alison rang back, a little excitement rising in her voice as she gathered her thoughts. “I think that’s our culture coloring the work so we can keep casting mopey-faced goth boys in the role. The play itself is funny. Played for laughs, I think it would get laughs.”

“Everybody dies.”

“That’s funny, Paige!” Whether or not that was true, Alison’s delivery elicited a short, sharp laugh from Paige, capped with a decisive snort. It was the first snort of many that Alison would draw out of Paige in a long friendship.

“Alison, give me a specific example of something funny in Hamlet.”

“Okay, so when dude finally musters the courage to kill his stepdad, he sees a rustling behind a curtain, and instead of looking he just stabs it. He just up and stabs whoever is behind the curtain, hoping it’ll be his stepdad. But it’s not, it’s his girlfriend’s actual father! It’s like some kind of twisted mistaken-identity love triangle, but with stabbing. It’s Twelfth Night, but with blood fountains instead of false mustaches.”

“Give me another. I’m processing.”

“Next scene,” Alison resounded through a chuckle, “Hamlet has just moved the body upstairs. King Claudius, evil uncle extraordinaire, walks in and says ‘Where’s Polonius?’ Hamlet says ‘At supper.””

“At supper?”

“Yeah, Claudius is confused as well. Hamlet needs to clarify. ‘Not where he eats but where he is eaten.’ Like, it’s supper for the worms and dude’s the main course.”

“Dang,” said Paige. “That’s cold. Aren’t we supposed to feel bad? Because he’s descending into madness or whatever?”

Alison smiled audibly. “Oh, Hamlet isn’t crazy.”

“Jesus, Aly, you buried the lede! How is Hamlet not crazy?”

“He’s pretending. He only says the crazy stuff when people are watching. It’s a smokescreen. To soften the blow of all the evil schemes he’s plotting. No, he’s not crazy, he’s lucid. He knows he’s probably going to die for all of his shenanigans. Providence in the fall of a sparrow and whatever. So he cracks jokes to make the best of a bad situation.”

“Now he’s cracking jokes?” Paige was getting incredulous.

“Constantly. And in the least opportune moments. He jokes at Ophelia’s funeral. He jokes during the duel that kills him.”

Paige was running the numbers on this. “And you said it’s to make the best of a bad hand?”

Alison was still working this part out. “I think so. Something like that, anyway. Some kind of grand metaphor or implicit theme. We’re all gonna die anyway, so let’s at least get a few good belly laughs in there before the devil takes us.”

“Hm,” said Paige after a few quick calculations. “Well, I’m not sure it’s Hamlet, but it’s definitely you. Peters is gonna hate it at any rate, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Alison considered this. “I mean– isn’t that what college is for? Taking a bold stand? Making a strong case for a wild idea? I’m living the dream!”

“Maybe they should have us write papers on Hamlet after we mount a full production of it. Oh! That reminds me! Who are you auditioning for?”

Alison offered a pause the length of a short, dramatic drumroll. “Hamlet,” she said plainly.

“I mean, I love it, but why?”

“I already told you,” said Alison, “he has all the good jokes.”

***

The Lord Chamberlain’s Men met on Monday afternoons under the proscenium of Leeds Theatre. Seven burgundy armchairs were circled at center stage, illuminated by a single follow spot. Six for active assets, one for Control. Each faction was counselled by a faculty member from its corresponding department, who could offer advice on matters, but never formulated plans or gave orders. These advisers wore pins as well, and could be eliminated, albeit for zero points. Such actions were rare, but once in a long while a team saw value in cutting off their foes from this valuable wealth of knowledge. After all, dead people don’t talk.

On this sunkissed September Monday, Professor Jim Peters arrived first, and occupied an embellished, quilted armchair as assets trickled in. He quietly admired what was left of the set for The Cherry Orchard between bouts of intense scribbling on a yellow legal pad. All dads write on yellow legal pads. It’s one of the unspoken laws of the universe. Aly wasn’t sure if Peters even was a dad, but he had dad energy, and that was enough to earn him at least an honorary legal pad. Alison and Paige made sure to arrive fashionably late. A new asset and a captured objective practically necessitated a dramatic entrance. Arm in arm, they did not fail to make the grade.

“Gentlemen, it is my privilege to introduce the inimitable Paige Hall, newest member of the Lord Chamberlain’s most esteemed.” Applause was replaced with open-handed slapping of the various leather arms of the circled wing chairs and numerous shouts of “Here, here!” Paige would come to learn the irresistible appeal of emulating the mannerisms of stuffy, Victorian-Era British aristocrats.

