Man of Masks

[by Mourad Haddak, abridged excerpts from a review of Valérie Toureille’s Vol et brigandage au Moyen Âge, 2012; translation mine]

“The thief, like Judas, is the one who betrays the trust of the community for the sake of money”

Contrary to the code of honour and prohibited by religion (8th Commandment of the Decalogue, Non furtum facies), theft, this “detestable crime”, was punishable by heavy sentences or even death in the Middle Ages. Thieves were sometimes more despised than murderers, for whom “honourable motives” could be found. And in the fifteenth century, as the West grew richer again, theft challenged the new values, those of labour and property.

Largely an affair of young men, “theft is not the monopoly of the forsaken”. Beside the little people (peasants, workers, servants, prostitutes or beggars), who are certainly the majority in judicial documents, the sources also mention master craftsmen, well-off labourers, or even nobles and clerics motivated by “concupiscence, hatred [or] most often the desire to improve the ordinary”.

“Coquillards, stay away from the gallows”

Organised gangs weren’t common, and belong more to the exaggerations of the collective imagination. “The fifteenth century saw the birth of the mythology of shadow courts, ruled by mock kings presiding over an assembly of beggars or thieves or both”. The old myth of criminal conspiracies resurfaces here, even though some organisations did prosper, like the Coquillards - well known from the trial held in Dijon in 1455, and from the famous ballads “in jargon” by Villon (1431-1463), who apparently fraternised with these criminal specialists in theft, fraud and prostitution. The fear of organised crime undoubtedly resulted in toughening the legislation against thieves and other criminals, in an era still troubled by the effects of the Hundred Years War.

Context is important. This long conflict had placed a disturbing atmosphere over society. The real insecurity was coupled with a feeling of deep-rooted fear in French cities and the countryside (there were always rumours of roving bands), and the historian does not hesitate to use the concept of “brutalisation” that the American historian George Mosse used about the soldiers of the Great War. Thus, “the war tore apart individual destinies, but also gave birth to collective habits: a habit of banding together for purposes of violence, a taste for weapons and intimidation tactics”.

“The tendency is to harden the repression of theft”

Theft threatened royal and judicial authority, and this justified its criminalisation. Concomitant with the social demand for more coercion and for peace, the royal state was able to strengthen itself by endorsing the mission (now sovereign) to punish violent, vicious or professional thefts. The practice of pardoning them decreased in the fifteenth century. In this way, the state was able to monopolise the use of violence in a society where labour as a value was becoming more and more important.

“The power of the monarch is based more and more on coercion and, by symmetry, less and less on grace”

The death penalty mainly targeted repeat offenders and highwaymen who challenged the public order. In January 1535, an edict instituted the ordeal of the wheel. This was in addition to hanging and decapitation. They became associated with “blasphemers” and those guilty of “sacrilegious thefts”. Through provost judgements, without appeal, the king guaranteed the law and the faith.

The variety of court rulings reflected the administrative and social division of the kingdom of France. “This lack of coherence is partly due to the multiplicity of places where trials for theft were held, and to the conflict between the prerogatives of secular justices and the privileges of Church courts, not to mention Burgh jurisdictions”.

[The Rogue notes: The judicial system was one of the biggest cock-ups of the Ancien Régime. With overlapping jurisdictions and endless ad hoc privileges and random exceptions, it ended up so mind-bogglingly complicated and arbitrary that by 1789 everyone despised it, and even the privileged nobles and clergy would rather have Equality Before the Law, because that at least makes sense.]

The Harlequin sprawled on a bench in the Exchange, hands folded behind his head and long legs stretched out in front of him. People paraded by him and those too busy to pay enough attention often tripped over his feet, stumbling and scattering their packages and purchases across the ground. Any regular man might apologize for being in the way, might get up from his seat and help them gather their spilled items, but he didn’t seem at all inclined to stop blocking the path. In fact, he gave them little heed, staring up at the scarlet leaves above him as if the rest of the world was merely an illusion moving around him.

He even whistled softly to himself, a song that sounded like some old dirge. What dead did he mourn?

When a shadow settled down on the bench beside him and intruded on his quiet time, the lanky elf deigned to lower his head – slowly. Peridot lights winked on in the dark holes of his mask and they gradually slid to one side, studying his newest guest. 

