A Foolish Display by Anna Cheek

        “Right, go ahead. Blame the fool, how original,” Festine looked up into the face of the mourning prince and, to his right, the ever stoic personal guard of the king. The two of them, and an unnecessary amount of the royal guard, had seized Festine on his evening walk and drug him all the way down to the dungeon for interrogation, which he thought was a bit dramatic. Festine was a fool, sure and true. Down to his appearance, he was the exact opposite of threatening. He was thin and pale, almost to the point of looking sickly. He wasn’t even tall. But still, he was ambushed as if he were an escaped convict because, apparently, the prince believed that he was. Festine hadn’t the slightest clue why he was taken by the royal guard until he was tightly locked up in a very small dungeon cell. Only then did the king’s right hand confess that the king had suddenly died.

        Right after dinner, in fact, which meant it was just hours after Festine’s performance for His Majesty. He was changing for bed when his hands tightened around the expensive fabric surrounding his chest, and after a moment of struggling and gasping and groaning, down he went, never to breathe another breath. The king’s guard saw it all, nobly guarding his dying body until his last bit of consciousness had evaporated to Heaven above.

The prince spoke up, “Don’t play dumb with us, fool! What sort of magic did you cast upon my father? He was in perfect health until-” he choked up. Poor lad, Festine felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to break character. 

        “But, Your Highness, I must play dumb because I am the fool. That’s my job.” The prince did not like that at all. 

        “Ho!” He exclaimed with manic fervor. “So you say it’s true! So you confess that you murdered my father in cold blood!”

        “My Lord,” the king’s guard put his hand on the prince’s shoulder to calm him down. His tone was stern and confident, fatherly even. “Please settle down. An investigation should not be conducted based on blind accusations.” The prince shook his head and sighed, mumbling an apology under his breath. The guard looked towards Festine and walked right up to the heavy iron bars of his cell. He jingled as he strode, the chainmail surrounding his body rattling with every heavy boot fall. The guard looked down at Festine who was sitting cross legged on the cool stone floor. “Stand up to speak to me, fool.”

        Normally, Festine would obey the guard’s demands, but he figured since he was already in a load of trouble, he might as well make it fun. They might even leave him alone if he annoyed them badly enough.

        “Must we do this while standing?” Festine groaned. “I’m quite comfortable on the ground here. Why don’t you sit with me, sir?”

        The guard recoiled, disgusted by the act of insubordination. “You dare deny me, fool?”

        “I deny nothing, good sir,” Festine’s neck was beginning to hurt from looking up at the guard for so long. “I simply suggested that we compromise.” Festine offered a friendly smile. Mocking it was, sure, but it was friendly nonetheless. 

        The guard closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly doing everything in his power not to lash out and kill the fool just for the hell of it. After a moment, he looked back to the prince who was watching intently for his next action. He slowly turned his head back to look at Festine below him. The fool grinned once more and slapped his constrained hands against the floor, inviting him again to sit. Then, with another deep sigh, the guard sat down across from Festine.

        When the two men were at last face to face on either side of the iron bars, the fool tilted his head and smiled warmly at the brutish man before him. “See?” He implored. “Now isn’t that much better?” 

        The guard completely dismissed his question and went straight into the interrogation. “Is it or is it not true that you are the fool of His Majesty, King Simon’s court, Festine?”

        “Festine is my name indeed and I have been the fool of this-” he looked around the dark room of the dungeon, everything dusted and grim with only a few torches for lighting. “This merry court. I, in fact, was employed by His Majesty, King Simon, but seeing as he is now deceased I should not say that I remain his fool.” To Festine’s surprise, the guard kept an even face, not allowing even the slightest sign of agitation to show through. He was a surprisingly calm guard, which is probably why the King had depended on him so heavily. Stanly was his name, and tall and solid as he was, he seemed to have more patience than a nanny. Perhaps that’s why the King had basically made him a nanny by entrusting Stanly to look after his son ever since the boy was the size of his boot.

