by S. D. Tower
I knelt and so did Eshin, and we waited.
“Up you get,” the man said. “I don’t suppose you know who I am, do you? No, of course not. Tell them. Master Luasin, and tell me their full names.”
We rose, and Master Luasin said, ‘This is the Lord Halis Geray, the Chancellor of Bethiya. My lord, the student actress is Lale Navari and the student actor is Eshin Dareh.”
I noticed that Tijurian had at last taken a good look at my face and was gaping in surprise. But Tijurian didn’t matter; only the man by the dais mattered, for this was the monster himself: Halis Geray, architect of the usurper’s reign, the butcher of Mother’s family and child. He looked so harmless, just an old man with a wispy yellow-gray beard, pointed like that of a scholar of ancient times. But his gaze was hard and perceptive, and fixed on me. I stared into his eyes, then looked away, not because I had to, I told myself, but because he would expect it.
“You, Lale,” he said, still with that faint whistle. “Come here.”
I went down the stage steps to the valley and walked up to the Chancellor. The hall was silent, as if no one were there but the two of us. I bowed, fingertips to throat.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I didn’t think my eyes were that bad. Do you know who you look like, Lale?”
“My lord,” I said meekly, “the actress Perin, who once met the Surina, says I much resemble her.”
Halis Geray pursed his lips. “So you do. A remarkable coincidence.”
I smiled winsomely. “My lord Chancellor, one of my teachers exactly resembled a local washerwoman. It was a source of great annoyance to both.”
Behind me, the magister emitted a grunt of outrage at my presumption. The Chancellor’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and I knew I’d amused him. He said, “Indeed, it must have been vexatious. Magister Tijurian, were you aware of this oddity of Lale’s?”
Tijurian said, “No, my lord, it’s a surprise to me also. But as for the girl, she’s a foundling. Raised in that school of Makina Seval’s, out in Chiran.”
He would have discovered this from Master Luasin; no one of uncertain background would be allowed near the Sun Lord. But I disliked the way he blurted it in front of everybody and the disdainful way he said foundling, as if I were an inconvenience whom my mother had cast off as soon as she bore me. I was nothing of the kind; I was the daughter of a Despotana, and he had no business speaking of me in that tone. I marked him down for future attention.
“Yes, I know where she came from,” the Chancellor said. For a horrible moment I imagined he might know much more than that, and might in the next breath say: And I know what you learned at Three Springs and why you're here.
But he didn’t. My alarm passed, and I waited while he thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Will we see you in some of the performances?” he asked.
“That’s for Master Luasin to decide, my lord.”
“Of course. And are you being well treated by the bureau? Is there anything you need that you don’t have?”
I was certainly not the person to whom he should put this question—it was Master Luasin’s to answer. But I later discovered that the Chancellor liked to make such queries to inappropriate people, to see what might wriggle out from between the tiles. His unpredictability was one reason why so many people were afraid of him; you never knew what question he might ask next, or of whom he might ask it. But he was utterly predictable in one respect: his loyalty to the Sun Lord.
I should have answered. Yes, my lord, everything is perfect, but I didn’t. I’m still not sure what came over me; no one in her right mind would dare complain to the Chancellor about one of his bureaus, much less in front of a senior official from that very bureau.
But I said, “Well...”
Behind me there was an agonized silence. I could almost hear Master Luasin’s silent bellow of Hold your tongue, you stupid girl.
“Well?” Halis Geray prompted me, with a glint in his sharp green eyes.
“Lord, forgive me, no doubt this is merely an oversight and easily corrected, but since we arrived here we have been unable to perform in front of an audience, for reasons you know. As a result, our income has been nonexistent. The agreement between our Elder Company and the bureau specifies compensation in such a case, but the bureau has been tardy in issuing this compensation. However, I am sure this is merely a misunderstanding that could be wafted away by the proper word in the proper ear.”
