by James Roy
‘I’m pretty annoyed now!’ she replied. ‘And to be honest, I think I’d quite like to go home, if that’s all right.’
Verris smiled. Then he took both her hands in his. ‘Danda, you have played your part, and you’ve played it well. Quentaris might not be ready to thank you just yet, but given time it will. Go home now. And I… we thank you.’
As soon as Danda had gone, Verris stepped down into the pod, which rocked gently under his weight. He bent and picked up Torby. ‘I think we’re late for a night at the theatre, after a quick stop at the palace. There might be one or two generals locked away down there who are looking for a phalanx of militia to lead.’
‘Where are we going to find the phalanx of militia?’ Tab asked.
‘They’re locked up in the cell next to the generals.’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘What kind of idiot keeps officers and men in a place where they can work on a plot together?’
‘An idiot like Florian?’ Tab suggested.
‘Precisely that kind of idiot. Come on, Tab, let’s hurry.’
***
The audience was in, and Fontagu was nervous. And these were more than just first-night nerves – these were serious frightened-of-doing-something-that-might-get-me-killed nerves.
He pulled the side-stage curtain apart slightly. The footlight candles were lit, and over in the royal box the refreshments were being laid out, ready for Florian and his party to arrive.
‘Mister Wizroth.’
Fontagu turned. A boy in a dress was standing there, biting at his thumbnail.
‘What is it, Lindo?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Of course you are – you’re a terrible actor.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course, but it’s too late to be thinking about that now. We’ve prepared as well as we can, and now it’s time to put it all together. Yes?’
‘Yes sir. But what if I mess up my lines?’
‘I’ve no doubt you all will, but we’ll just do our best,’ Fontagu said, checking the royal box again. There was some movement at the back, followed by a fanfare from a trumpeter. The audience turned to welcome Florian, who squeezed into his seat and offered a bored wave.
‘This is it, Fontagu,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Time to be glorious once more.’ Then he let out a long fluttery breath and wiped his clammy palms on his thighs, before turning to Lindo. ‘Go and tell the others to get ready – the Emperor’s just arrived. Go!’
The boy hurried off, and Fontagu put his hands to his face, closed his eyes and took another deep breath.
‘Fontagu?’
‘I’ve told you, we’re as ready as we can be! Now go to the others and tell them -’
‘No, it’s us, Amelia and Philmon.’
He turned around. ‘I’m sorry, children, I thought you were someone else.’ He took both Amelia’s hands in his own. ‘Oh, thank you for coming. Is everything all right? Did you find the person you needed to find in Skulum Gate?’
Amelia blinked, nodded, and looked at the floor. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
‘From your eyes I see that it was bad news?’
‘Not the best. Listen, Fontagu, I just want to wish you the very best for tonight. We both do.’
‘That’s right,’ Philmon agreed.
‘Thank you, children. Well, I’m glad you could make it. I don’t… I don’t suppose Tab…?’
Philmon and Amelia shook their heads.
‘Oh. Well then. Never mind,’ Fontagu said with a tight, grim smile.
The stage manager had come over while they were speaking. He tapped Fontagu on the shoulder. ‘We’re all ready to go, Mister Wizroth.’
‘Thank you. And Florian knows when to come backstage for his… his cameo?’
‘He does, Mister Wizroth.’
‘Good, good. Well, children, your stall is waiting. And I do hope you enjoy the play. Oh, and there’s one more thing. Could you look after Fargus? I can’t risk having him run across the stage in the middle of the play.’
‘Of course,’ said Amelia. ‘We’ll collect him on the way. Good luck, Fontagu.’
Fontagu winced. ‘You can’t wish someone good luck in a theatre, Amelia!’
‘Oh. Sorry. Then… bad luck, I… I suppose.’
‘That’s better,’ Fontagu said, relaxing slightly. ‘Enjoy the play.’
After Philmon and Amelia left, Fontagu looked out from the side of the stage once more. There was Florian, and Janus, and several other important people and their servants, already stuffing their faces.
‘Strength, Fontagu,’ he whispered. ‘Time to do something noble.’
