by Scott Lynch
“Any ideas toward parting this Malloria from the money?” whispered Sabetha.
“I’ve got one notion,” said Locke. “But you might not appreciate it. We’d need you to play the giggling strumpet again.”
“I’d rather do that than hang!”
“Then we need to find out what the best bathhouse in the city is, and ensure that Baron Boulidazi has a reservation there after the play is finished.” Locke rubbed his eyes and sighed. “And please remember that I did warn you. I think this is going to work, but it’s not going to have more than a scrap of dignity.”
2
“DEMOISELLE GALLANTE, I don’t understand!” Brego looked uncomfortable in finer-than-usual clothes, and he gestured with clenched fists as he spoke. “Where the devils has he got off to? Why won’t he simply—”
“Brego, please,” said Sabetha. “I know where his lordship is meant to be later. As for the present, you know as much as I! Didn’t his notes give you instructions?”
“Yes, of course they did, but I’m uneasy! I’m charged with m’lord’s personal safety, and I wish that I could—”
“Brego!” Sabetha was suddenly cold and stern. “You surprise me. If you have clear directions from the Baron Boulidazi, why are you in difficulty about following them?”
“I … I suppose I have no, ah, difficulty, Demoiselle.”
“Good. My own duties are about to become rather overwhelming.” Sabetha kissed her fingers and touched them to Brego’s cheek. “Be a dear and look to your business. You’ll see what our lord is playing at soon enough.”
The company had left the yard of Gloriano’s, arrayed in some semblance of a spectacle. Three black horses had been loaned by Boulidazi, caparisoned in his family colors, red and silver. Sabetha sat the first, sidesaddle, and Chantal walked beside her holding the reins. Behind them came Andrassus, tended by Donker, and Moncraine, tended by Alondo. The players on horseback wore their costumes, and Alondo wore a hooded mantle and a linen mask that left only his eyes bare. A cruel thing in the heat, but it couldn’t be helped.
The wagon, driven by Jean and Jenora, had also been draped in red and silver and was piled high with props and clothing. At the very bottom of the pile, shrouded and well-dusted with scents and pomanders, lay the corpse of the company’s patron. Galdo walked in the rear, juggling stingingly hot alchemical balls that spewed red smoke, while Locke and Bert led the column waving red pennants.
Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon, began to shout:
“Invitation! Invitation!
Hear our joyous declamation!
The gods are kind to you today!
Cast off your toil and see a play!”
Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot and proclaimed:
“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company returns in triumph to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN! See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”
So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for those who would strut the stage.
3
A BOLD green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before, how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics, minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of the theater walls.
“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”
Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden cups chained to kegs, the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.
“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices! May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession. “Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with Espara! May the gods—”
Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.
At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by a pair of burly hirelings.
Locke spotted Brego hurrying toward the woman, folded parchment clutched in his hands. Locke suppressed a smile. That would be the sealed orders from “Baron Boulidazi,” the ones diverting Malloria and her weight of precious metal from the countinghouse to the bathhouse.
The company halted at the north side of the Pearl, where Moncraine’s half-dozen hired players lounged under an awning. They leapt up, nearly tripping over one another in their eagerness to be seen offering assistance with the costumes and props. As Jean and Jenora handed things to them, carefully keeping them away from the wagon itself, a woman approached on foot with a pair of guards at her back.
She was young, sharp-eyed and heavy, dressed in a cream jacket and skirts trimmed with silver lace. Sun veils dangled from her four-corn cap, and to Locke she had the air of someone used to crowds parting and doors opening before her. Jasmer and Sylvanus confirmed Locke’s suspicions by climbing hastily from their horses and bowing; in an instant the entire company was doing likewise.
“Master Moncraine,” said the woman. “Do rise. It is agreeable to see you and your company gainfully employed again, if somewhat diminished in number.”
“My lady Ezrintaim. Thank you for your sentiments,” said Jasmer, straightening up but icing his words with a thick coating of deference. “We have every hope that our recent loss of a few supernumerary players will prove a refinement.”
“That remains to be seen. I had expected your patron to precede his company; can you tell me where the Baron Boulidazi might be found?”
“Ah, my lady, as to that, my lord Boulidazi has not confided his present whereabouts to me. I can assure you that he does have every intention of being present, in some capacity, for the afternoon.”
“In some capacity?”
