by J. B. Lucas
“Let’s find somewhere to sleep in the shade,” suggested Balthasar. “There’s no reason to be back early at the camp and there’ll be no spare shade when we get there.”
Marcan stood, letting Balthasar leave coins on the table. He looked around, saw nothing but calm and routine. No matter the logic running through his head, he couldn’t escape the presumption that the dead boy around the corner was because of him.
“No, let’s leave the town,” he said. “I don’t feel comfortable here.”
“I have a sighting!” shouted Darcy, bursting through Loreticus’s door. Pello, who had been reaching for the handle on the other side, fell heavily into a nearby chair.
“Grand gods, Darcy, you do know that this palace is full of spies?” asked Loreticus gently. They smiled at each other. Darcy was one of Loreticus’s three trusted lieutenants who managed his once immense, complex network of informers. “Do I want to know the source or the quality?”
“Probably not, but it’s most likely to be true. I’ve acted on this lady’s information before and it’s worked out well.” Darcy was out of breath – as all visitors were by the time they’d reached the top of the stairs required for an interview with Loreticus. He wasn’t athletic either, being of shorter than average build and predisposed to wearing fashionable rather than practical clothing.
“Then tell me,” said Loreticus and unrolled a map on the desk.
“You’ll need a larger one than that,” said Darcy, smiling hard. “He’s travelling with an acting troupe in the southern farmlands.”
“A what?”
“Our emperor is hiding in plain sight as an actor.”
Loreticus couldn’t help but laugh. He felt all the breath leave him in a drawn, intangible sigh.
“Well, I am glad that I lived long enough to see this. How far?”
“Eight hours’ hard riding,” stated Darcy and indicated a cluster of small towns off the main highway. “We need to get going. If I’ve heard, then so have others. Expect every mercenary worth their salt to be riding down.”
“But your source is on our side?”
“She’s on no-one’s side, so I’ve left her with my housekeeper. Unfortunately, she didn’t realise how potent my table wine is.”
“But it’s breakfast,” exclaimed Loreticus. “Never mind. At least you seem well enough.”
“Same vintage, different cups,” explained Darcy with a smirk. “I’m packed and we shall have horses outside by the time we get down. I’ve also sent word to Demetrian to join us.”
“Need we worry about being too late?” asked Loreticus as they moved to the door.
“Always. The person who saw him is not a nice creature. Even the gangs cut him loose for being too blunt,” Darcy swung the door open again. “If my friend knows, everyone will know by this evening. We need to get moving now.
“Stay here,” Loreticus said to Pello as he reached the door. “Find out what you can about that necklace.”
Chapter 12
That evening, the lights of the torches hovered in the darkest edges of the night. The troupe performed outside the town walls, under a moonless night. Their stage stood at the edge of a forest which breathed an anxious cold air across the cast and audience.
bald hillock made do for the platform to their stage boards, and the townsfolk scattered themselves in patches across the small meadow, stretching out beyond the torchlight.
Ferran strode across the stage, clasping Alba in his arms. His blond hair glowed godlike, cast as a mix of gold and shadows as the torches flickered. Even in such a provincial play he was untouchable, a human from a different world, blessed by the blood of gods.
“My dear,” he boomed, smacking his thick lips and turning in the direction of the audience, “how desolate you must be. You are wittolled by a worthless man, but one whom you had trusted on your father’s word.” The barmaid threw her face behind her hands as he continued. “How could you live with him anymore? How dare he come to the palace when he is so unworthy to represent you or the people who love him? He has debased the divine position he took so few years ago. He shall not be here anymore.” With this, Ferran offered a dashing grin to the crowd, which always appeared sinister and devious in the flickering torchlight.
Antron now turned from his position in one of the unlit corners. “Let me deal with this situation,” he stated, his flat cheeks sculpted in orange. A hand wrapped around the heavy sword pommel. “This insult demands a robust response.” Archly, he walked near the edge of the stage, quietly and dramatically laying his hand on the shoulder of Iskandar as the latter stepped into the light.
Iskandar, the haunted general, moped over to the centre of the hillock before he saw Alba. Ever bestubbled, rings painted under his eyes to show distress and fatigue, he struggled into an upright pose, dragged himself across the stage and they draped themselves around each other in mutual anguish. Lifting his head, Iskandar winked conspiratorially at Ferran, who gave a closed-lipped grin in return.
With an inhale of breath, the crowd gasped as Marcan soundlessly stepped into the ring of light.
“My love,” he began, and the cast turned to him. His hand reached out futilely from his position on one side of the stage to Alba on the other, protected by Iskandar and Ferran, who formed a wall in front of her.
“Whore!” shouted one of the extras from the shadows. It was a practised insult, which had kept the speed but lacked the urgency of its first utterance months ago. Other expletives came from the dark, encouraging the crowd to boo and whistle so loudly that any further dialogue was drowned out. Antron grabbed him with hammish violence from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him with the others’ help into the shadows.
