A Visor for a Visor

“Reputation is an idle and most false imposition."

April 26th

The library was unusually empty for such a late date in the term. Several days of rain had finally let up, and most of the students were anxious to get out of the dormitories, exams be damned. Tybalt had as much pent-up energy as the rest, but he was determined to swallow it. He had just over a week left in his studies, and he had been excruciatingly well-behaved for too many months to risk a night out.

Bertram Gale shook his head at the sight of his cousin hunched over a stack of books like a thin-blooded academic. It was an absolute shame to see a man so hobbled on a warm spring night. "Put down the book, coz. You'll get a bad reputation!"

If he didn't know the voice, Tybalt would have known his cousin by the volume. Bertram was one of the few people he knew who had either the lack of sense or the lack of consciousness necessary to yell across a library. He kept his eyes on the book, unwilling to encourage him. Unfortunately, Bertram was not the type to need encouragement, and Tybalt was soon fighting for possession of his book. "Give it!"

Bertram let go the moment his cousin started to rise and laughed when Tybalt tripped out of his chair. "See? You would have enjoyed that more if you were drunk."

"You are climbing the list of people to whom I owe a homecoming gift." It was an unwritten list, but he did have one. A year of pacifism allowed Tybalt a great deal of time for thinking.

"Buy a round at the Golden Lamb and we'll call it even."

The Golden Lamb, a run-down alehouse in the neighborhood of the capital nearest the Académie, was a favorite among quarrelsome scholars. The only thing more lax at the Lamb than the barmaids was the enforcement of rules against fighting. In one of the more memorable brawls, Bertram had nearly been thrown through an upper-story window; he was saved by a collision with a tall patron trying to edge around the skirmish. Safely concealed in an alley, Tybalt and Bertram had laughed until they ached at the sight of their enemies being dragged out of the establishment by the Ducal Guards. Another night, on a bridge on the path from the Lamb back to the Académie, they were not so lucky.

The crowd out to celebrate Romeo Montague's birthday was no less drunk than Tybalt's entourage and no
less willing to fight. Soon, most of the crowd was injured, unconscious, or both. Those who could tried to stagger away. The rest paired up. Bertram took special pleasure in taunting the man of honor.

Both men were soon lying prone, too drunk and disoriented to fight anymore. The edge went to Romeo, who was dry. Bertram had to do his sputtering on a dock below the bridge, where the man who fished him out of the river had laid him out.

As it often did, the brawl came down to Tybalt and Mercutio. They were the most accomplished fighters in the group; had either of them been armed that night, the other would have been in mortal danger. Furious and drunk, they traded blows and insults with such a rapport that they might have seemed friendly if they didn't absolutely hate each other. Each knew what would rub the other the wrong way, what would sting enough to allow an extra hit, and what would get the other to swing without thinking. So evenly matched were they that an entire year might have gone differently if only their standing positions were reversed.

When Mercutio saw guards on patrol over Tybalt's shoulder, he spewed such a vile diatribe that Tybalt jumped on him. He broke Mercutio's arm in two places and choked him to the brink of consciousness. Tybalt's tactic changed when he heard his cousin screaming something from below; he let up on his opponent's neck with the thought of throwing him into the river. Out of his mind with drink and rage, Tybalt assumed the sudden interference was from some of Mercutio's friends and bloodied the faces of both guards before he knew what he had done.

Though suffering incredible, crippling pain, Mercutio burst out laughing. His injuries and his own detention by the guards were nothing in comparison to the crystalline perfection of his successful ploy.

Nearly a dozen young men, mostly students, were discovered and detained that night for brawling. Their noble names saved them from any legal consequences, but the Académie was not as forgiving. The students were put on various levels of probation. Tybalt, the worst offender, was penalized his entire year of work and was put on such a strict probation that he thought an expulsion might have been less humiliating than the fifth year at school.

Though it had been Bertram's outing that had wrought havoc on Tybalt's life, he never blamed himself. He hadn't forced Tybalt to break Mercutio's arm or attack the guards. Fortunately for Bertram, Tybalt didn't blame him either. However, while Tybalt still liked his cousin as much as ever, Bertram's enthusiasm for nights soaked in drunken violence had never recovered its old shine. He had no interest in his cousin's antics when only a scant few days stood between him and freedom.

Bertram didn't give up easily. He followed Tybalt out of the library and upstairs. "Come on, coz! Just for an hour. You're going to end up drunk anyway - do it with your friends!"

"No."

"Nothing will go wrong, I promise."

"I am not returning for a sixth year."

"You know that won't happen - they'll just expel you. I swear, coz, if the Montagues have invaded, we'll go somewhere else."

"Go where? They are like pests, burrowed into every corner of Verona. I cannot turn my head without seeing one, and when I see one, I want to squash it!" He grumbled, "You go. I am going to finish reading for my exams."

"You've already taken the exams!"

"Last year."

"Last year, this year," Bertram scoffed. "It's the same exam. Come and have some fun."

