by Kage Baker
“I’m sure it was an accident,” murmured Mr. Tinwick.
“Course it was,” said Clarn, attempting to sound hearty. “It’s the stupid dagger’s fault. The catch sticks. I nearly stabbed Pulkas last week with it. Not to worry. Didn’t go in all that deep. I don’t think.”
Gard looked down over Mr. Tinwick’s shoulder at the projecting hilt. He was fairly sure the blade must have punctured Mr. Tinwick’s lung. “We need to bind him to a ladder. Something that’ll hold him still without putting any pressure on the knife.”
“Yes,” said Lady Filigree, striding onstage. She was followed by the mason’s apprentice, who was weeping and wringing his hands. “You’ve seen such wounds before, then.”
“Our Wolkin was a soldier,” said Bracket, hauling a ladder from the rafters of the properties shed.
“I thought as much,” said Lady Filigree.
“Is there anything I can do?” said the mason’s apprentice.
“Yes. Help me fasten him to the ladder,” said Lady Filigree, and began tearing her veil into wide strips.
“I had rather die than that the sun should spoil such beauty,” said Mr. Tinwick with a feeble giggle. A pink froth dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t talk nonsense, my dear,” she replied briskly. In less than a minute Mr. Tinwick was immobilized and propped against the wall.
“I expect I’ll go out and take down the posters for Doom of the Northern Kings, then,” said Mr. Carbon. Mr. Tinwick’s back—he was facing the wall—twitched.
“You can’t!” they heard him say, with a gasp. “We’ve sold out the first three nights!”
“Look, Tinny, you’ll never be able to go on,” said Bracket. “It’s only two nights from now. You can’t go onstage and faint in your damned mask.”
“Temporary,” said Mr. Tinwick. “Understudy.”
“Understudy you? None of us can do the Dark Lord,” said Clarn.
“I rather think young Wolkin is equal to the task,” said Lady Filigree. “He has the presence.”
There was a silence, punctuated only by Mr. Tinwick’s wheezes. “Yes,” he said at last. “He’ll do. Bracket, you’re Kendon. Been onstage with him long enough, you know his lines.”
Bracket opened his mouth in amazement but said nothing. “Who’s Batto, then?” said Mr. Carbon.
“Please!” The mason’s apprentice dropped to his knees against the wall, peering up sideways at Mr. Tinwick. “Oh, sir, I know all his lines! I’ve been listening to the play for three days now! I could do it, I know I could! It’d be an honor!”
“Who the hell are you?” said Mr. Tinwick, trying to turn his head to see.
“Jort Flywheel, sir! I been doing your retaining wall. Please! I’ve wanted to be a player half my life!”
“Er … you can audition,” said Mr. Tinwick. “How would that be?”
“Oh, sir!” Jort burst into tears again, and caught Mr. Tinwick’s hand and kissed it. At this moment Miss Ironbolt returned, followed closely by a battle-scarred surgeon and a pair of servants with a sedan chair.
The next few minutes were busy for Gard, as he found himself conscripted into the role of the surgeon’s assistant. Sometime during the repair and bandaging of Mr. Tinwick’s wound, Satra was revived by Clarn and led to the back of the house. There she wept on his shoulder and he made sympathetic and reassuring noises. Mr. Carbon packed his smoking tube with pinkweed and brought it back to share with them, and the three of them grew glassy-eyed and calm.
Mr. Tinwick was bound into the sedan chair at last and borne off, with Lady Filigree marching along behind. Gard was just collapsing into a seat when Pulkas came in by the street door.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to go the long way around. There’s an army recruiter team working Oilpress Street. Have I missed anything?”
After two days of sleeping upright and taking clear broth, Mr. Tinwick was pronounced out of immediate danger, though strictly forbidden to speak in anything louder than a conversational voice.
His actors had little time to worry about him, preparing for the opening of The Doom of the Northern Kings. Jort Flywheel passed his audition handily, to Pulkas’s irritation, and won the role of Batto for his own. He was not especially bright, but he could memorize lines.