But Marcan had had more lines to say, and his mind had been struck dumb. The barmaid’s eyes had been brushed by a particular angle of light and the recollection of that someone else paralysed him. That was the stupefied gaze he wore as the guards dragged him off, his stare soaking in the memory of her face, the cut of her eyes. He stopped everything, his heart resting for three long beats as he captured the moment, painting a mural inside his head.
Sitting in the crowd was a group of men wearing hoods, a fashion exported from the capital but which wasn’t common in the country. There were four of them, sat quietly in a dark corner of the grassy opening. The evening air was toxic with the torch smoke when the breeze changed, and the grass was damp on their legs where they stretched over the edge of their rug.
Loreticus jumped when he heard his name called out by the troupe master. What a strange scenario: to watch yourself played on stage. The cast for the generals and the princess were close because of the gifts of busts, mosaics and etchings sent by the palace every year to the villages. But until then he had accepted that he was a name, nothing more. Was this how people imagined him?
“You look fatter on stage,” whispered one of the company.
“And you, Demetrian, are better looking when played by someone else.”
The play was more of a farce than an accurate report, meant to scandalise the peasantry with the implications of sex in the palace. The visitors laughed when Antron came on stage, as the ham acting caught his faked gentility well.
Perhaps we should leave Marcan here,” said Loreticus. “He seems to be enjoying himself.”
”Clueless as ever.”
Darcy gently nudged Loreticus’s hand and gestured to a conversation at the treeline. A man who was trying to stay out of sight handed an object to a figure in stage clothing. His gestures were instructive, bullying, and he glanced around once more before slipping back out of the light of the fires.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Demetrian and quietly rose to his feet. He strode to follow the man into the shadows. The play wrapped up, the troupe master soaking in the attention and entertainment of his audience as he delivered the epilogue. Before he left the stage, he glanced down at the city dwellers. Loreticus curled his finger discreetly at him.
“How can I help you gentlemen?” he asked as he approached. There were still a dozen families nearby, rolling up blankets and lifting their ceramic beer bottles.
“Rafael Balthasar Supramontes,” croaked Loreticus. “Come sit with us a moment.” He surprised himself with how easily his tradecraft came back to him, his believable country accent, his own acting skills used to con the master of the troupe. With a shy pride, he saw Darcy lurch and glance at him, unsure of where this voice had come from.
Balthasar sat meekly in front of him. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Balthasar. The disappointment that he wasn’t a better actor was rather too sharp, Loreticus realised.
“So you realise why I’m here?”
“I do.”
“Well, Balthasar, we need to have a talk about why you have someone of importance prancing around like a monkey on stage. It’s time for him to come home.”
“Of course, sir, but this was his choice.”
“Because you’ve informed him of the full situation, have you?” asked Loreticus. Balthasar looked down, his face hidden as the torches put silver in his hair. Loreticus reached out with his staff and lifted Balthasar’s chin. “You don’t think much of the three generals, do you? The drama was rather good, but the audience was a disaster. Anyway, you’ve had your fun. Send him to back to the capital. And dress him properly. He looks like he chose his clothes in the dark.”
“Yes, sir.”
Demetrian stalked into view, nudging Darcy aside and sitting next to Loreticus on the rug. Balthasar stared at the soldier’s hands as he wiped them clean with the edge of the material. Blood was dark in the creases of his knuckles. “Balthasar,” he said gently. “It’s been a long time, old friend.”
“Yes, captain.”
“I have a question for you – do you know who that was? An ugly old veteran with a face like a split pumpkin?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, he was up to no good around your lot, but I managed to chase him off. Keep an eye on your men. If there’s gold passing hands it must be for a sordid reason. My bets are for some violent mischief soon.”
“What should I do?”
“Be his shadow for the next day,” replied Demetrian. “We can’t take him back with us now because the roads are thick with people looking for him.”
“Give us a day to get our plans in order,” said Loreticus. “If he is anything like his old self, he needs to come to us if he is to keep his pride.”
Balthasar nodded.
“Tomorrow evening, send him to me,” continued Demetrian. “My studio is the third building on Clearwater Street. Tell him to come there, and if for any reason he doesn’t arrive, I’ll have your tongue. You remember Galleus, my former sergeant. He’ll be here to help you get our boy back safely.”
The group stood, and the troupe master quickly followed. He was, Loreticus noted, still a man with his military gait despite the dramatic beard and hair. He hoped that his judgement of Balthasar was true and that Marcan remained safe for the next day.
“And the man in the woods?” asked Balthasar. “It could cause trouble.”
“I don’t know,” said Demetrian. “He’s somewhere out there. I’ll have to take my horse to follow him.”
He turned, following Darcy and Loreticus to the horses. “My lord,” he said, “I’m going after that man. I think that I recognised him. My guess is that he lives in the local village, so I’ll be back tomorrow with any luck.”
Loreticus nodded and turned his horse away, back in the direction of the main road to the capital.
