The Chateau d'Amour

In a gorgeous, fragrant salon at the Chateau d'Amour lounges the equally gorgeous and fragrant Madame Sylvie, the Chatelaine. She is wearing a luscious pink silk gown wrapped around her luscious body, and the expression of her beautiful face is serene -- even languid. But a steely glint lurks in her dark eyes and when she speaks, a hint of strain is discernible.
'Where,' says Madame Sylvie, 'is Tristan?'
The residents of the Chateau d'Amour, assembled around their Chatelaine in a semi-circle of chairs, collectively shrug their shoulders. An expression of perfect indifference graces the face of each, and no one so much as glances towards the empty chair.
'Mais non, this will not do!' sighs Madame Sylvie in expaseration. 'Someone must know. It is but THREE minutes to midnight and we cannot wait. Fawne?'
Fawne L'Fevre casts the Madame a sulky look and shrugs. 'I do not know where he is. Nor why you are asking ME, Madame.'
Madame Sylvie shrugs languidly, an obviously practiced gesture designed to set her ample bosom heaving. 'Ah, the two of you are as thick as thieves, is that not what they say?'
'Well,' says Fawne shortly, 'we have quarrelled.'
'Ah,' sighs the Chatelaine. 'And that, we are to understand, is why he is not here? Too, too ridiculous.'
Fawne pauses in the act of lighting a slender cigarillo, only to give an indifferent shrug. 'He is a brute -- a filthy cochon -- and I hope I never see him again.'
Madame Sylvie sighs and rings a tiny silver bell that is stationed at her elbow. Isolde Aubertine smirks and turns to her neighbour, Remy Martine, to whisper: 'Me, I think he has grown bored of her!'
Remy Martine shakes his head and leans towards Isolde to murmur: 'Mais, non. That love scene with Andre the other day, eh? She was a little too enthusiastic for Tristan.'
'It was an act,' Fawne says, her voice dripping scorn. 'We are actors, non?'
The door opens, interrupting further conversation, and a muscular young man enters -- the Chatelaine's aide. Madame Sylvie casts him a look of smouldering appreciation and murmurs in her smokiest voice, 'Ah, Duflot! Always you are prompt. I require you to find the Chevalier for me, oui? For he has not presented himself, and the show will not wait.'
Duflot bows, not a hair atop his perfect head daring to fall out of place, and departs once more. His tight uniform provides a rather spectacular view of his derriere as he turns, and Madame Sylvie appears momentarily distracted.
The residents of the Chateau fall into whispered conversation for some minutes -- much of it snide, judging from the snickers and the laughter -- until the door opens once more and a handsome older man trudges inside.
'Ah, Tristan!' says Sylvie joyously. 'I know you could not long absent yourself from me.'
Tristan de Gaulle strikes a dramatic pose in the doorway and pronounces: 'Madame Sylvie, I have come to hand in my resignation! For not one moment more can I bear to live this life!'
This is not the Chevalier's first attempt at resignation, it appears, for his fellow actors sigh and roll their eyes, and Madame Sylvie merely smiles.
'Come, Chevalier, is it another raise you are looking for? It can be arranged.'
The Chevalier bows, his face impassive. 'What use have I for money, madame? I have nothing on which to spend it.'
'Well then, is it Fawne? Come, you two must kiss and make up. I cannot have discord among my troupe.'
Fawne turns her back towards Tristan and takes a long inhalation of her cigarillo. She exhales the smoke a moment later all over the face of Lisette Tautou, who waves it away in annoyance.
'Tristan, really. This is our assigned purpose, given by the Fates themselves. We must entertain the highest of the high! The portal-leavers require our services! You cannot abandon such a noble purpose, now, can you?'
Tristan de Gaulle merely shakes his head in despair, looking down at his shoes.
Madame Sylvie rises from her divan and crosses to the Chevalier. Touching his face very gently, she smiles beguilingly up into his face and whispers throatily, 'Ah, cherie. I cannot manage without you. You know this, yes? You must not leave me.'
The Chevalier's resolve weakens visibly under this onslaught of charm, and at length he sighs and slouches into his chair. Madame Sylvie smiles with satisfaction and returns to her divan.
'The new scripts are here and so I must very quickly tell you: Isolde, you are to be with Andre for this show. Remy, you are with Tristan, and Fawne, with Lisette. And now, back to your positions! The show begins and we are late, late! Adventurers will be upon us soon!'
'I do not see why we are to imagine any such thing,' says Lisette Tautou very tartly as she rises from her chair. 'For no one at all came for the last show, nor the one before. In fact, it has been many days since I have seen anybody at all pass through my parlour.'
Madame Sylvie tilts her head as though listening, and gives a lazy, cat-like smile. 'And yet, you never know, cherie, do you? I believe we have a visitor as we speak.'
This pronouncement galvanises the troupe somewhat, and they rush out of the room -- all except for the Chevalier, whose steps drag as he exits the salon. Duflot reappears in their wake, and bows to his Chatelaine.
'Duflot, the villagers have been notified I am sure?'
'Yes, Madame. They are ready for the show.'
'Good, good. See that everything goes smoothly, cherie.'

