Prologue: The Crying Pumpkin Inn

A huddle of nervous men stood in a pumpkin patch, almost invisible in the cloudy night. An inn stood next to the patch. Bright, merry lights shone inside, offering warmth and safety to passersby on this most cold and dangerous of nights: the night of Hallow’s Eve. As the candles flickered and the fire was stoked, the men outside just shivered and murmured. They whispered old tales of supernatural fright, leaning close to the speakers to catch their words from the strong east wind. All the time they spoke, one at least was peering over at a prostrate form on the pumpkin patch’s fence. It looked to be a spindly man, thrown and broken against the fence. His heavy round head lolled against his chest, moving now and then in accordance with the wind. This was no victim of bandits nor sickly traveler, though. This was the Pumpkin-Man of legend, the tragic jester of Thorn’s Lunatic Court.

It was four minutes till midnight when the Pumpkin-Man’s head began to glow. All the men drew torches and flint from their cloaks, to better see the famous figure. As they approached, the vines of the Pumpkin-Man’s body began to stiffen and straighten; though the head still drooped, the body rose until it stood at the height of a man. When they were still a stone’s throw back, the men stopped and raised their torches. “Hail, phantom! We come to hear the song of the Mad King’s fall, and the tragedy of his jester Chucol.” An eerie orange light filled the Pumpkin-Man’s squash of a head; pointed eyes and a jagged mouth were illuminated in his rounded face. The men saw the mouth widen in an awful grin, as countless tears poured from the undead eyes. The Pumpkin-Man’s voice came forth from that grin, high and raspy like dead leaves against stone.

“Ah. My dear mortals. By the Mad King’s command, I must fulfill this wish, whether ye will it or no.”

Chapter 1: Chortles and Chuckles

Carnival Day dawned bright and hot on Lion’s Arch. The weather was perfect: a light sea-breeze blew the heat from the city and the sweat from the party-goers. I was one of them, dressed in a dandy suit of purple and orange, an apprentice jester’s suit. A crowd of hundreds pressed close around me, every one of them trying to get a better view of the legendary fool on the high, circular stage. The King’s Stage, as it was called in those days, was empty and bare save for a flamboyant old man, my master. He was as well-known for his wild fashion as for his miming, jests, and acrobatics. He wore his third-favorite outfit: A tight, frilly three-piece suit, with a checkered pattern of yellow and sparkling pink. His wild white hair shone like the diamonds on his cuffs and collar. The sun flashed off his sequins as he danced a jig and sang a song of love between dwarf and charr. That song is long-forgotten, I’m afraid to say; undeath does nothing for one’s powers of memory.

I do remember that the commoners and nobility alike howled with glee at the old man’s warbling bass and flying feet. They could hardly breath for laughing! Indeed, a crew of healers with earmuffs was scattered through the crowd, ready to carry the over-hysteric away for a healing Potion of Melancholy. They were busy, too, especially at the end of the Song of Ashstrike and Lovehorn. Ah! There you have the song’s name, at least. Perhaps I’ll remember the rest, if I stick my mind to it. Anyway, those who hadn’t collapsed in merriment were chanting the old man’s name as he took an exaggerated bow with a devilish grin: “Chortul! Chortul!” Such was his name. Didn’t you wonder why Krytans call a good joke a chortle? Such was his reputation.

As always, the song and jig were the end of Chortul’s act. He winked at the audience and threw his head back. He reached deep into his throat and took hold of something, and the crowd gasped as he pulled it out: a beautiful orange rose. Chortul laughed at their shock and threw the rose into the air. The stem burst into green flame and the petals exploded into a massive cloud of confetti. When the wind cleared the stage of confetti, only a cinder of the stem remained; as the audience began to relax and laugh, I pushed my way to the front. A hidden passage opened in the stage’s side, and one of Chortul’s long, worn fingers beckoned from the darkness within. Those few that could see the door and the disembodied finger shouted in surprise, but before they could move, I blew a raspberry at the dopes and slipped into the darkness.

“Well, well, m’boy, your opening act didn’t go off half as bad as it did in rehearsal. To be frank, I expected you to explode the drake again. Although, to be fair, your tidiness covered in beast-guts is funnier by far than the joke’s real punchline. Get me wine, won’t you? Oh! Could you see the Great Prick from where you stood? Was he laughing enough? Was he mad, or merely insane? What of his consort? Did she laugh for the jokes or to keep Thorn company? By Lyssa’s lying lips, you know as well as I do we’re dead if she says a bad word of us. We ought to get that Elonian hag burnt. You’d think it easy enough, from the others.” He was always like that: on-stage, the very definition of deliberation and ease; backstage, manic, unpredictable, and a bit dangerous. I smiled weakly, overwhelmed at the rush of thought. “I’ll get you water, not wine, master. Gods know you had enough this morning.” He snorted as I began to walk away. “Don’t dodge questions with insults, child. How’d King Prick like the show?” Though I had turned away, I could almost feel his fearful look on my back. I couldn’t bear it. “Master, I believe that he thought that, well, the King of Kryta, that is, the Prick, as you call him, was of the opinion that your show, well, I think thoughtfully that I ought to think that his thinkful thoughts of your show were rather like a thought that your worried thoughts thought he might have thought.”

Chortul chortled miserably as he sank against the tunnel wall. We were in a sort of sub-stage cellar, you see. There were a few dressing-rooms, several storage rooms, a pantry, and a long tunnel that linked them all. Lyssan Doors (that is to say, a sort of door that is only visible if you’ve had a very particular charm of disdelusion placed upon you) led into this basement from each direction; we were in the main tunnel, which joined all the rooms and entrance tunnels together. Architecture hardly matters, though. I speak of my beloved old master, as he slumped in cheery despair against the masonry. When he had laughed his fear away, he spoke. “Dear apprentice, you complicate a simple bit of bad news as though you tell me Nightfall’s nigh. Get me that water. We’ve got an aristocracy to entertain tonight, do we not? Besides, Thorn’s wrath at my out-joking him might not last. We’ll stay out of the capital until next Carnival, and pray to the Duality that news of our act doesn’t reach the monarch’s ears. Even then, there’s Vabbi. I heard that those idiotic, nomadic merchants have a keen appreciation for theater.”

I hurried away, eager to get the old man’s spirits to a proper state for the next week of Carnival. That night alone, we’d been paid to attend a dozen different parties thrown by the bloated nobility. All were excited by the prospect of revelry and mischief, especially in the face of peasant revolts and war with Istan. Though they were loath to admit it, the aristocrats were running short on loyal troops to keep the rabble down, and shorter still on gold to keep the disloyal troops content. Hopeless though they were, the merrymaking leeches of Kryta were Chortul’s patrons, and he was mine. So we sold them happiness at an exorbitant fee, even as serfs withheld taxes and butchered the collectors. Peasants made stew of bark and fingernails while we tossed crème brûlée to the hounds. I speak high-mindedly now, but stifling my morals was easy enough while we rode the skirts of Kryta’s elite.

Chapter 2: A High Life
Chapter 3: Provincialism
Chapter 4: My Own Master
Chapter 5: Pride Before A Fall
Epilogue