“Shade,” the man asked, hands clasping his knees. “What is it you do when you’re all alone with nobody but you, with neither your mistress nor prey within view?”

Though he spoke not a word, the lowering of his chin and the tilting of his head indicated that the Harlequin gave the question some careful thought. Several heartbeats passed, loud above the fountain gurgling behind them, and eventually, the shade shrugged. Unfolding his arms, he pushed himself up from the bench and straightened up to his full height. One bony finger beckoned to the man, urging him to his feet.

He didn’t spare a single backwards glance as he strode down the streets, gliding across the cobblestones like some enormous ghost; whether the man followed him or not, he didn’t appear to care. Plowing through the people he passed as if they did not exist for him – and ignoring their indignant gasps and hard stares – he led the man through the Shepherd’s Gate and into the dim, dangerous stretch of Murder Row. He dipped into a dark alley and paused, waiting for his companion to join him.

As soon as the man entered the alley, the Harlequin lifted a clawed finger to the elongated, gleaming teeth of his bone mask, motioning for silence. He stuck his hooded head out of the shadows, inspecting those few elves scurrying up and down the sidewalks in their hurry to be anywhere else and his keen eye landed on a young woman dressed in a neck-to-toe affair. She carried herself with the prim air of a prudish priestess and under one arm, she’d tucked a thick book from which she proselytized at all whom she encountered, encouraging them to change their wicked ways and approach the Light’s warm forgiveness with humility and grace. Most people brushed her off, turning their backs on her impassioned sermons and she stood by a lamp post, glowering at every ne’er-do-well who passed her by. Those who had not yet been privy to her attempts at conversion occasionally sauntered up and tried to flatter her with charming words and lascivious eyes, but she only sniffed and drew herself up straighter, clutching her cloak at her neck and using it as a shield. Her sharp tongue earned her many a crude name, but it was effective in chasing away the scum of the earth.

The Harlequin glanced back at his companion, motioning with one hand to indicate that the man should remain hidden in the shadows. Gliding out the alley, he approached the young woman without a whisper of sound and tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled to face him, a ready curse on her lips, but her head slowly tilted back, eyes traveling up and up further still until they reached the unnerving face grinning down at her. Shrinking back, she cradled her libram against her chest as if it could protect her from the spectre overshadowing her. Her wide eyes darted back and forth, seeking any available escape route, but the Harlequin swept her an elegant bow and lifted his mask, offering her a peek beneath its disturbing, ear-to-ear grin.

Whatever she saw there must have put her at ease, for her shoulders relaxed and she flashed him a timid smile. The man in the shadows couldn’t hear the words that passed between them, but the Harlequin gestured down the street and she nodded, taking several steps forward while he fell in behind her. As soon as they stepped outside the circle of lamplight, he darted in, wrapping his arms around her and enveloping her in his midnight cloak. The curious man watched, wide-eyed as he caught a glimpse of her head and the grey cloth the shade pressed tight over her mouth and nose. His other arm held her against his chest and he ignored her violent struggles, the flailing limbs, the feet that pounded against his shins; reeking of chloroform, the rag muffled her screams and her fighting slowed. Disappeared altogether. The tall elf slunk back into the alley with his victim who hung from his arm, a dead weight.

Laying her out on a stained, abandoned mattress, he stood straight and loomed over her, gazing down at the unconscious body. One hand removed his mask, revealing a face even the most beautiful model might envy. Brushing pale hair out of his eyes, he stole a quick peek at the man who accompanied him and a slow, impish grin stole over his lips – his smile could make angels weep. He winked, pressing his ivory mask into his companion’s hands before delving into the darkness of his cloak.

The Harlequin rummaged around for a moment or two, his eyes locked onto the immobile body and when his hands reappeared, they bore a second mask carved from a chunk of pure ivory. This one had none of the distinctive features of his usual disguise – no giant beak nose, no wide, grinning mouth, no knife-like teeth. In fact, it had no face at all, only a wealth of unrecognizable runes inscribed across its surface. Lips moving without a sound, he lifted this new mask to his face.

It moved over his skin, stretching like shrink wrap pulled taut over a dish and molding to his features. Shaping them. Warping them. Before the man’s eyes, the Harlequin shrank in on himself, standing no higher than the girl he’d abducted. His cloak shimmered as if stars burst across its velvet depths, and it wrapped around his body like a rag wrung out; in only seconds, it mirrored the pastel robes worn by the inert priestess. Straight hair that glistened like pearls curled and darkened, became the sunburned gold of ripened wheat.

