“How’s his mood tonight?” The sword swallower asked, nervously fiddling with his knives and blades.
“Does it matter? Do your act, get the hell off the stage, and be grateful,” the juggler lamented. “It beats digging potatoes out in the snow.”
“How’s the Fool doing? Many laughs?” the swallower asked.
“I hear laughing, but it could mean anything. If the king laughs, they all laugh. If he lights somebody on fire, they all laugh. Who the hell knows?”
The Fool ran backstage, closing the curtains behind him, bells jangling as he went. “Whew. Tough crowd. What am I saying? Tough king! Am I right?”
“How can you joke about it? This is our lives on the line!” The swallower raised a blade to the Fool.
“Laugh or cry, the tears come out one way or another. At least we’re not digging for potatoes!”
“He just said that,” the swallower said.
“Did he? Well, new material is risky. His Majesty loves it when I play the hits!” the Fool said.
“Well, it’s what he grew up on. How old is he now?” asked the juggler.
“Didn’t his mother just turn twenty? The constant parties are a blur, but I think I saw meat pies in the shape of a twenty recently,” the swallower opined.
“So, he must be twelve years old now. Gosh, they grow up so fast,” the Fool said.
“And when they get older, they get meaner,” the swallower complained.
“Do I hear the potato fields calling to you? You’re always in such a panic. You’ve done fine. This is your third king!” the Fool said.
“Yeah, you’re right I guess,” the swallower said.
“Of course I am. The royals love the idea of someone being run through with a sword and surviving. It gives them something to hope for. Not that it did the last two any good.”
“Boy that’s the truth. A family business is always tough but it’s got be stressful to worry about your relatives plotting your murder,” the juggler observed.
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for them? They’re monsters!” the swallower complained.
“True. But growing up like this, who wouldn’t be? It’s not like his Majesty was born ripping out people’s entrails. But you see it enough and it’s just another Tuesday,” the Fool offered.
“I think I’d rather just be booed,” the juggler said. “Oops, there’s my cue,” he said and ran through the curtain.
“Do you think he’ll survive?” the swallower asked.
“Sure. He’s got the patter down. Start with an old favorite, move into some new stuff with just a few of the popular bits, then bring it on home with a tried-and-true crowd pleaser, but never end with anything too big. An encore can be deadly. Remember the puppeteer?” the Fool asked.
“That poor bastard. Never saw it coming,” the swallower lamented. “He did what he learned on the minstrel circuit. Build to a big finish and leave them wanting more. I’ve never heard the court go so crazy before. His majesty was on his feet, cheering him on. That poor bastard.”
“Didn’t leave anything for the encore. He tried to start over at the beginning and they squashed his head like a pumpkin. A lesson there for all of us,” the Fool said.
“Looks like our boy is doing okay. Holding his Majesty’s attention but not keeping him on the edge of his seat. Balancing things nicely,” the swallower said.
“Well, he’s a juggler,” said the Fool. “Uh-oh, the king’s telling him something. He’s pointing at the dinner table. He wants him juggle something. I can’t see what—oh no! Turkey legs. This is bad. This is really bad. ”
“He can do it. That guy can juggle anything,” the swallower said.
“Yeah, but they’re greasy. Plus as they spin in the air he might fling juice on the king, which is only good if he asks for it. Oh, there he goes. Okay, not too bad, has three going and asking for another one. And another. Under the leg. He did a spin. He flung one at the cardinal! The king loves it! He grabbed a potato, and a cabbage, and a meat pie! He’s doing great! He started to do a jig and—oh no! The cardinal threw a plate at him! He’s down! He looks stunned. Everybody’s yelling. He doesn’t know what to do! I think they’re turning on him! I have to get out there!”
“No don’t, you’ll be killed!” warned the swallower.
“I can turn it around. Make it into a joke. I’ll slip on a cabbage. His majesty loves slapstick!”
The sword swallower held his knives and swords to his chest as he nervously watched the Fool pratfall and imitate the cardinal. The juggler was still on the floor, not sure what to do.
“Get up, then fall on your ass!” the Fool told him.
The king was laughing at the Fool, urging him to mock the cardinal some more. The cardinal’s face grew as red as his cassock. The Fool jumped under a woman’s dress, then poked out his head, shouting Latin like a wailing baby. The juggler had meanwhile been pretending to slip and fall over and over as he tried to retrieve the food he dropped. The Fool joined in until they bowed, arm-in-arm, and made for the curtain.
“God be praised, you saved him!” the swallower said.
“Just showing the kid the ropes. You have to think on your feet if you’re going to survive in show biz,” the Fool said.
“I froze. Sat there like a meat pie, waiting to die,” the juggler lamented.
“You survived to juggle another day. That’s all that matters,” the Fool said.
“That’s my cue. Don’t wish me luck,” the swallower said as he passed through the curtain.
“Don’t wish him luck? I don’t get it,” the juggler said. “We need all the luck we can get!”
“He’s superstitious. So you should tell him ‘have a bad night’ or ‘hope you stab yourself’ or ‘hope you break your leg.’ It makes him feel better. Who knows, maybe it will catch on.”