        “And,” the guard went on, “is it or is it not true that you, Festine the Fool, performed a show for His Majesty this evening before dinner?”

        “Yes. That is true also.”

        “And was this not a show of magic?”

        Festine raised his brow inquisitively at this. He knew he needed to be careful with his responses here. Festine didn’t mind being in a little bit of trouble every now and again, it made life interesting. But even a fool knows it’s best to cover yourself in the face of such trouble as this. “Magic,” he began his explanation slowly, “is more of a term used for show. When fools perform magic, it’s more of a trick of the eye than a sort of spell casted or ritual performed sort of thing,” he waved his chained hands dismissively and the metal scraped against the stone. “If you catch my meaning.” The guard stared blankly at Festine and did not respond. “Please say you do catch my meaning.” 

        Stanly narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I can’t say that I do,” he replied.

        Festine looked down into his lap, “Oh, great.”

        The prince, who was much calmer now, walked over to the cell and stood beside the guard. His eyes were red from his tears, and he held his chin in his hand, “Explain yourself, fool,” he demanded with confidence. He sounded more like a man now. 

        Festine looked up at the prince whose full length was just barely above that of the sitting guard. “It’s all just a trick of the eye, as I said. As an example, I could say that I am going to make a stocking disappear from my hand, and to the audience it will look as if I did just that,” he held his hands up again to demonstrate as best he could with his chains. “But, what I actually do is quickly stuff the stocking down my sleeve so it only appears that it is no longer there, but it actually is.”

        The other two men stared thoughtfully at Festine, and then looked at each other. Then back to Festine. “So,” started the prince, “today when you performed those card tricks, how is it that you produced a playing card from your mouth?”

        Festine blinked in disbelief at the lordling. “I placed the card in my mouth before the performance, My Lord. And I kept it in my mouth until the bit where I revealed it to the audience.” The faces of both the guard and prince lit up at this with amusement, as if they had never doubted before that Festine could actually produce playing cards from his mouth on command. Part of him was very disappointed that he no longer had them fooled. 

        Stanly nodded his head and looked up at the prince. “That would make more sense than conjuring a card from your mouth, now wouldn’t it?” he said thoughtfully, clearly considering this alternative for the first time. 

        “Indeed,” said Festine with the greatest amount of mockery he could muster into the single word. The two men did not seem to notice though.

        “But still, you also performed that trick where you made the cards float in the air,” the guard said coldly. “Now, there’s no realistic way that you could possibly manage to do that.”

        Festine forced himself to maintain a straight face, though he could feel the beginnings of nervous sweat prickling his skin. “Oh. That,” he started. “They were not really floating, they just hovered in the air for a moment’s time. Just as cards do when they fall.” Festine felt his pulse quicken. It seemed that they truly believed that he could perform magic, which of course he could, but he needed to convince them otherwise now. He knew he shouldn’t have been using actual magic in the King’s court, he knew that he should have stuck to the standard, non-magical illusions, but he couldn’t help himself. It was fun for Festine to confuse the audience, to use real magic to make them think it was the greatest fake magic that they had ever seen. He genuinely didn’t expect that the people of this court would even believe in magic at all. Every other audience he had performed for assumed that his tricks were simple illusions, like all other fools tricks were, and even if he did slip in his real magic from time to time, they never questioned it. Festine had been getting too cocky with his use of real magic during his performances, but he hadn’t expected anyone to be clever enough or dumb enough to actually assume fools performed real magic. Surely, he hadn’t accounted for the prince and the King’s personal guard to be part of those dumb enough to know the truth. He could have forgiven them for busting him if they were clever instead. What have I gotten myself into? Festine thought.

        The prince was not convinced and he shook his head. “But they fell very slowly. It did seem that they were floating. Cards fall faster than that.”