Where the Harlequin had been moments ago, only an exact replica of the priestess stood and she wore a conspirator’s grin that did not suit her innocent face.

Throwing back her shoulders, the Harlequin lifted her chin, shed her heavy cloak like a snake slithering out of its skin, and opened the first three buttons of her bodice to reveal bountiful cleavage. She cocked out one hip and winked at her companion, then sashayed out of the alley, beckoning the man to follow her as she hit the street. Doe eyes scanned the Row for her first target with the laser focus of a hawk hunting prey.

Sidestepping the man who trailed after her, her dainty hands clapped down on his shoulders, gently directing him over to the abandoned lamp post. Hot breath touched his ear and warm, soft lips ghosted over his skin.

“What is it this one doeswhen left alone outside the nest?Watch this one set the town abuzzby doing what is done best,” the Harlequin whispered in a feminine voice sweeter than confectioner’s sugar on a marshmallow.“Dear Ji is not the only puckto spread mild mischief and grand gleeamong these elves who like to fuckwhatever they can see.So stand right here in lamp lightwhere your eyes may thus keep watchas this one casts a line for bitesto catch those who think with their crotch.” Her hands released their deathgrip on him and she strolled out into the street, blazing eyes locked on a rogue who leaned against the wall of the Sanctum, tossing a knife and catching it by its handle.

One auburn brow arched and the rogue cocked his head, watching the young woman approach him with an inviting smile on her lips. He caught the knife, fingernails digging into the leather that wrapped the hilt. Looking her head to toe, he reached up and pulled his mask down, revealing a handsome, square jaw and a mouth that spread into a slow grin. Licking his lips, he let out a low, soft whistled and shook his head, pointing at her with the tip of his blade.

“The Row ain’t no place for a pure cupcake like ya,” he told her, waggling the dagger at her as if he imagined using it to cut her out of her robes. “What’cha doin’ here, sweetheart?”

“Excuse me, sir,” she trilled, clasping her hands in front of her as she approached him. The motion pushed her breasts together, deepening her cleavage and immediately drawing his roving eye. “But I am from the Church of the Holy Light and I was wondering… have you heard the good word today?”

“And what word would that be, darlin’?” His eyes remained glued to the creamy swells of her breasts and he gulped, dipping a finger into the neck of his jerkin and drawing it away to give himself a little room to breathe.

The priestess laid a hand over her lips to stifle her charming giggle. “Why, the good word today is legs,” she said, advancing on him until her chest brushed against his. “Would you like to go back to my place and… spread the word?” One slim finger touched his chin and slid down his throat, down his chest until she reached his belt. She curled it into the leather, tugging gently and pulling his hips into hers.

“By the gods, yer a li’l tart,” he breathed, sheathing the knife before he palmed her curvy hips. His fingers curved around to dig into her plush rear and she slipped her arms around his neck, rising up on her toes even as she pulled his head down to meet hers. The rogue closed his eyes with a soft groan. “Saw ya tryin’ to preach earlier an’ gettin’ nowhere, but this’ll be a surefire way to convert the wicked. Colour me a changed man, girl.”

His mouth met hers in what he probably meant to be a scorching kiss, but the Harlequin bared a set of razor teeth that punctured tender skin. Blood immediately welled up, trickling down over the rogue’s bottom lip and staining his chin. Emerald eyes flew open and he gasped, clamping down on her shoulders as he sought to extricate himself from her vise grip; unable to draw away lest she rip his lip right off his face, he stared at her in mute horror, his tanned face growing waxy and ashen.

“At ur oo?” he managed, words garbled by the inability to move his lips. “‘Et oh! And ‘ish!”

The Harlequin’s pupils dilated, black holes that swallowed up his glowing irises. Shadows swirled around in the cavernous depths, reaching out to draw in their unwilling victim and what the rogue saw reflected back at him made tears well up and spill over his lashes. He babbled, wordless whimpers rolling off his tongue, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the nightmares that stared back at him. Into him. Through him. Clapping his hands against the sides of his head, he tried to fold his ears over themselves and he shuddered, convulsing like a man struck by lightning. He broke down into gut-wrenching sobs, yanking at his ears as if he meant to tear them from his skull – anything to escape the agonized screams that deafened him.