In a strangled voice, Tijurian said, “You impudent—” Halis Geray raised a hand, and Tijurian instantly fell silent. The Chancellor looked me up and down with an interest he hadn’t displayed before. I stood very still, cursing my runaway tongue, and waited for the sky to tumble down and crush me.
The comer of the Chancellor’s mouth again rose slightly. “A misunderstanding,” he said in his whistling voice. “Yes. I will look into it. Now, forgive me, honored guests, but I must be on my way.”
We all bowed, and he tumed and strolled from the theater in a silence thick with the smell of bumed bridges. The instant the bronze door boomed shut, Tijurian fell on me in a tirade almost incoherent with outrage. I stood with my head bowed and let his deluge of invective roll over my head, though occasionally I peeked sideways at Master Luasin and the rest of the company. Master Luasin looked furious, but a couple of the others were trying to suppress grins, and I thought I saw Perin wink. Eshin stared at me in astonished awe.
At length Master Luasin ventured to intervene. “My lord magister,” he said in respectful tones, “I humbly wish to note that the girl isn’t used to palace protocol, and it is clear that I have been very remiss in not instmcting her suitably. She isn’t worth your attention. Leave her to me, I beg you.” “Remiss!” Tijurian screeched. “Incompetent, more like. Yes. Do that, discipline her, so I won’t have to. And keep her out of my sight henceforth. The performance—” He paused, and we all held our breath. He wanted to cancel us, but I knew as clear as day that he was remembering the Chancellor’s praise of our work. If we did not appear, there would be questions.
“The performance will proceed as scheduled,” he said. “You may go,” He tumed on his heel and stalked out of the theater.
The stagers raised the backdrops while everybody but me stood around and muttered about the canto we’d presented, but they kept casting sidelong glances in my direction, I remained by the dais, wondering wretchedly how to undo the catastrophe I’d caused. When we left the theater no one spoke to me, except for Perin who gave my hand a secretive squeeze and whispered, “Good luck.” Master Luasin wouldn’t even look in my direction.
Eventually we were aboard the sequina that was to retum us to our villa. I sat next to Perin, worrying fruitlessly. I had no idea what my rash act would cost us. Apparently I’d learned nothing, despite all my teachers’ admonitions. My tongue still wagged as loosely as it had in Riversong.
“Lale.”
I looked around. Master Luasin was at my elbow.
“Yes, Master Luasin,”
“You were educated in a Despotana’s court. You know protocol better than your behavior suggests, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master Luasin, I do.”
“Did you think to help us by speaking out so ... improperly?”
Did I? There could be no other explanation . . . Unless, whispered a small voice at the back of my mind, you reckoned to make an impression on the Chancellor, who would then recount the amusing incident to the Sun Lord, who would find his interest piqued. Very clever.
But I didn’t see how I could be that clever on the spur of the moment. More likely I’d simply been stupid and thoughtless.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m very much at fault. I only wanted to help.”
“Never mind,” he said wearily. “You’ve damaged us somewhat with the magister, but he’s a rancid swine and I don’t mind seeing him vexed, especially since the Chancellor didn’t seem troubled about the incident. And now we’ll probably get paid, so in the long run perhaps we’ll profit more t
han we lose. But I think I’d better appear to punish you, because the magister will ask.” He paused, thought about it, and then said, “So when we open for the Sun Lord tomorrow, you won’t be with us.”
It was such a ghastly disappointment that I wanted to complain at the top of my voice. Instead I mumbled, “Yes, Master Luasin. I’m sure I deserve much worse.”
“But,” Perin said in an alarmed voice, “you won’t keep her away all the time we’re here? What good will that do her?”
“She can come with us the second night at the palace. But, Lale, when you are in the theater, just stay out of Tijurian’s sight, will you? Keep to the wings while he’s around.”
I nodded. It was settled, and I knew better than to protest. But even in my disappointment and chagrin I knew it could have been much worse. So when we got home, I went to the shrine next door and bumed a stick of incense to Our Lady of Mercy, and felt somewhat better afterward.
