by Scott Lynch
Eight hundred people watching, give or take.
Now they expected to see a prince.
Locke fought down the cold shudder that had taken root somewhere between his spine and his lungs, and wrapped himself in his red cloak. He was seized by that sharp awareness that only came when he was walking into immediate peril, and imagined that he could feel every creak of the boards beneath his boots, every drop of sweat as it rolled down his skin.
Jenora placed Locke’s crown of bent wire and paste gems over his red head-cloth. Sylvanus, Jasmer, and Alondo were already in position, watching him. Locke took his place beside Alondo, and together they walked out into the white glare of day and the maw of the crowd.
6
IT WAS almost like fighting practice, brief explosions of sweat and adrenaline followed by moments of recovery and reflection before darting into the fray again.
At first Locke felt the regard of the crowd as a hot prickling in every nerve, something at war with every self-preservation instinct he’d ever developed skulking about Camorr. Gradually he realized that at any given instant half the audience was as likely to be looking at another actor, or at some detail of the stage, or at their friends or their beer, as they were to be staring at him. This knowledge wasn’t quite the same as a comforting shadow to hide in, but it was enough to let him claw his way back to a state of self-control.
“You’re doing well enough,” said Alondo, slapping him on the back as they gulped lightly-wined water between scenes.
“I started weak,” said Locke. “I feel I’ve got the thread now.”
“Well, that’s the secret. Finish strong and they’ll forgive anything that came before as the mysteries of acting. Mark how Sylvanus seems more deft with every bottle he pours into himself? Let confidence be our wine.”
“You don’t need bracing.”
“Now, there you have me wrong, Lucaza. Pretend to ease long enough and it looks the same as ease. Feels nothing like it, though, let me assure you. My digestion will be tied in knots before I’m five and twenty.”
“At least you’re convinced you’ll live to five and twenty!”
“Ah, now, what did I just tell you about feigning outward ease? Come, that’s Valedon being hauled off to his death. We’re on again.”
So the plot unwound, implacable as clockwork. Aurin and Ferrin were dispatched on their clandestine errand to infiltrate the thieves of Therim Pel, Aurin was struck dumb by his first glimpse of Amadine, and Ferrin confided his premonitions of trouble to the audience, some of whom laughed and shouted drunken advice at him.
A bit player in white robe and mask drifted into the shadows of the stage pillars, representing Valedon, first in the chorus of phantasma. Aurin and Ferrin set out to win the confidence of the thieves by brazenly robbing Bertrand the Crowd, who all but vanished into the role of an elderly noble. Alondo demanded Bert’s purse in the over-considerate language of the court, and while the audience tittered, Bert barked, “Who speaks these words like polished stones? Who lays his threats on silk like fragile things? You are drunks, you are gadabout boys, playing at banditry! Turn sharp and find your mothers, boys, or I’ll have you over my knee to make bright cherries of your arses!”
“Heed words or steel, ’tis all the same, you have your choice but we must have your purse!” said Locke, drawing his dagger. Alondo did likewise, playing up Ferrin’s discomfort. The blades were dull, but polished to a gleam, and the crowd sighed appreciatively. Bert struggled, then recoiled and unfolded a bright red cloth from his arm.
“Oh, there’s a touch, bastards,” growled Bertrand, tossing a purse to the stage and going down on his knees. “There’s gentle blood you’ve spilled!”
“All by mischance!” cried Locke, waving his dagger at Bert’s face. “How like you now these ‘fragile things,’ old man? Faith, he cares nothing for our conversation, Cousin. He finds our remarks too cutting!”
“I have the purse,” said Alondo, glancing around frantically. “We must away. Away or be taken!”
“And taken you shall be,” shouted Bert as Locke and Alondo scampered comically back to the attiring chambers. “Taken in chains to a sorrowful place!”
The pace of events quickened. Aurin and Ferrin were enfolded into the confidence of Amadine’s thieves, and Aurin began to make his first direct overtures to Amadine. Penthra, ever suspicious on Amadine’s behalf, followed the two men and learned their true identity when they reported their progress to Calamaxes the sorcerer.