His attacked only bit down harder, grinding her teeth into his skin and opening up fragile, vulnerable veins. Hot and sticky, his blood coated both their chins and dripped between them, splattering against the stone. The Harlequin’s claws wrapped around his upper arms, biting through leather and pricking flesh, and her knee slid up his inner leg, pressing into his crotch until he wheezed. She leaned in, pushing his head back against the wall and trapping him between cold marble and herself. Her mouth swallowed up his shrill shrieks as he yanked on his ears, struggling to rip them off and failing. The air around him stank of iron and flesh-rot and a moldy forest floor, and the Harlequin only released him when his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell limp.

Drawing her head back, she thrust her hands beneath his arms and lowered him to the ground, arranging him in a careless sprawl. She squatted down, fishing around in his purse to dig out a few coins that she scattered on the ground around him. Pulling his dagger from its sheath, she dipped it in the blood she’d spilled and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Her clever hands ripped at his clothing, roughing up his appearance. By the time she stepped away from the body, she had made it look like a mugging gone wrong and she turned back to her audience, her face as serene as a bishop who knew he had a guaranteed spot in heaven.

Swiping her sleeve across her chin, she wiped away all traces of the rogue’s blood and strode across the street, joining her companion who stared at her as if she were a murderous monster escaped from some containment facility. Clucking her tongue, she drew herself up beside him and rolled her eyes, lips curled in a knowing smirk.

“Worry not, that man will not die today,” she muttered, gaze roving around the Row to seek out another victim. Most people kept their heads down in the dark streets, taking care to avoid meeting the eyes of another and inviting an attack, and none seemed to have taken any notice of her dirty deed. If they had seen and thought anything about it, they weren’t prepared to confront her.

“If it helps your concern, this one will saythat later, he will only wakewith major fear and minor ache.”

She held up one hand, staunching the questions she felt sure her curious – and perhaps shaken – companion would ask. 

“Before you ask, all this one has doneis show him the terrors from which he runs.” Her grin widened, sharp teeth on proud display. “But when he wakes and sees this maidwith whom he thinks that he has played,he will recall the way she prayedand he will rather throw himself on his bladethan suffer her presence another miserable second.These elves gained far more than they ever reckoned.”

“What… what did you do to him?” the man asked, concerned eyes darting back and forth between the Harlequin and the unconscious body lying across the street. Unless this strange elf coated his teeth in a paralytic poison, he could see no reason why a simple bite should have rendered the man senseless. Nor could he figure out what caused the rogue to grasp his ears and try to pull them off his head.

The Harlequin’s hand slipped into her companion’s, squeezing tight around his fingers and she arched her brows, the picture of innocent inquiry.

“Are you not satisfied now that you have gazedupon what this one does to fill empty days?Or do you need another example?Perhaps you’d like to be the next to samplea taste of this one’s chaotic spell–this one will gladly send you to hell.”

She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the downed rogue.

“When he rouses, he will believethe nightmares this one chose to weavearound and through him, like a silken weband only when he escapes her will the torment ebb.When the priestess nears, he will relivethe abyss that this one chose to givehim. Howling voices that always screamwill haunt him when he wakes or dreams.To him, his ears have been detachedby his own hands; an itch, he scratchedand think he stabbed his own rotten gut.A peacock no longer able to strut.”

Grin widening until it touched her delicate ears, she pointed at the alley where the priestess still slept on the mattress, dead to the world.

“The Light cares not for mortal clay;it will abandon its worshipers anyway.That girl spreads false comfort and saccharine lieswhile the world around her withers and dies.So this one gave her the just rewardshe wanted; instead of being adored,when this one is finished, these men will shunthe priestess. Her false witness is done.”

A selection of rackets from 18th Century and Regency Thieves’ Cant

RACKET Some particular kinds of fraud and robbery are so termed, when called by their flash titles, and others Rig; as, the Letter-racket, the Order-racket; the Kid-rig ; the Cat and Kitten-rig, &c., but all these terms depend upon the fancy of the speaker. In fact, any game may be termed a rig, racket, suit, slum, &c., by prefixing thereto the particular branch of depredation or fraud in question, many examples of which occur in this work.