“My lady, if I may … I cannot answer for him. Save to assure you, on my honor, that my lord is laboring, even n
ow, to ensure that today is not merely memorable but, ah, singular.”
“I shall of course be watching attentively from my box,” said the woman. “You will inform your patron that he is expected, following the performance if not before.”
“Of … of course, my lady Ezrintaim.”
Moncraine bowed again, but the woman had already turned and started away. One of her guards snapped a silk parasol open and held it between her and the sun. Moncraine made his obeisance for another half-dozen heartbeats, then rose, stormed over to Locke, and seized him by the collar.
“As you can see,” said Moncraine, speaking directly into Locke’s ear, “Countess Antonia’s envoy of ceremonies now expects a personal appearance from the very, very late Lord Boulidazi once we’ve taken our bows. What do you propose to do, thrust a hand up his ass and work him like a puppet?”
“You will pretend to be Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke.
“What?”
“I’m fucking with you! Why do you keep acting as though it’s your problem? The play is your problem. Leave the rest to us. And take your hand off me.”
“If I end up facing the rope because of this,” said Moncraine, “I’m going to ensure that I bring a merry fellowship along for the drop.”
Moncraine stalked off before Locke could say anything else.
“I keep asking myself,” whispered Sabetha, giving Locke’s arm a squeeze, “are we smarter than that woman’s chicken?”
“At the moment it’s an open question,” said Locke.
4
BEHIND THE stage lay a number of corridors and small offices, as well as two large preparation areas referred to as the attiring chambers. Stairs led to a cellar where hoists could be used to send players up or down through trapdoors. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, mildew, and makeup.
The attiring chambers buzzed with chatter, most of it from the hired players. Bert and Chantal looked stern but willing, Alondo had his arm around Donker’s shoulders, and Sylvanus was relieving a wine bottle of its contents. The twins were robing themselves for their joint role as the Chorus; one in red with a gold-ornamented cap to represent the imperial court, and the other in black with a silver-chased cap to represent the court of thieves. Jean and Jenora hung white robes and phantasma masks on wall hooks, there to be seized and donned in a hurry by that significant portion of the cast that wouldn’t escape the play alive.
Brego and a pair of servants came to retrieve Boulidazi’s horses and colors. Once they’d gone, Jean took up a post at the back door. He would keep a close watch on the wagon and its sensitive contents, darting in to help Jenora only with a few crucial or complicated operations.
“We’re on at the second hour sharp,” said Moncraine. “There’s a Verrari clock behind the countess’ box. When it chimes two, the flag dips. I salute the countess; then it’s out with the louts to tame the groundlings. And gods, will they need taming.”
Locke could hear the murmurs, the catcalls, the shouts and jeers of the Esparans filling the earth-floored penny pit beyond the stage, as well as musicians trying to strain coins out of the crowd.
Second hour of the afternoon, thought Locke. That left about twenty minutes for dressing and thinking. The former was so much easier. His Aurin costume was brown hose, a simple white tunic, and a brown vest. He wound red cloth in a band just above his ears; this would keep the sweat out of his eyes and suggest a crown even when he wasn’t wearing one. For the early scenes at the court of Salerius II, Locke would wear a red cloak over his other gear, a smaller version of the cloak that would be worn by Sylvanus at all times.
Sabetha approached, and Locke’s throat tightened. Amadine’s colors were those of the night, so Sabetha wore black hose and a fitted gray doublet with a plunging neckline. Her hair was coiffed, courtesy of Jenora and Chantal’s expertise, threaded around silver pins and bound back with a blue cloth matching Locke’s red. Her doublet gleamed with paste gems and silvery threads, and she wore two sheathed daggers at her hip.
“Luck and poise,” she whispered as she embraced him just long enough to brush a kiss against his neck.
“You outshine the sun,” he said.
“That’s damned inconvenient, for a thief.” She squeezed his hands and winked.
Calo and Galdo approached.
“We were hoping for a moment,” said Galdo.
“Over by the door with Tubby,” said Calo. “We thought a little prayer might not be out of order.”
Locke felt the sudden unwelcome tension of responsibility. This wasn’t something they were asking of him as a comrade, but across the barrier even the laissez-faire priests of the Nameless Thirteenth were bound to feel from time to time. There was no refusing this. The others deserved any comfort Locke could give them.