        Festine thought as quickly as he could. He never thought that he would have to explain his tricks in such a dire situation as this. He silently cursed himself for being too showy with his magic. The fool threw his head back in mock disappointment and gave a short chuckle. “You got me,” he said. “This is my favorite trick so I didn’t want to give it away, but I suppose I have no choice.” He looked back between the guard and the prince. “You see, the cards I used for that particular trick were made of parchment, so they fell much slower than the regular cards. Of course since parchment is lighter and does not fall fast.”

        He got them. The two men’s eyes lit up again and they shared a brief look of genuine awe. “Well! How clever is that?” said the prince.

        The guard, however, made a face. His brow furrowed and his eyes squinted and he seemed to remember something else. He seemed to be more suspicious than ever at that moment. “Wait,” he said slowly. “What about when you asked the king to look in his coat pocket and from there he was able to produce a playing card that he had no idea was there before?” The prince gasped in remembrance and seconded the question. They both stared at Festine expectantly, convinced they had him this time.

        Festine’s heart dropped down into his stomach. Shit. He thought to himself. One thousand and one shits. He really dug his own grave with that one. Why did he decide to be extra bold with his performance today of all days? Perhaps he had been too confident in assuming he wouldn’t be suspected of regicide. Festine promised himself at that moment that if he lived through this interrogation, he would never publicly display his magic ever again. Still, he had to act natural and give them a reason. Would they believe that he actually gave the king the card beforehand and asked him to play along and pretend he didn’t know it was there? No, probably not. And even if they did, when would Festine ever get the chance to see the King alone? He had no witnesses. He had to go with option two.

        Festine put his head down and sighed. “Oh dear,” he moaned, trying to sound as innocent as possible. “This was a good one too. I didn’t want to share this trick either. It doesn’t make me look so good in this position.”

        The other men looked at each other confused then turned their attention back to the fool. “So, what is it then?” asked the prince, his voice sounding much more anxious than before.

        “Out with it,” said Stanly, clearly on edge and angry.

        Festine took a deep breath and hoped he didn’t seem as nervous as he felt. “Alright, alright. You see, I actually stuck the card in the King’s pocket when his coat was unattended before the performance.” Festine lifted his head cautiously to look at the reaction from his captors.

        The two men simply stared at him, their faces unreadable. It seemed they were considering his excuse thoroughly. Stanly was the first to respond. “When was it then,” he said evenly, “that you even had the chance to put the card in his pocket?”

        Quickly! Festine thought, now in a panic. Think quickly! Smartly! Lord help me! His exterior remained the same as he explained. “To be honest with you, it was early this morning. I passed by his dressing room and noticed his clothes were already laid out for the day. I, regrettably, and foolishly, took the opportunity to sneak into the room and place the card in his pocket.” He looked up to the men, giving them the most innocent expression he had ever faked in his life. “You have to believe I did it in innocence! I should have never intruded, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to perform such a unique trick!”

        Festine thought he might have had a chance with this lie, but very quickly did he realize they did not like that answer at all. Both of their faces grew angry and Festine could sense that the prince’s temper was beginning to rise once more.

        “But what were doing around the dressing rooms in the first place?” the prince yelled. “That side of the castle is not welcome to you and you know this! What were you doing over there?”

        Before Festine could even reply, the guard stood up suddenly and raised his voice. “It could be that he did something else to the King while he was over there. Perhaps you put some sort of poison on his clothes and used the card as a cover up!”

        The prince piped up again, seemingly excited by this scenario. “Yes! That must be it! This fool is definitely guilty. There’s no way it would be a coincidence that my father would die the same day the fool tampered with his clothing!”

        Festine sighed in defeat. “You have no idea,” he muttered.

        “Guards!” the prince yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t let this man out of your sight for even a second! He’s guilty for sure. I’ll have him hanged!”