"Just go. And if you see a Montague, think of me and leave it alone. There's no sport in fighting your remains."

"And what if it's a she-creature?"

"Only if you want your prick to fall off."

"Good man! Well, good night, coz." Bertram ran to catch up with a pair of friends who were joining him for the night and was quickly gone.

Living in the dormitory named after one's own family had its advantages. To Tybalt, the most important was being granted the 'King's Chamber', as it was called. It was a private room in the dormitory, away from the common herd. There, he could study or drink, if the mood struck him, in peace and without the threat of a smug Montague destroying his life forever. He was inclined to do both as he opened the door.

Tybalt demanded, "How do you get in here?" Women were prohibited from visiting the dormitories, yet his sister seemed to be able to appear in his room at will.

"Quiet." She touched her finger to her lips. "I am on a very good page."

"What are you..." He noticed the familiar binding of the book - it was the dreadful classic he bought whenever he needed to hide a new journal. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am reading." She rolled her eyes.

"Goddamn it, Jule! Give it-" He lunged toward the bed, arms outstretched to take the book. Juliette, a veteran of sibling roughhousing, tossed the book on the floor and rolled off the bed before her brother could reach her. "By God," he swore, "if you were a man, I would..."

"You little witch." He collapsed on the bed in shame. It was an intact copy of the book.

"Nobody has a dozen copies of one book, Tybalt." Juliette grinned, wholly pleased at how well her ruse had gone. "If you don't want to be found out, don't be so obvious."

"If you are simply going to help yourself to my belongings, why should I bother?"

"I was looking for something new to read, and you have all of the interesting books locked up at home."

"Only the books you aren't supposed to read." While Contessa had championed subjects considered too serious for children or young women in other families, the more scandalous and frivilous works had been banned outright. Consort gave more leeway to his grandson as he matured but held firm regarding his granddaughters. Therefore, almost everything worth reading for pleasure at Capulet Manor was locked up in Tybalt's bedroom.

She rolled her eyes. "Look at the lot of good that did for Hermia!"

"Peace, Jule. I taught you how to pick the lock, didn't I?"

Smiling, she remembered the afternoon when Tybalt taught her to pick a lock. "You did. And, in appreciation, I promise never to reveal that there is a brain in that famously thick skull of yours. Though, they would all catch flies, wouldn't they? Tybalt Capulet: secret journalist!"

"Juliette Capulet: dead woman." It was an empty, idle threat, and he was soon confessing how happy he was that she had come. Juliette had long been the sun and moon to her brother. Nobody else had ever so completely reciprocated his interest in their good opinion. He revered her, faults and all. Consequently, the wrath of Hell was due anyone else who told Juliette the sky was blue if she said it was pink. "How is the rest of our happy family?"

"Dreadful."

"Even your new brother?"

"Puck is the most tolerable person in the house. Currently," Juliette quickly added when she saw a flicker of resentment on her brother's face. "Hermia feels ill every other day, so Miranda has practically taken up residence. Hermia won't send her home because Aunt Goneril is furious with Miranda, but she sneaks away with Puck, who Miranda isn't getting on with either."

"Puck marries Hermia, and Miranda is jealous. What a shock."

"Oh, let's not talk about miserable things anymore, brother."

"You came to me for cheer?"

"You would be the happiest person in the house, I think. Even Grandfather is in a sour mood. And yesterday Uncle Kent came to visit - only God knows why - which only made it worse. He and Grandfather had another blazing row. What can there be left to yell about after thirty years of fighting?"

Tybalt did not immediately speak. As an adult, he knew exactly what made Kent so unacceptable to Consort. He thought Consort's overt disgust was a tactical error, if secrecy was the issue, and that the inordinate amount of consideration he gave to his son's genitals was ironic. He still didn't think very highly of his uncle, however. Tybalt had grown up in dire need of an example of how to be a man born with Capulet blood; he was still waiting for one. "Did you have to suffer through a visit from Aunt Regan, too?"

"Thank God, no. She is still acting like withholding her company is some sort of punishment for Hermia." Juliette sighed. "I would gladly put up with everything at home if that would last another six months."

"It only needs to last until the end of the month, Jule. A mile-wide moat full of dragons couldn't do a better job of repelling our family than I can."

Restless, she crawled out of the bed and stretched her limbs. "Very true. Perhaps they are growing dotty. There are only a few days left to implicate you in some bloody crime to so they can keep you here or have you shipped away, and they haven't broken a single limb."

"Where do you think Aunt Regan was yesterday?" Regan had been in a number of fights as a girl, mainly at Goneril's direction. At fifteen, she had to be sent away to school to acquire both decorum and a conscience. She returned cured of all physical manifestations of violence, but her mind was largely untouched. Tybalt shuddered whenever he pondered what Regan would be like if Goneril didn't do most of her thinking.

"Well," Juliette giggled, "I hope she didn't do anything that would make her prick fall off!"

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