***
‘These are good seats, aren’t they?’ Philmon said. He looked down on the cheap-ticket holders, standing in a crush in the main part of the theatre.
‘There had to be some advantage to being friends with Fontagu,’ Amelia said bitterly. She glanced across at an empty chair. ‘Tab should have been there, though.’
‘I know. But you need to focus on what you’re going to say to Florian in front of all these people. Are you still going to do it?’
Amelia felt the anger still burning in her chest. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Definitely.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ Philmon said as Fontagu emerged from the side of the stage and walked to the centre. ‘He looks nervous.’
‘He should be.’
The noise from the audience settled as Fontagu stood there, waiting. When there was complete silence, he raised his chin, extended one of his arms, and bowed low towards the royal box. ‘My lord,’ he said.
Florian nodded once and stuffed a bunch of grapes into his mouth.
Fontagu straightened and faced the audience. ‘Dear friends, I am Fontagu Wizroth the Third, and tonight I have the very great honour of directing and performing my own modern adaptation of the greatest of all Quentaran classics, The Gimlet Eye. This performance was commissioned as a birthday gift from the city of Quentaris to its leader, Florian the Great, Supreme Emperor of Quentaris. As befits the occasion, later in the performance there will be a surprise guest appearance, which I feel sure you will enjoy.’
Fontagu hesitated, then cleared his throat. ‘Before we begin, I wish to dedicate tonight’s performance to a wonderful and most esteemed person, the like of whom I have ever known, and may never know again.’
Amelia glanced in Florian’s direction. The horrid little oaf was smiling smugly around at the crowd.
Fontagu went on: ‘The performance you are about to see will be in the honour of my very dear friend, Tab Vidler, who yesterday disappeared without trace, in most suspicious circumstances. We hope for her safe return, but are prepared for the very worst.’ He turned towards the royal box, and the no-longer-smiling Florian. ‘My lord, we give you, in three acts… The Gimlet Eye.’
‘Go Fontagu!’ Amelia muttered.
‘Brave or stupid?’ Philmon said.
‘Quite a bit of both.’
It came as something of a surprise to Amelia to see how good Fontagu actually was. The other performers ranged between fairly good and outstanding, but Fontagu’s class was clearly evident. Whenever the crippled carpenter Robar came onstage, it was plain to see that the actor playing him was truly in his element. His voice was strong and emotive, his lines delivered with perfect timing and enunciation, and Amelia found herself looking forward to his every reappearance.
Philmon seemed to be finding the performance just as engaging, for at some time in the second act, just as the villagers were preparing to go out hunting for the monster, Amelia stole a glance at him, and saw that his eyes were wide. He was sitting slightly forward, and his lap was empty.
‘Philmon! Where’s Fargus?’ she whispered.
‘What? Oh! Oh no!’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know!’ Philmon said, looking under his chair and around the stall. ‘I’ll have to go and look for him!’
‘Wait,’ said Amelia. ‘Let me try somet
hing.’ Then she closed her eyes.
‘What are you doing?’
She didn’t answer him. She was too busy trying to use her fledgling skill to find the mind of Fargus.
Shutting away the strange garbled noise of the hundreds of minds in the playhouse, she went looking for a little, doggy mind. It took some doing, but eventually she found Fargus. At least, she was pretty sure it was him, sniffing around at the base of a chest. Off to one side she saw some backstage props that she recognised from the play, and a short distance away she could hear Fontagu delivering some of Robar’s lines.
She suddenly felt a pain in her backside, and a voice she didn’t recognise said, ‘Out of the way, mutt – I’m in a hurry.’
Fargus whimpered and looked up. Through his eyes, Amelia was shocked to see a stocky, red-headed man limping across to a large table strewn with props. He was carrying something in his hand, but with his back turned to Fargus, it was impossible for Amelia to know what it was.
Then he was turning around, and Amelia saw what it was he was holding. It was a sword.
She left Fargus’ mind with a start. She was breathing hard as she said, ‘He’s backstage.’