The five Camorri gathered in a circle at the back door, hands and heads together.
“Crooked Warden,” whispered Locke, “our, uh, our protector … our father … sent us here with a task. Don’t let us shame ourselves. Don’t let us shame him, now that we’re so close to pulling it all off. Don’t let us fail these people trusting us to keep them out of the noose. Thieves prosper.”
“Thieves prosper,” the others whispered.
Chantal came to summon them for Moncraine’s final instructions. There was no more time for prayer or planning.
5
THE GREEN flag of Espara came halfway down the pole, then went back up. Locke, watching through a scrollwork grille, signaled to Jasmer, who squared his shoulders and walked out into the noise and the midafternoon blaze of light.
The penny pit was full, and newcomers were still shoving their way in from the gate. Attendance at plays was an inexact affair, and Nerissa Malloria and her boys would be taking coins until nearly the end of the show.
The elevated galleries were surprisingly full of swells and gentlefolk, along with their small armies of body servants, fan-wavers, dressers, and bodyguards. Countess Antonia’s banner-draped box was empty, but Baroness Ezrintaim and her entourage filled the box to its left. Baron Boulidazi’s promised friends and associates filled a lengthy arc of the luxury balconies, and had apparently brought more friends and associates of their own.
Jasmer walked to the center of the stage and was joined by a man and a woman who came up from the crowd. The woman wore the robes of the order of Morgante and carried an iron ceremonial staff. The man wore the robes of Callo Androno and bore a blessed writing quill. The gods responsible for public order and lore; these were the divinities publicly invoked before a play in any Therin city. The crowd quickly grew silent under their gaze.
“We thank the gods for their gift of this beautiful afternoon,” thundered Jasmer. “The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company dedicates this spectacle to Antonia, Countess Espara. Long may she live and reign!”
Silence held while the priests made their gestures, then returned to the crowd. Moncraine turned and began walking back to the attiring chambers, and the crowd burst once more into babble and shouting.
Calo and Galdo went smoothly onto the stage, sweeping past Moncraine on either side of him. Locke shook with anxiety. Gods above, there were no more second chances.
“Look at these scrawny gilded peacocks!” yelled a groundling, a man whose voice carried almost as well as Jasmer’s had. The penny pit roared with laughter, and Locke banged his head against the grille.
“Hey, look who it is!” shouted Galdo. “Don’t you recognize him, Brother?”
“Faith, how could I not? We were up half the night teaching new tricks to his wife!”
“Ah! Peacocks!” roared the heckler over the laughter of the folk around him. He seized the arm of a tall, bearded man beside him and raised it high. “Ask anyone here, it’s no wife I keep at home!”
“Now, this explains much,” cried Galdo. “The fellow is so meekly endowed we mistook him for a woman!”
Locke tensed. In Camorr men were coy about laying with other men, and also likely to throw punches for less. It seemed Esparans were more s
anguine in both respects, though, for the heckler and his lover laughed as loud as anyone.
“I heard the strangest rumor,” yelled Calo, “that a play was to be performed this afternoon!”
“What? Where?” said Galdo.
“Right where we’re standing! A play that features lush young women and beautiful young men! I don’t know, Brother … do you suppose these people have any interest in seeing such a thing?”
The groundlings roared and applauded.
“It’s got love and blood and history!” shouted Galdo. “It’s got comely actors with fine voices! Oh, it’s got Jasmer Moncraine, too.”
Laughter rippled across the crowd. Sylvanus, peering out his own grille nearby, chortled.
“Come with us now,” shouted the twins in unison. Then they threaded their words together, pausing and resuming by unfathomable signals, trading passages and sentences so that there were two speakers and one speaker at the same time:
“Move eight hundred years in a single breath! Give us your hearts and fancies to mold like clay, and we shall make you witnesses to murder! We shall make you attestants to true love! We shall make you privy to the secrets of emperors!
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes, and hear nothing true, though straining your ears! What thieves of wonder are these poor senses …”
While they declaimed, bit players in red cloaks marched silently onto the stage, wooden spears held at cross-guard. Two carried out the low bench that would serve as Sylvanus’ throne.
“Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,” said the twins at last, “and with us jointly devise and receive the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius! And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed, learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made!”
Calo and Galdo bowed to the crowd, and withdrew with grins on their faces, chased by loud applause.