Nevertheless, I felt very hard done by when they went off to the palace the next aftemoon, and for consolation I decided to go and see the theater we were to use for our public performances. This stood in the famous Kuijain pleasure gardens, so I’d be able to look around there as well. As it was the third day of the Torch Festival, I reckoned that lots of interesting things would be going on.
The gardens, which were called the Mirror of Celestial Delight, spanned several of Kuijain’s smaller islands. Chiran and Istana had once boasted such places of amusement, but Uttle of them remained in either city, and the Mirror was the first real pleasure garden I’d set foot in. Some of it was parkland, with shade trees and little footbridges over the narrow canals that threaded the grounds. Families went there for picnics and to fly kites in the brisk breezes off the sea, and children sailed toy boats on the omamental ponds. And on warm evenings the unmarried youth of the city would promenade along the gravel paths, the girls meandering in shoals like daintily colored fish, while the young men tried to attract their interest without risking rejection or, worse, giggles.
The rest of the Mirror was dedicated to more elaborate pastimes. On its east side was the pleasure district proper, where you could find music and dancing, puppet shows, conjurers, acrobats, tightrope walkers, contortionists, sketch artists, and games of skill and chance. If you were thirsty or hungry, you could slip into a grill shop, punch house, wine shop, or buy fried fish at any of the scores of outdoor stalls. If you were a man and wished to meet a lady of negotiable affection, there were two or three discreet brothels. And of course there were the better type of freelance women, as well dressed as any upper-class lady and with some pretension to manners, plying the same ancient trade in the avenues.
Most of the Mirror was safe, even at night, because it was patrolled by a detachment of the city garrison. Crime was bad for trade, and since the Sun Lord owned the Mirror and collected hefty rents and taxes from its tradesmen, all was made to mn smoothly. You could be robbed by a pouch cutter or a dip, but the penalties for thieving on the Sun Lord’s property were harsh. Lifting somebody’s valuables elsewhere in the city would eam you penal servitude in a government quarry, but if you did the same in the Mirror you’d also get a flogging. This kept most thieves away from the place. Even the gambling games were as honest as one could reasonably expect.
I reached the Mirror about the third hour of the sun watch. It was thronged because of the holiday, the air redolent with grilled fish and fried onions, and alive with the cries of the performers and their audiences. I made my way through the crowds, eventually finding my way to the public theater. It was called the Rainbow, and stood where the pleasure district gave way to parkland. It resembled the Sun Lord’s theater but was both larger and plainer, being constructed of brick and wood rather than stone and tile. Yoshin, our flute and drum player, had told me it could hold two thousand people, maldng it the biggest theater I’d ever seen. The Elder Company had the use of it twice a hand, and we stored our backdrops and other paraphernalia there between our performances. Most of the time it was used for musical recitals and popular drama; one such play was going on now, because I could hear voices raised in declamation from the interior, followed by a loud rumble of applause. I wandered up to the entrance and saw from the chalked notice board that the play was The Palace of Crimson Mist, of which I’d never heard: adnndssion a silver dram for the valley, two drams for bench seats.
I decided to take a professional look at the inside. As I did, the audience began to stream out of the building, suggesting that what I’d overheard were the closing speeches. There was nobody taking money at the entrance so I went in, struggling against the flow of the crowd till I got into the valley, and then worked my way toward the front. None of the actors was visible, but as I neared the stage a woman came out of the wings and climbed down into the musicians’ gallery. I went over to the gallery and said “Hello.”
She’d been looking for her chimang, whose strings jangled softly as she picked it up. I judged her as between my age and Perin’s, twenty-four perhaps. She was a little on the plump side, with a pleasing if unmemorable face and curly brown hair cut to shoulder length.
“Hello,” she said guardedly, the usual reaction of a player accosted by a member of the audience. “Can I help you?”