FAWNEY RIG A common fraud, thus practised: A fellow drops a brass ring, double gilt, which he picks up before the party meant to be cheated, and to whom he disposes of it for less than its supposed, and ten times more than its real, value. 1811

FAM LAY Going into a goldsmiths shop, under pretence of buying a wedding ring, and palming one or two, by daubing the hand with some viscous matter. 1811

PEAR MAKING or SWORD RACKET Taking bounties from several regiments and immediately deserting. The cove was fined in the steel for pear making; the fellow was imprisoned in the house of correction for taking bounties from different regiments. 1811

LODGING-SLUM The practice of hiring ready-furnished lodgings, and stripping them of the plate, linen, and other valuables. 1819

SNUFFING Going into a shop on some pretence, watching an opportunity to throw a handful of snuff in the eyes of the shop-keeper, and then running off with any valuable article you can lay hands on; this is called snuffing him, or giving it to him upon the snuff racket. 1819

SHUTTER-RACKET The practice of robbing houses, or shops, by boring a hole in the window shutter, and taking out a pane of glass. 1819

LETTER-RACKET Going about to respectable houses with a letter or statement, detailing some case of extreme distress, as shipwreck, sufferings by fire, &c. by which many benevolent, but credulous, persons, are induced to relieve the fictitious wants of the impostors, who are generally men, or women, of genteel address, and unfold a plausible tale of affliction. 1819

ORDER-RACKET Obtaining goods from a shopkeeper, by means of a forged order or false pretence. 1819.

KID-RIG Meeting a child in the streets who is going on some errand, and by a false, but well fabricated story, obtaining any parcel or goods it may be carrying ; this game is practised by two persons, who have each their respective parts to play, and even porters and other grown persons are sometimes defrauded of their load by this artifice. To kid a person out of any thing, is to obtain it from him by means of a false pretence, as that you were sent by a third person, &c.; such impositions are all generally termed the kid-rig. 1819

MORNING-SNEAK Going out early to rob private houses or shops by slipping in at the door unperceived, while the servant or shopman is employed in cleaning the steps, windows, &c. 1819

AREA SNEAK or AREA SLUM The practice of slipping unperceived down the areas of private houses, and robbing the lower apartments of plate or other articles.

NOISY DOG RACKET Stealing brass knockers from doors. 1811

PALMING-RACKET secreting money in the palm of the hand, a game at which some are very expert. 1819

LOWING RIG Stealing oxen or cows. 1811

KONOBLIN RIG Stealing large pieces of coal from coalsheds. 1811

TOLLIBAN RIG A species of cheat carried on by a woman, assuming the character of a dumb and deaf conjuror. 1811

CAT and KITTEN RIG The petty game of stealing pewter quart and pint pots from public-houses. 1819

Tellanar’s walk from the entrance to the customs house to his office was different this morning. The lads that were usually dutiful in their tasks kept side eyeing him, a few stifling laughs and one newer employ seeming almost terrified for some reason. Of course once Tell had entered into his office he would see why everyone was acting so…Strange. 

The only person who could have gotten into his office, leaving that kind of chaotic mess in their wake and not have him immediately alerted would be Illy. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her without word for too long, or maybe she was still waiting for a gun as a present from him. Whatever the reason she had spent hours writing things upon sticky notes and then hours more placing them everywhere in his office. The dedication didn’t bode well, perhaps he shouldn’t have abandoned her by withdrawing. 

Hours later, one of his men finally worked up the nerve to approach the office. The boss was seated behind his desk, sorting through a pile of notes. Dozens of paper stacks surrounded him. Tellanar kept at his sorting, not even bothering to raise his head to address the man. “Razor. Take a small crew out, and find Illeirin. Do not approach her. Report back in when you have her current location for me.” The man nodded once and slipped away into the shadows.  Tellanar let out another slow breath once the man was gone, and turned a note around in his nine fingers. ‘I miss you, Telly,’  Illeirin’s voice whispered in his head.

 “I know you do, dove,” Tellanar murmured to himself. “Nothing for it, I suppose. Best meet, and give y’ the news. Y’ won’t like it, I expect, but not everything’s in my hands.” He set the note aside and reached into his vest for the syringe case containing his newest concoction of drugs. 

We have teeth and we have tails We have tails, we have eyes We were here before you fell You will be here when we rise.