“Gods below, look at them out there,” said Bracket, watching through the screen. “It’s packed. There are people sitting up above the quarry cut. Free seats! Go out and make them buy tickets, Mr. Carbon.”
“Sod off,” said Mr. Carbon, who was being dressed in his shot silk robe and desperately wanted a smoke to calm his nerves.
“There’s Tinwick!” said Clarn. “Milady’s got him trussed up to a frame beside her. He looks like a ship’s figurehead.”
“Let’s make him proud, everyone,” said Miss Ironbolt.
“Bloody right!” said Mr. Flywheel, tearing up. “Come on, three cheers for Mr. Tinwick!”
“Not back here, you ninny,” said Pulkas. He prodded the front of Gard’s papier-mâché breastplate. “You all right in there? His armor’s a little tight on you, isn’t it?”
“I feel like a cockroach,” said Gard.
“Well, you don’t look like one,” said Bracket. “You look frighteningly effective. Masks, all. Elti and Jibbi? Let’s go, boys. Death and destruction.”
“Death and destruction,” they all echoed.
When he went back to his bare little room that night and took up his pen, Enokas Plater would stare at the blank page for a full five minutes before carefully inscribing the characters for Perfection.
The Doom of the Northern Kings went off with an eerie smoothness. Kendon the Hero was gallant and brave, but no fool. His faithful servant Batto fairly trembled with honest devotion, and tragic Clemona was red-eyed and miserable. Gard made his entrance at last as the Dark Lord and heard the audience draw breath, just as they had in the arena when he had been about to deliver the killing cut to an opponent.
He thought his performance was wooden, compared to Mr. Tinwick’s. He drew on everything he could remember of Balnshik’s advice, keeping his reactions muted, his speeches to a minimum. But he had never spoken in the arena, and so he had to fall back on Mr. Tinwick’s delivery, the same pauses, the same inflections. So focused was he on getting it right that he was halfway through his duel with the Wizard before he thought to look out at the audience.
They might have been made of stone. Intent, spellbound, leaning forward every one except for Mr. Tinwick, and in his eyes Gard saw agony and was startled.
“I don’t think Mr. Tinwick likes it,” he said to Mr. Carbon, when they stood together in the properties shed after the Wizard’s death.
“Bloody hell, of course he doesn’t like it,” said Mr. Carbon, as he shrugged out of his Wizard’s robe. “You’re better than he is! Congratulations, boy. It’s your theater now. Shouldn’t be surprised if Lady Filigree pulls some more strings on your behalf.”
“But I don’t want a theater.”
“Oh, yes, you do. With all the posh ladies you can tumble? And there’s nice food and a nice villa of your own and maybe even a title in it for you. Take it, son. We don’t get chances like this every day. Some of us never get them. Your cue’s coming up, by the way.”
Stepping back out onstage, Gard delivered his lines with thunder in his voice and saw the audience respond. Involuntary shivers, moist lips, gleaming eyes, utter fascination. Gleaming eyes.
Two pairs of silver eyes were in the audience.
They belonged to a pair of men, identical twins apparently, somewhat lumpish and misshapen-looking but with a general resemblance to Triphammer. Their gazes were fixed on Gard, tracking him upstage and down.
The Doom of the Northern Kings had been intended as a trilogy, and so the Dark Lord did not die at the end but merely escaped with his minions in a chariot drawn by dragons. Gard’s breastplate was therefore still smooth, shiny and black when he took his bows at the end, as the audience stamped and screamed an
d applauded. Because it was too tight for him to remove without help, he was still wearing the breastplate when the others trooped in after the lamps had been extinguished onstage.
“Oh, we nailed it tonight!” shouted Clarn.
“They’re packing up five deep at the back gate,” said Mr. Carbon in awe. “Ye gods, Wolkin, you can have any one of them. Any dozen of them.”
“Will you help me out of this?” said Gard, but before Mr. Carbon could oblige, Bracket leaned over and said in a low urgent voice, “Wolkin, Tinny’s here to see you. Be tactful, eh?”
Gard edged his way through the other actors crabwise and came face-to-face with Mr. Tinwick, rigidly upright in his brace. He was pale, but smiling as he looked up at Gard. “Here’s the man of the hour. My boy, you’ve made me very proud.” He reached out awkwardly—one of his arms was bandaged to his side—and clasped Gard’s hand.