A series of old-timey salutations of the “Good egg!” and “Bally ho!” variety rung in riotous unison, capped by a decisive “What say you, Page Hall?” from Control.

Paige had the floor. She surveyed the scene for clues as to how she should respond. She had never been in a British Men’s Club before. She hadn’t really been in any club, except for gym, which was always very stern and serious in tone. She let the silence settle, and then put forth a meager “Pip, pip?”

And the crowd went wild.

“Paige Hall,” Control commanded the conversation as the bedlam trickled to a low hum. “I should now introduce you to the remainder of your unit. To your immediate left, in the burnt ember anorak, is Andy McElroy. He’s our resident gearhead. He’ll set you up with your com and put your head on straight in regards to technological affairs. Clockwise from Sir Andy is Ed Butler. Dramaturg by day, plotter of dastardly operations in the evening hours. Teddy Dalton is our watcher. He gathers intelligence on the movements of known enemy assets. He also moonlights as operator, as poor old Tony Pierce is no longer with us. Rest with the angels, Tony. And that leaves Brian Ward, here in the Patagonia puffer. Our runner. Sometimes you just need someone who can run like the dickens.”

The undergraduates shook hands and exchanged pleasantries as Control made his way around the gauntlet.

“Surely you’ve already met Ms. Ashe,” he said fondly.

“I have,” Paige replied. “What’s her specialty?”

Paige looked over at Alison, who didn’t actually know the answer to this. She shrugged and looked back to Control.

“Alison is our fighter. She excels at single combat.”

I do? replied Alison’s stunned expression.

“Never wander down a dark alley without her.” A second round of chair beating confirmed the affirmation. “Now, Paige. I’d like you to consider your talents as well. What might you offer to the Lord Chamberlain’s Men?”

Paige smiled. “How bout you offer me a chair and I’ll think about it?”

The meeting progressed. Alison recounted the encounter with Reed Baker of the Cavalry. Paige jumped in intermittently to enthusiastically highlight a detail or crack wise. Alison showed no exception to her budding talent for burying the lede, waiting for correct placement in the narrative to produce the Raja from the interior pocket of her topcoat. The revelation elicited a thunderous collection of British colloquialisms.

As the roaring began to dim, Control cleared his throat and eyes settled on him. “Without any errant doubt, this should convert us some position, and so should be seen as a resounding victory. Paige, Alison, bally good show. Moving forward, we must return to you. Any action we take on this will depend gravely on your answer to the following inquiry. In your gut, do you trust this Baker fellow?”

Paige was at a loss. With a glance, she offered this one up to Alison, who ruminated on every angle she could rally forth. Leaking false intel certainly couldn’t hurt their position. If the Cavalry drops the ball on backup, Footmen could still reliably close the trap on their own. Even a single Elephant out of play was a worthwhile conversion. Reed Baker was the hot question. Literally. Focus, old girl. The Cavalry had so much to gain by helping the Footmen, and far too much to lose in deceiving them. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps there was a way to squeeze more of that sweet strawberry syrup out of the lovely Reed Baker. You know, for insurance. And no other reason.

When the silence had become borderline audacious, Alison spoke. “I do not trust Reed Baker. But I trust that I can manage him.”

Ed Butler spoke next. “Bully, then. All in favor of proceeding?” The measure passed unanimously. “Alison, I trust you can run point on this. I want Paige with you at all times during active operations. Teddy Dalton, can you play operator?”

“That sounds most agreeable, sir.”

“Splendid,” Ed returned. “Do keep us abreast of the details as they develop. On to the matter of placement of our newest Gupta monarch.”

After some debate, it was agreed that the Prince of Denmark did indeed have two hands, and that the Rajas would be best friends. And that surely they would be lonely if not placed in close proximity to one another. New business was conducted. Old business was conducted. Measures were voted upon. Minutes were taken. Sir Andy would set up a second laser to guard the new objective. It was then agreed upon, with no objections noted, that the device was not actually a laser, and that Sir Andy would set up a second whats-it. As the meeting neared its conclusion, Control assumed the floor once more.

“Before we part, I would be remiss not to query young Paige Hall as to whether she has yet devised a specialty to contribute to the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

Paige scrunched her mouth tightly, crossing a stray leg as she shifted in her absurdly ornate chair. The expression faded to an impish smile as she perforated the silence with the assorted poppings of a fistful of knuckles. “Yes. Quite. Rather. In regards to the matter, I should acquiesce to declare a specialty in– surprises.”

And the armchair thunder rang once more.