Chapter 13
That night he dreamed of the girl, but he didn’t see her eyes. There was no colour in the dream, and he was standing away from her, to watch her as they looked out from a high-crested hill. She stood, younger in form and posture, her hair longer and pulled back in a simple ponytail in the same way as the barmaid. She was watching a heavy grey rain cloud as it spread across the valleys in front of her, the diagonal shafts of rain fluffing the underside. The breeze that came before a rainstorm was already with them, prickling his skin with its warmth and moisture. It playfully pulled at her hair, drawing her ponytail to one side and making the hair against her skull into a lopsided shape as it pressed and pulled. He knew that when the rain came and the winds strengthened she would stay. In this dream, she didn’t turn around nor did she consider him in case she missed the majestic storm. He held this sensation of love and cold skin, of respect and solitude. When he awoke to the night’s last stars in a turquoise pre-dawn, he felt less of a man because now he knew something of his loss.
“There was a murder here yesterday,” stated Balthasar as they packed in a hurry. “Obviously, we’re going to get blamed. We always do.”
“Are we suspects?” asked Marcan. Any interaction with the militia was troubling. If he was a whore, he could easily be considered as a thief or a murderer. Finding out in front of a hanging magistrate was not the best option.
“Want to take the chance they’d give us preferential treatment when there’s blood on their well-polished cobblestones?”
Balthasar barked instructions of urgency to his troupe, who glanced at him, then Marcan. Marcan watched him as he approached, opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. He turned back and looked for someone else to shout at.
“Do you think that I am involved in this?”
“No, of course not,” stated Balthasar without any conviction. “This is a mugging gone wrong. Whatever it is, best we move on and let the lynch mob beat up the other tourists.”
Balthasar was getting more anxious by the minute, and yet somehow his focused gaze took in everything but Marcan. He counted the bags and the horses and watched his team move. He shook his head or gestured with his chin when necessary. All the while though, Balthasar kept his shoulder turned away from Marcan ever so slightly, enough to say he acknowledged his presence but wished he wasn’t there.
Marcan turned his attention from the rush in front of them to consider Balthasar’s expression. The man could wear his extravagant ashen beard and the great volume of hair with such panache because of his dark, animated eyes. They told the world everything about the man behind them and Marcan was beginning to understand their language. Balthasar was holding on to a lie about Marcan which had been obvious since the beginning. That Marcan had left it with Balthasar was his own choice, but now he saw it was a folly. His recuperation was over. He was the stronger man now and that was the secret Balthasar had wanted to hide. He had no need to protect Marcan anymore.
“Tell me,” he asked Balthasar once the entourage had packed their bags and their inertia, “what is your obsession with using travellers’ huts to crap in?”
Balthasar glanced at him but kept walking. “Well, dear Marcan, I’m one of those people who enjoy a fresh movement but hate the result,” he replied. “A stream purifies everything about the practice. It stops me being an animal. These guys . . .” he gestured with a flick of his hand in the direction of the three rough cast members in front of them, “act the part of the generals every night and then go to drop their trousers in the woods the next morning. I doubt any of those great men deign to poop. Fight like a god and then strain like a dog? I think not.”
Marcan stared past them, watching the dirt on the road. There wasn’t the imprint of a single footstep, but rather a hundred thousand of them blurred into a flat breadth.
“Do you know more about me than you’re telling me?” he asked.
“Bit of a change of subject,” remarked Balthasar.
“I know more about these people than I do about myself,” stated Marcan, gesturing with his arm. “And not just because I listen, but because they all talk easily about themselves. You observe everyone and I know you’ve spent time thinking about who I am. You never bring it up, never offer an opinion or a solution. Never give me direction.”
“Because everyone in this world would offer a king’s ransom to spend a se
ason without guilt or regret. You are in the middle of a marvellous luxury if you were wise enough to enjoy it. Maybe I’m letting you have that little extra time.”
Balthasar’s naturally dominant personality was tempered when he spoke to Marcan, and this played to Marcan’s paranoia.
Even Balthasar now seemed unconvinced himself. He looked swiftly around, spying a roadside hut as if he hadn’t noticed it before.
“I’ll be back in a while,” he said. The troupe came to a gradual rest behind them as packs were dropped and fires lit. Marcan raised his chin and turned to look for a cup of warm wine and honey. The morning banter rarely changed unless there had been a performance the day before. It was the usual rehash of plans, lost loves, and the other myths and legends of the small community. Normally he listened in, as if it were a familiar song with its rhythms and verses, but today he sat counting moments as he played with the smell of the drink.
The worm of suspicion had crawled into him and now he needed to understand more. Balthasar was a poor liar and a poor friend not to be offering what he needed. Perhaps it was time that he made this man less of a friend and more of someone of use.
Marcan had a destiny and Balthasar was smothering it.
The door swung open silently, the sudden sunlight shocking Balthasar. Marcan entered, shadows darkening his brows. He sat with a heavy refinement on the bench by the side of the hut, resting his sandaled feet in the pepperings of light, before he looked up. Balthasar sat on his folding crap chair, the water chattering happily underneath.
“Hi,” said Balthasar. “Something on your mind?” Marcan was silent. He focussed on his breathing.“Just here for the company? I might offer better conversation in a while.”
Balthasar scrutinised the man, unsettled more by the change in his demeanour than by his looming presence. Marcan was a towering man, not necessarily much taller than the average, but his bearing was like a wall of air around him which demanded respect and concern. Balthasar hesitated in his thoughts.