“I thought I was awful,” said Gard.
“But the audience didn’t,” said Mr. Tinwick. “And that is all that matters. You gave them exactly what they wanted.”
“Speaking of wanted,” said Clarn, “they’re asking for you at the gate, Wolkin.”
“I need to change out of costume,” said Gard, feeling his heart racing.
“No, no!” said Mr. Tinwick. “Go out in the armor and the black cloak. They love it. You’ll be treated to the best dinner of your life. Go out and enjoy your fame, my friend.”
“Thank you,” said Gard wretchedly, thinking of the silver-eyed men. He managed to grab a pair of knives from his street clothing as he sidled back to the gate, and hid them away on his person. Clarn helpfully threw the gate open, and Gard looked out on a crowd of eager-eyed citizens. There was applause.
“The Dark Lord!”
“Oh, Mr. Smith, you were magnificent!”
“Mr. Smith, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”
“Mr. Smith, I have a son who wants to become an actor, and I wonder if you might talk to him—”
“Mr. Smith, I wonder if you’d be interested—”
“I, er, was going to go for dinner at Screwbite’s,” said Gard. “If any of you would like—”
“Screwbite’s? No, no! Mr. Smith, I have a room reserved at the Chalice,” said one woman, reaching through the sea of faces to clasp his hand. “Aleka Tourmaline, drama critic for the Sun Viper. Please join our party. I’d like to talk to you about doing an exclusive interview.”
The men with silver eyes were standing back from the crowd, across the street.
“Why don’t we all go?” said Gard, sweating.
“But I—,” said Miss Tourmaline, and was drowned out by a gleeful chorus of acceptance from all the other women present. She looked around sulkily. “All right, then.”
Gard moved off down the street in the center of a milling mass of admirers both male and female. The men with the silver eyes kept their distance, but kept pace.
The Chalice was on the Street of Golden Lamps, in the nicest part of Deliantiba. Glittering shops lined either side of the street; Gard found it perilously similar to the Upper Tunnels under the mountain, and only the clear stars overhead—as opposed to cunningly worked lanterns—assured him that he wasn’t back there now.
His party was ushered into a private banquet room. He was seated at an immense table draped in fine cloth. Obsequious waiters recited a list of dishes and asked him to choose; when he stammered, Miss Tourmaline chose for him. Wine was brought to the table, not the plain red stuff served at Screwbite’s, but something bright, fragrant of almonds and flowers, sparkling in crystal.
The dishes, when they were carried in, were exquisite. Gard had never tasted anything so wonderful in his life. He ate ravenously, asking for more when he had cleaned one plate, and his smiling hostess had more set before him. He paid particular attention to her questions, answering as best he could with his mouth full. Bluff soldierly candor seemed the safest mask.
He had lived some while in Patrayka as a child, had a good education, knocked around a bit before going on the stage. Where? Oh, here and there. No, he was not married. When had he known he was a genius? Oh, he wasn’t anything of the kind; just an ordinary working actor. Mr. Tinwick was the genius. What did he think of Epic Theater? He thought it was all right. Didn’t he plan to move on to real theater soon, instead of this quaint genre stuff? He hadn’t thought about it. Compliments and inane questions from the others in the party fell about him like flower petals.
All during the meal, the other women in the party (and some few of the men) kept passing small objects up and setting them beside his wineglass. Quite a mound of them was there by the time he had a moment to look at them, and he blinked in astonishment. Each was a clay disk soaked in a differing floral scent, stamped with a name, an address, and the hours when a visitor would be welcomed. Mr. Tinwick had accumulated bags full of them, and they were coveted by the other cast members. Now Gard had his own pile of tokens, any one of which would admit him to a perfumed boudoir.
There he sat, in the finest society, in the midst of cultured people who adored him, answering their chatter with calculated phrases as ably as a courtier. And on the other side of the restaurant’s window Gard’s old life waited in the street, watching him with unblinking silver eyes.