Locke watched from behind his grille as Sabetha and Chantal quarreled about the fate of Aurin. He admired the force of Chantal’s argument that he should be taken hostage or quietly slain; she and Sabetha played sharply and strongly off one another, driving the murmur and horseplay of the crowd down whenever they ruled a scene together.
Next came the confrontation between Aurin and Amadine in which the emperor’s son broke and confessed his feelings. Behind them, Alondo and Chantal leaned like statues against the stage pillars, backs to one another, each staring into the crowd with dour expressions.
“You rule my heart entire! Look down at your hands, see you hold it already!” said Locke, on one knee. “Keep it for a treasure or use it to sheathe a blade! What you require from me, so take, with all my soul I give it freely, even that soul itself!”
“You are an emperor’s son!”
“I am not free to choose so much as the pin upon my cloak,” said Locke. “I am dressed and tutored and guarded, and the way to the throne is straight with never a turning. Well, now I turn, Amadine. I am more free in your realm than in my father’s, thus, I defy my father. I defy his sentence upon you. Oh, say that you will have me. Since first I beheld you, you have been my empress waking and dreaming.”
Next came the kissing, which Locke threw himself into with a heart pounding so loudly he was sure the audience would mistake it for a drum and expect more music to follow. Sabetha matched him, and in front of eight hundred strangers they shared the delicious secret that they were not stage-kissing at all. They took much longer than Jasmer’s blocking had called for. The audience hooted and roared approval.
Another brief rest in the attiring chamber. Onstage, Bert as the old nobleman, wounded arm in a sling, sought audience with the emperor and complained bitterly of the lawlessness of Therim Pel’s streets. Sylvanus, regal and red-cheeked, promised to loose more guards into the city.
Donker, still hooded and masked and silent, accepted a particular wrapped parcel from Jenora and quietly took it into a private office. Jean, lounging at the back door, nodded at Locke to signify that nobody had tampered with the wagon or its cargo.
Back out into the light and heat for the irresponsible revels of the thieves, Aurin and Amadine’s brief moment of defiant joy while Penthra and Ferrin brooded separately behind their backs. Now Amadine grew careless and cocksure, and Ferrin begged Aurin uselessly to remember his station and his charge.
A terrible end came swiftly to this idyll, in the form of bit players dragging Chantal out of the attiring room, red cloth clutched to her breast. Penthra had gone out into Therim Pel to clear her head with minor thievery, run into the emperor’s troops without warning, and come back mortally wounded.
When Chantal spoke her final line, Sabetha wailed. Then, while all the other major players stayed frozen, Chantal rose and donned her eerie, beautiful death-mask and her white robe. Penthra’s shade joined that of Valedon as an onlooker.
Recrimination followed. Amadine stood aside in sorrow and shock while Ferrin, in despairing rage, first cajoled and then ordered Aurin to slay her.
“Now, Aurin, now! She stands bereft of all power! See how her curs crouch in awe. None shall impede you. A moment’s work will teach your enemies fear forever.”
“I shall not teach anyone that I destroy beauty when I find it, nor betray love when I profess it,” said Locke. “Swallow your counsel and keep it down, Ferrin. I am your prince.”
“You are no prince, save you act as one! Our sove
reign majesty, your father, has charged you to execute his justice!”
“My father watered fields with the blood of armies. I will not water stones with the blood of an unarmed woman. That is execution, yes, but not justice.”
“Then stand aside and let it be done in your name.” Alondo drew his long steel, taking care to slide it hard against the scabbard for the most sinister and impressive noise possible. “Look away, Prince. I shall swear to your father it was done by your hand.”
“Twice now, Ferrin, have you presumed upon my patience.” Locke set a hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Never shall I stand aside, nor shall you presume again! A third time closes my heart against you and dissolves all friendship.”
“Dissolves our intimacy, Prince. Such is your right and power. Dissolve my friendship, you cannot. I act in this matter as a friend must. So I presume again, though it cuts my very soul, and charge you to remove yourself.”
“I loved you, Ferrin, but for love’s sake I’ll slay you if I must.” Locke drew his sword in a flash. “Advance on Amadine and you are my foe.”