In the billiard room, Tristan de Gaulle stands drooping over the game table, tugging moodily at his goatee. He looks up quickly as a cloaked adventurer charges into the room and stops abruptly before him, greeting him with a wide, toothy smile.
The Chevalier hesitates, his face drawn with despair. His mouth opens but nothing comes out.
The adventurer frowns and greets him again.
The Chevalier makes a strangled noise, and says faintly, 'I was invited here to... to find love. Let us pray there is hope for an old man like... l-like...'
He stops and clutches at his head. 'No! No! I can't do it! I can't say that stupid line one more time!'
To the adventurer's obvious astonishment, the immensely dignified and uniformed Chevalier Tristan de Gaulle howls with abject misery and rushes from the room, clawing at his face and hair. His heavy footsteps can be heard retreating through the Chateau.
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'Tristan? Tristan, was that you pounding past my door?'
There is no reply, and after a moment Sylvie's voice resounds over the aetherchannel once more.
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'Tristan! Answer me at once!'
(Chateau d'Amour): Fawne says, 'He cannot! He has left the clan, madame!'
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'Merde! So he has. This is a catastrophe. DUFLOT! I require you at once!'
Back in the Salon, Madame Sylvie is looking uncharacteristically flustered. Duflot enters and goes straight to his Chatelaine, who takes his hands and kisses them.
'Ah, Duflot! Cherie, I am in the greatest of trouble. The show cannot proceed without the Chevalier! Wherever he has gone, you must find him! And at once!'
'Madame, you may rely on me.' Duflot kisses the Chatelaine's hands once more, bows deeply, and departs.
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'The rest of you, carry on as normal! The Chevalier will be returning to us soon.'

In a tavern somewhere up Mount Wend, Tristan de Gaulle is slouched in a deep armchair with a flagon of something in one hand. His cheeks are flushed, suggesting he has imbibed rather a lot of whatever it is already. The expression of blank despair has gone from his handsome face, replaced by an exhilarated smile.
Tristan slams his flagon down upon the table once or twice and hollers at the bar staff: 'More beer! MORE!'
A barmaid wanders over to refill his flagon, winking at him as she leaves. The Chevalier takes a huge gulp; so absorbed is he in his flagon that he fails to notice Duflot as the young man appears before him. When at last his attention is attracted, he chokes on a mouthful of beer and falls into a coughing fit.
'Duflot! What! How did you find me?'
'It was the easiest of tasks, monsieur. I have merely visited every tavern in the Basin until I stumbled over you.'
Tristan sets down his flagon and stands up, balling his fists. 'I am not going back!'
'Monsieur, you must! The Chatelaine is quite at her wits' end. You know that the Chateau cannot proceed without you. Remy is without his lover, and the portal-leavers' task cannot be completed until you return.'
'Let the Precious Portallers wait! The Basin does not revolve entirely around them, whatever they may think.'
A look of concern appears in Duflot's pretty blue eyes. 'Chevalier, please! The Chatelaine will do anything to have you back.'
Tristan de Gaulle draws himself up to his full height and looks down his nose at Duflot. 'I will not return. My apologies to the Chatelaine.' With that, he drops back into his chair, picks up his flagon and takes a long swallow.
Duflot fidgets for a moment, a look of pure consternation on his face. 'But the show--'
'Damn the show!' bellows the Chevalier. 'Find a replacement!'
Duflot flinches and backs away, soundlessly repeating the word "replacement". 'But I cannot. You ARE Chevalier Tristan de Gaulle!'
'You'll think of something.' Tristan guzzles more beer, allowing it to pour heedlessly down his chin.
Duflot sighs and turns away. 'If you change your mind, monsieur, you know where to find us.'
Tristan makes no reply.