‘I’d better go and get him,’ Philmon replied. ‘We can’t have a dog running across -’
‘Not the dog,’ Amelia said. ‘The man. The red-headed man with the little knife. And a sword. Rendana is backstage. I can even smell the tigerplums.’
Philmon frowned at her. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure he’s up to no good.’
‘He’s not backstage any more,’ Philmon said, nodding towards the royal box. Amelia looked, and saw Rendana standing at the back of the stall. He caught Janus’ eye, and nodded.
‘Something’s not right,’ Philmon said. ‘I’m going back there.’
Amelia stood up. ‘Then I’m coming with you.’
As they reached the backstage area, they almost ran headlong into Fontagu, who had just come behind the curtain at the end of a scene. ‘What are you two doing here?’ he asked crossly. ‘Florian will be here for his cameo in a moment, and then I’m back on. It’s a very quick turnaround for the next scene.’
‘Fontagu, something’s wrong,’ Philmon said.
‘I know, I know, that idiot murdering the part of Darmas Girth has just botched his last line, I swear it.’
‘Actually, it’s not that -’ Amelia began to say, but she stopped as Florian and a couple of his courtiers arrived.
‘Wizroth! Explain yourself!’ Florian blustered, standing up close to Fontagu. ‘What do you mean to do, dedicating this play to that Vidler child? It’s Our birthday. Ours!’
‘Steady, Amelia,’ Philmon said under his breath, as she stiffened.
‘I… I meant no disrespect, my lord,’ Fontagu stammered.
‘You might have thought it was noble and brave, but We thought it was rather foolish, in the scheme of things,’ Florian said. ‘But we can talk about your so-called future later. For now, We need Our costume.’
‘Over here, my lord,’ Fontagu said, taking a cloak from a hanger nearby. ‘It should fit… We thought it would be quicker and easier if your costume just slipped over your very fine, very elegant clothes, which do befit your greatness and your -’
‘Oh, do shut up, Wizroth,’ Florian said, slipping the cloak on. ‘Now, where’s Our sword?’
‘Here, my lord.’ Fontagu handed him a wooden sword, painted to look silver.
Fontagu swung it about as if he was preparing for a real duel. ‘Yes, this will do nicely,’ he said, and Amelia had to bite her tongue again. Florian had never been much good with weapons when he was the spoilt nephew to the Archon, and now as a spoilt Emperor he was probably just as useless. ‘And Actor, remember to let me look good before you kill me.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Fontagu replied.
‘Now, when is Our cue?’ Florian looked around smugly, making sure that everyone had noticed his use of a real acting word. ‘I believe We go on from stage left, is that right?’
‘Stage left is right. I mean… stage left is correct, my lord,’ Fontagu said, picking up his stage sword from the props table. He attached it to his belt, momentarily confused by the buckle. But then it was on, and he gave his head a little mind-clearing shake and looked at Florian, who suddenly appeared to be struggling not to vomit. ‘Ready?’
‘Of course,’ Florian replied. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Um… Very well, my lord. Break a leg.’
‘Yes, well let’s hope not.’
‘No, of course.’
From the side of the stage, Amelia and Philmon watched Fontagu make his entrance. He walked up to the boy playing Robar’s wife Sarad, who was in the middle of a long speech about how much she was missing her dead friend the hunter.
As Robar, Fontagu stood there, listening to his wife weep. Then, as she paused, he stepped towards her, taking her hand in his. ‘Why harken thee to the early morn and list to hear the voice of lovers?’ he recited, his voice bold and clear.
‘O Robar, deride me not this never-fine day, for my heart grows sullen-headed with worrisome affront,’ Sarad replied, pulling her hand from Fontagu’s and turning away to gaze offstage.
Fontagu stepped towards her again, speaking to her back. ‘Even with birdsong I heard our casement squeak, and coming hither I spied thee, your face with torment razed, while I had erstwhile slumbered within our wedding casket.’
‘But lo, who from afar approaches?’ Sarad said.
‘That’s my cue,’ Florian said, and clearing his throat, he stepped into the glow of the footlights.