“You are an emperor’s heir and I an emperor’s servant!” cried Alondo, raising his blade to the level of Locke’s. “You can no more run from your throne than you can from the turning of the sun! It is upon you, Prince! Your life … is … DUTY!”
“I HAVE no duty if not to her!” Locke snarled and lashed out, catching Alondo’s right sleeve, as though Ferrin had not truly expected Aurin to strike. “And you no duty if not to me!”
“I see now you are soft as the metal of your naming,” said Alondo coldly, massaging his “wounded” arm. “But I am the true Therin iron. I shall mourn thee. I mourn thee already, unkind friend, unnatural son! Here’s tears for our love and steel for your treachery!”
Alondo’s voice became an anguished cry as he leapt forward. The racketing beat of blade against blade echoed across the crowd; all the jokes and muttering died in an instant. Locke and Alondo had practiced this dance exhaustively, giving it the motions of two men furious and beyond reason. There was no banter, no clever blade-play, just harsh speed, desperate circling, and the brutal clash of metal. The groundlings drank it in with their eyes.
Ferrin was the better, stronger fighter, and he pounded Aurin mercilessly, drawing “blood,” driving Locke to his knees. At the most dramatically suitable moment, Ferrin drew back his arm for a killing thrust and received Aurin’s instead. Alondo took the blade under his left arm, dropped his own sword, and spilled out a red cloth. His collapse to the stage was so sudden and total that even Locke flinched away in surprise. The groundlings applauded.
Locke and Sabetha held one another, perfectly still, while Alondo slowly rose and went to the rear of the stage to receive his white mask and robe.
The final scenes were upon them. The sun had moved to crown the high western wall of the theater. Another fray and tumult; bit players in imperial red advanced their spears upon bit players in the gray and leather of thieves. Calamaxes followed, black robe flowing, red and orange pots of alchemical smoke bursting behind him to mark the use of his sorcery. At last the screams died; Amadine’s subjects were wiped out. The slaughtered thieves and guardsmen rose as one, donned robes and masks, and joined the looming chorus of ghosts.
Jasmer pulled Locke and Sabetha to their feet, pushed them apart, and stood dividing them.
“The kingdom of shadows is swept away,” said Jasmer. “His majesty, tendering your safety, bid me watch from afar and then retrieve you. I see your duty is nearly done, though it cost you a friend.”
“It has cost me far more than that,” said Locke. “I shall not go with you, Calamaxes. Not now or ever.”
“Your life is not your own, my prince, but something held in trust for the million souls you must rule. You as heir secure their peace. You slain or lost to dalliance condemns them to mutiny and civil war. You who claim the throne are claimed by it as tightly.”
“Amadine!” said Locke.
“She must die, Aurin, and you must rule. You will find the strength to raise your sword, or I will slay her with a spell. Either way, my tale shall flatter you to your father’s court, and none live to contradict me.”
Locke picked up his sword, stared at Sabetha, and cast it back down to the stage.
“You cannot ask me to do this.”
“I do not ask, but instruct,” said Jasmer with a bow. “And if you cannot, then, the spell.”
“Hold, sorcerer!” Sabetha brushed past Jasmer and took Locke’s hands. “I see the powers that sent you before me conspired as much against your will as my realm. Take heart, my love, for you are my love and never shall I know another. Let it be a final and fatal honesty between us now. My kingdom is gone and yours remains to be inherited. Show it much kindness.”
“I shall rule without joy,” said Locke. “All my joy lives in you, and that but shortly. After comes only duty.”
“I shall teach you something of duty, love. Here is duty to myself.” Sabetha pulled a dagger from her sleeve and held it high. “I am Amadine, Queen of Shadows, and my fate is my own. I am no man’s to damn or deliver!”
She plunged the dagger between her left arm and breast and fell forward gently, giving Locke ample time to catch her and lower her across his knees. Sobbing was easy; even the sight of Sabetha pretending to stab herself was enough to put rivers behind his eyes, and he wondered if this touch would be admired as acting. He held her tight, rocking and crying, under Jasmer’s stern, still countenance.
At last, Locke released her. Sabetha rose and walked with languorous grace to the waiting line of phantasma, who received her like courtiers and concealed her in the most elaborate cloak and mask of all.