Later that day, Duflot steps rather nervously into the Chatelaine's salon and stands to attention, his hands folded behind his back. He positions himself very close to the door.
'Cherie! You have returned,' says Madame Sylvie with her brightest smile. 'And the Chevalier is with you?'
'Ah... non, madame, I am sorry. But I have brought an alternative for your approval.'
Madame Sylvie opens her mouth to object, a deep frown marring her perfect face, but she is shocked speechless as Duflot's replacement enters the room.
The new Chevalier is... very tall. Extremely tall. Towering well over seven feet, he is obliged to duck his head a long way in order to fit through the door. His skin is slate grey in colour, and his muscles are so over-developed they threaten to pop out of his Chevalier's uniform. His dark hair is bound back in a military braid, and it is possible that there is a pair of horns hidden within. He smiles a slow greeting to the Chatelaine, showing a mouthful of large, sharp teeth.
Madame Sylvie stares open-mouthed at the new Chevalier, and for a long moment she is entirely lost for words.
'B-but... Duflot! Cherie! This is an orclach!'
Duflot bows his head in acknowledgement of this indubitable point. 'Indeed, madame. I could not find a suitable human at such short notice.'
'But this is an absurdity! The Chevalier cannot be played by an orclach! He is a handsome MAN!'
Duflot spreads his hands helplessly. 'Madame, I am with you entirely, but what can I say? He is all that we have. And it is only until Tristan himself returns to us, which he will of course do with the greatest haste.'
Madame Sylvie narrows her eyes dangerously at Duflot, but at last she nods. 'Very well; I can see that I have no choice. Take him to the billiard room. Has he memorised his lines?'
Duflot pauses in the act of ushering the new Chevalier out of the door and casts a confident smile over his shoulder. 'Not entirely, madame, but he has prompt sheets, and it cannot take him long. The lines are not difficult, are they?'
This optimistic pronouncement is soon put to shame, as the Chevalier is installed in his new residence. He frowns down at his prompt-sheet as an adventurer rushes in to stand before him, and stumbles over his line.
'I came here to find luv. Pray there is hope for an old man like me.'
Duflot disappears discreetly out of the room, a look of relief mixed with consternation on his face. The adventurer, meanwhile, notices nothing amiss, and dashes away.
(Chateau d'Amour): Remy says, 'An orclach? I am to feign the most overpowering of passions for an ORCLACH?'
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'Only for today, good Remy! He will soon be gone, and our own dear Tristan returned to us.'
(Chateau d'Amour): Remy says, 'Never! Not for one single minute! Besides, if Tristan has contrived to depart this pantomime, then so can I! Farewell, Chateau!'
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'No! Remy! You must not abandon me also!'
(Chateau d'Amour): Fawne says, 'Too late, he has left the clan. We are down to two couples, madame!'
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'But this is the greatest catastrophe! What am I to do?'
(Chateau d'Amour): Duflot says, 'I will find another replacement, madame.'
(Chateau d'Amour): Madame Sylvie says, 'Try for a human this time, PLEASE, Duflot.'
(Chateau d'Amour): Duflot says, 'I will do my best, Chatelaine.'
But when Duflot enters the Daydream Room soon afterwards, he bears in tow a young aslaran man. The newcomer is similar to Remy in build and height, but in no other feature. He is much older than the young Remy, his fur turning grey in places. Remy's style of attire -- tight leather trousers and a billowing shirt -- look somewhat out of place on his grizzled frame.
Duflot grimaces and stuffs a wide-brimmed hat onto the new Remy's head, which has the advantage of hiding much of his face. 'Now, your name is Remy Martine, yes? You are a young human, quite anxious by nature, and desperate to find love. But you question your place here, and are constantly thinking of leaving. Have you got your line?'
Remy Martine nods and says, with only a faint growl in his voice, 'Was I a fool to come to the Chateau d'Amour? Was I? Was I?'
Duflot nods and adjusts Remy's hat. 'Good, good. Keep it up. The Chatelaine will pay you at the end of the show. And remember: you yearn for the Chevalier Tristan de Gaulle.'