I told her who I was, found out that her name was Tsu-sane, and that she was one of the musicians with the Amber Troupe. She knew about the Elder Company—everybody in the profession did—and had already heard that Master Luasin was back in Kuijain for the season. But she showed no sign of being impressed by my High Theater status, not that I'd expected it. People in the common drama generally felt, with justification, that classical actors were disdainful, arrogant, and narrow-minded, and had altogether too high an opinion of themselves.
Knowing this, I respectfully asked her to show me the Rainbow’s backstage, and as she did, I let her know that 1 was very fond of the common drama. This warmed her up, and we fell into conversation about acting in general, and the vagaries of audiences in particular. When I saw that the others of her troupe had all vanished—after the play’s done, no one leaves a theater faster than the performers—asked if she’d like to join me for a meal.
I did this for two reasons. One was that I still felt out of sorts at missing our opening, and Tsusane seemed good company—she had a tart sense of humor, and liked the same popular songs I did. But the second was that I had work to do. As Nilang had reminded me, I needed a web of unwitting informants in Kurjain, and actors were an excellent place to start. Their profession attracted many enthusiasts and hangers-on, from dockworkers to senior ministers, and they heard things that the common run of people did not. Between the Elder Company’s contacts and Tsusane’s, I would surely be able to listen at many doors.
No sensible entertainer ever turns down free food, and my dirmer invitation delighted Tsusane. She made sure the theater watchman had arrived and wasn’t drunk, whereupon we went over to the pleasure avenues and found a chophouse. While we ate, she told me about the common theater in Kurjain. As I'd hoped, the Amber Troupe was very popular. Its members had many admirers, and Tsusane told me, in deepest confidence, that one of its actresses had recently become the lover of the head of the Armaments Bureau, which was a division of the War Ministry. I was covertly delighted at this, and put that woman on my list of people to meet.
Eventually Tsusane wanted to know if I'd met the Sun Lord. “No,” I said, pushing a lamb bone to the side of my wooden platter, “but I probably will soon. Our second performance for him will be in a few days.”
“Second?” she said. “When was the first? He only got back the day before yesterday.”
“It’s today,” I said. “They’ll be finishing up about now.” “And you didn’t bother to goT
“I couldn’t. I annoyed the Magister of Diversions. Master Luasin had to punish me, and that was the punishment— missing our opening.”
She set her beer tankard down. “What in the Merciful Lady’s name did you do?”
I told her
. As I did, her eyes got bigger and bigger. “The Chancellor?" she finally managed to say. “Oh, dear. No wonder the magister was furious. Will you ever be able to perform in the palace?”
“I hope so,” I said ruefully.
“It will be all right,” she assured me. “Look, we’ve eaten everything. Do you want to see some more of the Mirror? I’d be glad to show you everything.”
I agreed, and we wandered around till early evening. Tsu-sane liked gambling, and we passed some time in the cheaper gaming pavilions, eventually losing a few spades each. Finally it started to get dark and we left, Tsusane by the bridges—she and another girl shared rooms in a villa on Lantem Market Canal—and I by a periang. As my boat sUd along the darkening canals, the festival flambeaux were being lit everywhere in the city, their orange and yellow plumes reflected in the indigo waters like so many drifting stars.
I was well satisfied with my day’s work. Tsusane would tell everybody in the Amber Troupe how I’d complained to the Chancellor that we hadn’t been paid, and how furious that had made the Magister of Diversions. Those people would tell others, probably with dramatic elaborations, and it wouldn’t be long before every actor in Kuijain knew about me. They might not all be impressed by High Theater people, but they’d be impressed by my audacity, and doors would open when I tapped at them.
I smiled to myself in the gathering dusk. My blunder was turning out to be surprisingly useful; perhaps, I reflected, it would eventually prove to be no blunder at all.
And better still, when I got home, I found Master Luasin in a state of deep satisfaction, because the bureau had paid up at last. He was graceful enough to credit my sauciness for this, but begged me not to take such drastic measures again. I said I wouldn’t, but I knew I lied. Sometimes it took sheer nerve to get things done, and I reckoned that if such forwardness were needed, I was just the girl to supply it.