He excused himself at last, to everyone’s dismay. Smiling, he told them about the tight breastplate and his need to remove it, to appreciative giggles. Several people offered to remove it for him there and then, but he declined courteously, citing a desire to get some sleep after the rigors of the evening’s performance. He swept the black cloak around himself for a showy exit and left to cheers and applause.
It was quiet in the dark streets; the stars had dropped far down to the horizon. Gard stared across at the silver-eyed pair and walked away rapidly, heading for the edge of town. They followed him, keeping to their own side of the street. He led them off into the maze of alleys near the apartment block where he lived. When he had found a place that seemed suitable, he stopped. They came a little closer and stopped too.
“We liked the play,” said Grattur.
“You were good. You made us proud,” said Engrattur.
“By the Blue Pit, that’s what a demon lord ought to look like!”
“It makes me feel terrible about what we were sent to do.”
“What have you been sent to do?” said Gard, bringing out the two knives he had concealed in his cloak.
“Oh, we’re forbidden to tell you that,” said Grattur.
“Her ladyship laid strong spells on us to prevent us telling you,” said Engrattur.
“So, of course, we won’t tell you we’re supposed to kidnap you.”
“No, indeed. That would be disobeying.”
“And you know what she’s like when she’s disobeyed.”
“So we won’t disobey. For example, we won’t tell you what happened after you broke the mountain.”
“We won’t tell you how her ladyship survived, and Lord Vergoin, and enough of the others to dig out some of the tunnels.”
“Nor how they figured out what you’d done—oh, you were so clever!—and swore to have you dragged back and sacrificed.”
“No, we can’t tell you that. Or why they don’t just send an assassin to kill you here, because you twisted up old Magister Porlilon’s spell, so that now it can only be untwisted by your blood, before they can escape.”
“If you told me such news, I might feel like kicking myself,” said Gard. “Because that would mean they’ll never rest until they get me back. But, of course, you haven’t told me.”
“So we haven’t,” agreed Grattur.
“We’d never warn you like that,” said Engrattur.
“You’re wearing new bodies,” said Gard.
“Yes. Our old ones were crushed when the mountain fell,” said Grattur.
“I’m sorry,” said Gard.
“Oh, we didn’t feel a thing,” said Engrattur. “We’d drunk all that wine you so kindly left us, by then.
”
“Too bad her ladyship knew our real names, which are Grattur and Engrattur, and was able to summon us back to serve her.”
“You should have seen her, clawing through the debris in her fine clothes, cursing and pitching rocks out of the way.”
“She’s at her best when things are going badly for her.”
“Never loses heart, that one. You should have heard the way she ordered everyone around.”
“You should have heard the things she threatened to do to us if we didn’t bring you back bound and drugged to the mountain.”
“I can imagine them, though,” said Gard. They laughed.
“Well, no help for it; we’re going to have to kidnap you now,” said Grattur.
“Yes. Here we come, little brother,” said Engrattur.
They came at him slowly, arms raised ineffectually, and he was easily able to cut both their throats. They dropped gurgling into the street and died.
On impulse, Gard searched their bodies. He retrieved a pair of purses full of the same miscellany of old coins, and two packets bearing letters of mark. These he tucked away in his cloak. He went up to his room, stuffed a bag with his books and a few other necessary items, and hurried on to the theater.
When he walked into the properties shed, he nearly stumbled over Mr. Carbon and Pulkas, who were grappling together on the floor. He staggered back, on his guard until he realized they weren’t fighting. “Sorry,” said Mr. Carbon.
“Don’t mind me,” said Gard, shrugging out of his cloak. “I’ll only be a minute. Just, er, getting my clothes.”
“That’s right; you’ve still got the damn black armor on,” said Pulkas, rolling over. He was drunk and had been crying. “Wh—what are you doing back here with us peasants? I thought you’d be bouncing some duchess by now.”
“The life doesn’t suit me,” said Gard, struggling with the catches of the breastplate.
“You know, it never suited me either,” said Mr. Carbon, getting up and helping him with the catches. “But you ought to make a show of it, anyway. It keeps them happy.”
“Actually, I’m leaving,” said Gard.