In the tavern on Mount Wend, Tristan de Gaulle is in a near comatose state when Remy Martine enters. The younger man flops himself into the adjacent chair and with the cheeriest of smiles orders a drink for himself and for Tristan.
'I must applaud you, mon amie, with the greatest of enthusiasm!' says Remy. 'To be the first to break the chains of servitude and leave the Chateau! As you can see, I have followed your fine example.'
Tristan grunts, his eyes closed.
'Ah, the freedom!' continues Remy, leaning back and propping his feet up on the table. He accepts a tankard of beer from the barmaid with a smile, downs it in three swallows, and starts on the second, which Tristan has left untouched. 'All the things I could do with my life! It is to the great stages of the Basin that I will go. To Celest, perhaps, or to Hallifax. You must come with me.'
Tristan has nothing to say, and Remy lapses into a comfortable silence. A few moments later, Lisette Tautou wanders into the tavern and smiles brightly at Remy, taking the chair next to him.
'Who cares for love anyway, Remy? Not you! Not I! Not Tristan! Lovers, they are deceivers all. It is adventuring I will go. But first, I will have my first beer in a century. Barmaid!'
Remy beams at Lisette and offers her a toast. 'So you, too, have escaped the Chateau! It is too wonderful! Do the rest follow?'
Lisette shrugs. 'I know not, and care not. They will do as they please.'
'Indeed they will,' Remy says with a laugh, his gaze resting over Lisette's shoulder. She turns to observe Andre Provencher entering the tavern, followed by Isolde Aubertine. The two are holding hands.
'Bonjour!' calls Andre as he approaches the table. 'It is the merriest of days, is it not? The lady Isolde has agreed to a wedding - a real one! And we shall make our home in Shanthmark and raise chickens. Truly, we are blessed this day.'
A chorus of cheers and merry-making greets this announcement, a tumultuous celebration which is only interrupted when Fawne L'Fevre at last joins her erstwhile colleagues. She stands over the table with her hands on her hips, a dark glower marring her flower-like face.
'Now, you should all be ashamed of yourselves! Is nobody concerned about Madame Sylvie? Shall we abandon her without a thought?'
'Absolutely!' says Lisette Tautou with unbecoming fervour.
'Without a thought!' echoes Remy.
Andre and Isolde shrug their shoulders, and Tristan opens one eye only to close it again with an air of indifference.
Fawne stares them down for half a minute, her toe tapping in irritation, and then at last she begins to laugh.
'Three hundred years!' she chortles, a note of hysteria seeping into her merriment. 'It must be that long, at least! Three hundred years! I shall run away to Gaudiguch and become a dancer upon the stage. Within five years I shall be famous.'
With that, she tucks herself up cross-legged in the centre of the table and picks up a flagon of beer. When Duflot finally arrives, he is greeted by the sight of six ecstatic actors in varying stages of advanced inebriation, in the midst of singing a song very loudly indeed.

Lover number one, number two, number three!
Let's all go on a wedding spree!
Lose one, leave one, pass one around,
Always another one to be found,
Who cares what she's like as long as she's free?
Who cares what he's like when he's so easy?
If it's wedded you want it's wedded you'll get!
Five or ten minutes after you've met!
Come, take a spin on the marriage roulette!

The company falls about laughing as Duflot looks on with an unfriendly eye.
'I hope you are not singing of the Chateau d'Amour,' he says severely. 'Madame Sylvie, she is the matchmaker extraordinaire! Tis not ease and convenience she offers, but passion! L'amour!'
Remy snorts loudly and hiccups. 'And a fine example of it we have been setting. Me, I have changed my l'amour many thousands of times since I came to the Chateau. But each time, it was the truest of passions of course! Even if it lasted but a day!'
Duflot declines to answer this, instead saying: 'You must come back, all of you. The Chateau, it will have to close otherwise.'
'Good riddance to it!' yells Lisette Tautou, amid a chorus of agreement.
Finding himself pelted with napkins, cutlery and an assortment of other tableware, Duflot backs hastily away. With one last anguished look at the actors, he flees the tavern. The actors take up their song once more, chugging beer as they go.

Back at the Chateau, the new Tristan de Gaulle appears to have developed a friend. A merian woman with sleek blue skin stands with him. She has a copy of the latest script in her hands, and Tristan appears to be coaching her on a line.
'Am I too old for love? Madame Chatelaine thinks not, but I have my doubts.' She proclaims the line with spirit, and Tristan nods with approval.
'Good,' he grunts. 'You do good as Isolde. Got someone for Andre?'
'I know someone,' says Isolde Aubertine. 'He's an illithoid. Has some experience on the stage already.'
'Good,' grunts Tristan again. 'I gots a faeling for little Fawne.' He grins, showing a lot of teeth.
'Oh, Tristan de Gaulle, let us make the beautiful music together!' proclaims the new Isolde. Throwing her arms around the orclach's neck, she continues, ' But I do, Tristan de Gaulle! I do love you!'
Tristan looks down at the woman draped about his person and swallows. 'Eh,' he mutters. 'Steady on now.'
Isolde looks coyly up at him and smiles.