Locke stood and faced Jasmer, composing himself.
“When I am crowned,” he said, “you shall be turned out of all my father’s gifts, your name and issue disinherited. You shall be exiled from Therim Pel, and from my sight, wherever that sight should fall.”
“So be it, my prince.” Jasmer reached forth and lowered a gold chain of office onto Locke’s shoulders, followed by his crown. “So long as you return with me.”
“The way to the throne is straight with never a turning,” said Locke. “Save this which I had, to my sorrow. I shall return.”
The phantasma parted, forming two neat ranks, revealing Sylvanus seated, unmoving, on his throne. Locke walked slowly toward him, between the rows of ghosts, with Jasmer three paces behind. Finally, Locke knelt before Sylvanus and lowered his head.
7
UNCANNY SILENCE ruled for the span of a few heartbeats. While Locke knelt in submissive tableau, the nearest two phantasma swept off their robes and masks to reveal themselves as Calo and Galdo of the Chorus.
They strolled to the end of the stage and spoke in unison: “The Republic of Thieves, a true and tragical history by Caellius Lucarno. Gods rest his soul, and let us all part as friends.”
The crowd responded with cheers and applause. Sylvanus cracked a smile and beckoned for Locke to stand. Small objects flew through the air, but they were all being thrown against the walls and galleries to either side of the stage. Gods, they’d done it! Only a satisfied audience expended their hoarded vegetables and debris away from the stage; it was the ultimate mark of respect from Therin groundlings.
Alondo and Sabetha took off their death-masks and moved to stand abreast with Locke. Together they bowed, then made way for Bert and Chantal to do the same. Next came Sylvanus and the bit players. Only Donker remained dressed as a ghost.
Moncraine threw back his hood and took the center of the stage. “My gracious lords and ladies of Espara,” he proclaimed, stifling the cheering, “gentlefolk and friends. We, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company, have obtained much benefit from the generosity of our noble patron. In fact, so passionate is my lord Boulidazi’s attachment to our venture that he insisted on rendering the most direct assistance possible. It is my great honor to give you my lord and patron, the Baron Boulidazi!”
Monc
raine had done his part with excellent pretense of enthusiasm. Locke licked his lips and prayed Djunkhar Kurlin had the nerve to do the same.
Donker allowed the phantasma cloak to fall back, revealing an expensive suit of Boulidazi’s clothing, requested the previous night in one of Sabetha’s forged notes. They fit Donker as though tailored to the hostler’s frame. In accordance with Locke’s strict instructions, Donker swaggered into Jasmer’s place on the stage. Jasmer and the other members of the company bent their heads to him in unison; the bit players were taken by surprise but rapidly made their obeisance as well, and then the first dozen or so ranks of the crowd. Shouts of disbelief echoed down from the balconies where Boulidazi’s friends and associates sat, followed by appreciative laughter and clapping.
Donker pointed to them and pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. Then he faced the box of Baroness Ezrintaim, extended both arms toward her, and bowed from the waist, all without removing his phantasma mask.
Then, just as Locke had directed, he turned and trotted back to the attiring room. As the rest of the company took a final bow together, most of the crowd seemed amused or at least bemused by what had just transpired, and then the noisy jostling for the exits began in earnest. Musicians started playing again. The company left the stage, hounded only by a few lingering drunks and those loudly begging kisses, particularly from Chantal, Sabetha, and Alondo.
Locke pushed past the bit players within the attiring chamber and cast off his wire crown. Jean held up a hand and nodded again, and a wave of relief made Locke’s knees nearly turn to water. Sabetha saw it too, and clutched Locke’s arm.
Donker’s instructions had been to hurry into the attiring chamber and, during the brief moments the bit players remained onstage, take a running leap into the prop wagon and be concealed under a sheet by Jean. Locke knew it was tempting fate to expect Donker to lie quietly in sweltering darkness just above a corpse, but there was nothing else for it. “Boulidazi” had to vanish like a passing breeze, as Donker couldn’t unmask or even utter a single syllable without breaking the fragile illusion. Jean had been fully prepared to bash him on the head if he balked.