The Gleeman
Copyright© 2026 by KiwiGuy
Chapter 8
The town seemed to hold its breath. Not in one place, but everywhere at once. In the square, four children huddled together, their voices quick with excitement.
“Have you heard?” one of them said. “The Gleeman is going to put on a play.”
“A play? What sort of play?”
“The Pied Piper. And we’re all going to have parts in it.”
A third child laughed. “You’ll be perfect for one of the rats.”
“I hope it’s a musical,” said another, tossing their head. “With my voice, I’m bound to get a lead role.”
“Bags I’m not the one left behind.”
“That kid on crutches—what’s his name?—he’ll do for that.”
They burst into laughter.
Elsewhere, behind closed doors, Councillor Gloucester leaned across a polished table, his voice low and controlled.
“What news have you had from that street kid, Foucester?”
“Nothing definite yet,” Foucester replied. “Though I’ve visited him twice this week. At considerable risk to myself.”
“Nothing?” Gloucester’s tone sharpened. “Then you had better lean on him more heavily.”
“He seems certain he is close to producing the evidence we need.”
Debenham frowned. “Against the Gleeman? What have you against a harmless juggler?”
“Harmless?” Gloucester’s eyes hardened. “I think not.”
“What do you mean?”
“He manipulates people,” Gloucester said. “Subtly—so they think it is all in fun. Yet they end up doing precisely what he wants.”
He paused, then added pointedly, “If news of the Pitch’s demise were to leak out...” His gaze fixed on Debenham. “He’ i’s the one man who might turn public opinion against us.”
In a small bedroom across town, the air was heavy with waiting. Cameron had fallen asleep at Gislane’s bedside, his head resting near her hand. Deathrow sat opposite, finishing a hamburger in uneasy silence. The door opened, and Clef entered with Rolf straining at the leash.
“Any change?”
“Not a movement,” Deathrow said.
Clef glanced at Gislane. “Twelve hours ... What sort of blow does this?”
Deathrow met his gaze. “You still won’t admit the Gleeman did it, will you?”
“He’s not that strong.”
“It’s not just physical strength,” Deathrow said quietly. “There’s something else about him ... something that leaves you helpless.”
Cameron stirred awake. “Who’s there—? Oh ... Clef. You’re back.” Rolf slipped from Clef’s grip long enough to nuzzle him.
“And you, Rolf ... I know you didn’t attack Gislane,” Cameron murmured. “You couldn’t have.”
Clef hesitated. “After what Deathrow says he saw ... yes. I suppose I believe it.”
“Gislane will be able to explain when we can wake her. If we can wake her,” Cameron said softly.
“Of course she’ll wake,” Clef replied, though not entirely convincingly.
Rolf suddenly tried to climb onto the bed.
“Rolf, get down!”
“Wait,” Deathrow said quickly. “Let him. He might be just the thing to bring her back...”
Out on the Pitch, in the shadows, the Gleeman stood alone.
“Why do you puzzle me so, miss pet-lover?” he murmured into the night. He paced slowly, thoughtfully.
“I suspect this is not the first time you have interfered in my plans. Gislane ... yes ... and the scent of a northern town.” Recognition sharpened his expression.
“Ah. Now I remember.” His smile was cold.
“Watch, then ... and scream your silent scream as more than just your sister fall under my power.”
The children’s voices drifted again—lighter now, but stranger.
“Do we practise a play,” one asked, “or do we dream?”
“A play is a dream brought to life.”
“It seems to me our dream is more real than what we used to call life.”
“The world is fading,” another said softly. “It becomes harder to return each time.”
“Who wants to return?” came the answer. “The world he shows us is stronger.”
“He says we must.”
“For now.”
“So the adults won’t stop us.”
A pause.
Then, almost reverently:
“But the time is coming...”
“ ... and soon will be...”
“ ... when his world is more real than this one.”
“And then we won’t have to come back at all.”
Their voices joined, soft but fervent:
“Hurry the day, scurry the day,
Build us a dream and show us the way.
Come, Mr Gleeman, no more delay—
We walk between worlds when we enter your play.”
Back on the Pitch, Wolf and Turner were growing restless.
“I’m sick of waiting,” Wolf muttered. “What’s Blaze playing at?”
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