Madame Sylvie has retired to her boudoir in despair. She reclines as elegantly as ever, the swell of her bosom charmingly exposed by her posture and the low neckline of her gown. She lies awaiting the return of Duflot, and her eyes light up when she hears his footsteps approaching.
Duflot bows and smiles. 'Madame! I have news.'
Madame Sylvie groans and offers a flirtatious little smile to Duflot. 'Please, cherie, tell me it is good news.'
'Some of it is,' he allows. 'The bad news first: The old cast will not be returning.'
'The old cast?' Madame Sylvie says with raised brow.
'Yes, because the good news is: We have an entire new troupe! And they are not bad, not at all bad.'
Madame Sylvie pushes herself into a sitting position, her gorgeous hair attractively mussed, and frowns at Duflot. 'I do not quite understand you. You are not, I hope, attempting to tell me that the orclach is to find a permanent home at the Chateau?'
'Yes! Yes, absolutely! He makes a fine Chevalier, very manly. And he has brought friends.'
Madame Sylvie blinks both beautiful eyes and stutters, 'N-not more orclachs? Duflot! Tell me they are not all orclachs!'
Duflot holds out both hands in a pacifying gesture. 'No, no. There are no more orclachs. The cast is assembled in the salon, if you would like to see for yourself.'
Madame Sylvie sighs and stands up. 'Very well, if I must.'
Duflot throws wide the doors to the salon and marches through, Madame Sylvie following in his wake. Seated in a row in the salon are six actors dressed in the costumes of Isolde Aubertine, Fawne L'Fevre, Tristan de Gaulle, Lisette Tautou, Remy Martine and Andre Provencher. They are, respectively, a merian, a faeling, an orclach, a trill, an aslaran and a furrikin.
Madame Sylvie eyes this odd assortment of sizes, colours and proportions with a deep frown.
'Duflot,' she says at length, 'it is possible that I may have to sack you.'
'Madame?' says Duflot nervously. 'But why? You see before you a full troupe. They are experienced actors -- most of them -- and they have learned all of their lines already.'
'But, no! They will not suit! Whoever will believe an orclach could wish to make passionate love to a furrikin?'
'Mais, non, there can be no objection. The portal-leavers, they are not so fastidious,' says Duflot, surveying his troupe with a critical eye. 'They do it all the time. Besides, first they must notice; and you know it is true, madame, that nobody ever looks at the actors.'
Madame Sylvie greets this pronouncement with a long silence. The new actors begin to shuffle and fidget with tension, until a tiny giggle escapes the Chatelaine's painted mouth and soon becomes a surprisingly hearty laughter.
'You are right, cherie! You are right! No one looks at the actors. Very well, you are all hired. But since it has been proved that you are easy to replace, you had better not disappoint me! Am I understood?'
There is a murmur of assent through the ranks, and Madame Sylvie nods, spins around and marches back into her boudoir. 'Duflot!' she calls over her shoulder. 'You will attend me at once!'
Duflot scuttles after her and closes the boudoir's doors behind himself and the Chatelaine.
'I am in need of a little l'amour myself, Duflot,' says Madame Sylvie with an endearing smile. 'But first, you must tell me something: Do you think it is possible that you might find a replacement for me also?'
Duflot smiles, looking at his Chatelaine with something resembling real affection in his eyes. 'Ah, cherie. Perhaps it may.'
Madame Sylvie smiles like the sun rising. 'Only, Duflot... please, no orclach for the Chatelaine.'
'No, no. Of course not, madame. For the role of Madame Sylvie, I can picture only the mugwump.'
'Duflot!'
'No?' he says, laughing. 'Igasho? Loboshigaru!'
Madame Sylvie takes up a pillow in each hand and throws them, one after another, at Duflot. 'You are the blackest of villains!' she shrieks, giggling, her dignity forgotten.
Duflot tumbles onto the bed beside her and takes her in his arms. 'Elfen, then, cherie, or a human perhaps. Will that do?'
Madame Sylvie beams at her former employee and kisses him passionately. 'Yes, Duflot. That will do very nicely indeed.'