        “My Lord, you must have patience still,” the king’s guard said firmly. “I believe he’s guilty as well, but we must verify with the physician and consult with Her Majesty before we can take any measures for punishment. I believe in justice, we must be certain he’s the culprit before we–” Stanly was interrupted by the sudden sound of commotion coming from above. There was yelling and the sound of several pairs of boots stomping down towards the dungeon. Everyone in the room watched as the heavy doors swung open to reveal another swarm of guards, two of which were dragging a crying man into the room by his arms. The whole scene was familiar to Festine, minus the crying of course. 

        “Please!” the man begged as he wildly moved his head to scan all the faces in the room. “I swear to you! It was a mistake!” 

          “Howard,” Stanly boomed and addressed the guard who led the small army into the dungeon. “What is the meaning of this? Isn’t this the cook?”

        The prisoner yelled before Howard had the chance to respond. “Precisely!” he cried. “I am just the cook, I had nothing to do with this– OOF!” The guard holding his left arm punched him in the stomach to silence him

        Howard turned to face Stanly once again. “We were further investigating the situation while you were interrogating the fool. We decided to inspect the kitchen, thinking His Majesty’s food may have been poisoned.” Howard dipped his hand inside his coat pocket and produced a small, dark phial. “Turns out we were right. The bottle was half empty when we found it, and the outside was smudged with oil so we assume it was used recently.”

        Stanly looked over at the cook briefly before returning his gaze to Howard. He raised his brow. “But how do you know for sure that it was used to kill the King? And how can you be sure that it belongs to the cook?”

        Howard returned the phial to his pocket. “We tested the poison on a prisoner, and he died just as the King did within a similar amount of time after consumption. As for knowing it belongs to the cook here, it was locked up in his chest of personal cooking equipment that only he had the key to. The only way that phial could have gotten in or out of that box was with his key.”

        The cook whimpered. “It was a mistake! I don’t even know how the phial got in there! I admit that the poison belongs to me, but I swear it was in my home, not the chest!”

        “How is it then,” Stanly addressed him, “That you didn’t notice you had used the poison specifically on the King's meal?

        “I-I had made this specialty seasoning, my own creation, that the King very much enjoys, so I went to put some on his meal, just the way he likes it.” The cook looked to the ground and released a sob. “I admit, the phials look nearly identical, but I didn’t think to check the bottle since I knew– oh, Lord, I thought I knew– the poison was in my home!”

        Stanly sighed and rubbed his temples in deep thought, or exhaustion, likely both. “Howard. You say this prisoner died the same way?”

        “Exactly the same way.”

        Stanly glanced around the faces in the room: the crying cook, the proud Howard, the stunned prince, the anxious Festine. Their eyes locked and the two stared at each other for a moment. “Festine the fool,” he began.

        “Sir Stanly.”

      “Your name has hereby been cleared. I find there to be no greater suspect than the cook. Though you may have trespassed, I no longer believe that you had any malintent when doing so. You’re free to go.”

        Festine felt a massive weight lifted off his shoulders, as some other guards came to release him from the cell and the shackles. “Oh, bless you my good man, bless your soul for seeing the truth.” When he was free of his confines, Stanly ordered one of the guards to escort him out of the castle entirely. Stanly stopped them for a moment as they passed beside him. 

        “Don’t come back,” he said to Festine, looking him seriously in the eye.

        “Oh, my dear Stanly, trust me. I won’t.”

        Festine whistled as he walked along the canal outside of the city, fingering the phial in his pocket as he strode. The sun was just beginning to rise as he reached the next town over. Festine counted his blessings and added another tally to his book of victories. He marveled at how convenient it all was. A cook of the King that dabbles in chemistry. He never even labeled his bottles, poison or spice. How novice! It might as well have been his fault. But, of course, the cook surely didn’t account for a magician who could open any lock without a key.

        Festine tossed the phial of spice into the air and let it fall back into his hand. He repeated this gesture as he walked along to the court of the next King.

 Anna Cheek is a Las Vegas writer on the road to librarianship.