Even from backstage, Amelia heard the crowd gasp as they recognised Florian. Then came the tittering. He’d come in on the wrong side of the stage, and Robar and Sarad were facing in the opposite direction.
Florian waited until they’d noticed and had turned to face him. He hesitated, then began his lines, but without much confidence. ‘Greetings. I am Calran, a wandering hawker, out to do great harm and no good. I have seen your fine animals and this, your lovely wife, and wish to take them all for myself, O lame and blind carpenter.’
‘You insult me with your devilish handsomeness and your working legs and eyes,’ Robar replied. Judging from the way he winced, Amelia could tell that Fontagu was hating these clumsy lines he’d been forced to say, but he pressed on regardless. ‘Lame and half blind I might be, good sir, but I will not stand idle by while you take all my fine animals and this wife to whom I’m married.’
‘Then shall I fight you for them, and her?’ Florian asked.
‘If you wish,’ Fontagu retorted, drawing his sword. ‘Have at you!’
The swordfight was in full swing when Amelia remembered. As she watched Fontagu and Florian move about the stage with clumsy stage-fighting, she glanced across at the royal box. Janus and Rendana had remained there, Janus sitting, the red-headed man standing, and as she looked at Rendana, what she’d seen through Fargus’ eyes returned. Could it be? No, of course not. She must have made a mistake.
‘You fight ever so well for a humble hawker,’ Fontagu was saying.
‘Thank you. And you are quite good for a blind, lame carpenter, but it would still take a stroke of very good fortune for you to defeat me.’
At that moment, Florian ‘tripped’ over a stool in the middle of the stage and fell onto his backside.
‘A stroke of good fortune like that?’ Fontagu said, standing over Florian and raising his sword, ready to run the hawker through. ‘Now you die!’
‘Stop!’ Amelia screamed, leaping forward onto the stage. ‘Fontagu, don’t!’
The crowd gasped at the interruption. So did the actors. Florian looked up with an expression of horror and fury, but Fontagu simply stared in surprise.
‘Amelia! What are you doing?’
‘Get off!’ Florian hissed. ‘He was about to kill me!’
‘Yes, he was,’ Amelia said, reaching up and taking the sword from Fontagu’s hand. ‘
With this.’
‘It’s a stage sword, you silly girl,’ Fontagu said. Then he groaned. ‘Oh, now you’ve gone and ruined everything!’
‘A stage sword? Are you sure?’ With a sharp downward thrust, Amelia jammed the tip of the sword into the stage. It quivered there for a moment, its point buried deep in the boards.
‘What? I don’t…’ Fontagu fumbled. ‘It was meant to be a stage sword. It was always meant to be a stage sword, my lord, I swear it!’
His face pale, Florian had climbed to his feet. He shrugged the costume from his shoulders and stepped closer to the trembling Fontagu. ‘What treachery is this, Actor?’
Fontagu fell to his knees. ‘My lord, I wish I could explain, but… but I can’t. I truly believed that to be a stage sword, not… not a real one.’
‘Of all the people I might have expected to attempt an assassination, I would have hoped it to be someone a little more dignified than… than you. Get up, you disgusting wretch. You’ll be swinging from the nearest yardarm before the sun rises again.’
‘How about Janus – are you going to hang him as well?’ Amelia asked in a clear, strong voice.
There was absolute silence in the playhouse as Florian turned slowly towards Amelia. ‘I beg your pardon? You would dare to insult my dearest friend?’
‘Your dearest “friend” tried to have you killed. The only thing is, he was too cowardly to do it himself.’
‘That’s a very serious accusation,’ Florian said with a scowl. ‘What proof do you have?’
‘Ask him,’ Amelia said, nodding towards the royal box.
All attention turned to Janus, but he simply laughed. ‘What? The girl’s mad! She’s making up fairytales!’
‘If I’m making up stories, why will the guards find your servant carrying a stage sword instead of a real one? I’ll tell you why – because he substituted a real sword for the fake one. You wanted Florian dead, but you would rather have seen a Simesian actor commit the crime and pay the price.’