ARC: Shadowplay

by Laura Lam

  The poster was taller than I was and echoed the old posters of when Maske and Taliesin worked together. Back then, they had stood shoulder to shoulder, wielding magic against little devils and smiling beatifically at passersby.

  The upper half of the new poster showed Maske and Taliesin glaring at each other in a battle of wills. Maske looked younger and more handsome than he was in reality. They’d put Taliesin in a Kymri turban bedecked with jewels, and shown him as he would look if the drugs had not ravaged him. Below Maske were Drystan and Cyan, drawn as if Maske were the puppeteer controlling his marionettes. Drystan looked like Cyan’s fraternal twin. In their outstretched hands they held blue fire. Taliesin’s boys had legs that turned into smoke, as though they were specters, and they held red fire. Small imps with forked tails perched on everyone’s shoulders, whispering into their ears. Tonight was the night.

  We opted not to practice on the Hippodrome stage itself for fear that someone would spy on us. Instead, months, ago we had measured the stage to the closest inch and figured out where everything would go. But an unfamiliar stage was always a liability.

  Professor David Delvin, the head of the Collective of Magic, decided who would perform first by a coin toss. We made sure it wasn’t double-sided, just in case. Taliesin and his kin would perform first. Part of me liked this – we would know what we were up against, so it would be no surprise. Yet if they were far better than us, it would not be particularly good for our morale and the audience would be too jaded against wonder and magic.

  We set up as much as we could, but mainly we took our black-wrapped props into one of the storerooms backstage, ensuring it remained well-locked at all times. Oli arrived not long after. He murmured a hello and stood awkwardly near us as we discussed plans. My nerves jangled even more, like a badly strung guitar. I had been edgy before circus shows, but nothing like this; even if a small mistake during the trapeze act could mean injury or death.

  An hour before the show, Taliesin and his boys wandered over to us. Maske stood straight, his eyes flinty as he gazed at his rival.

  “Jasper, old sport,” Taliesin wheezed, grinning to show the ruin of his mouth. His eyes were so bright I knew he was on Lerium. Sind and Jac were impeccably dressed in their magician’s kit, their faces showing only smug derision.

  “Taliesin,” Maske replied. “It’s the night the scales are evened and fair.”

  Taliesin gave a phlegmy laugh. “The scales were already balanced fifteen years ago, Jasper.”

  Maske smirked, buffing his nails on his shirt. “Pen, we both know you unfairly weighted the scale in your favor. Let’s not have a repeat performance of that, shall we?”

  Taliesin leered. “You’re one to be tetchy about cheating, old card sharp.”

  The two boys echoed the sentiment, but it felt forced. The accusations of cheating unnerved them. My stomach sank. We could not afford any sort of sabotage.

  “I never cheated except at cards. Not even close. Has your magic faded, now that you’re so dependent on magic of a chemical nature?”

  Taliesin pulled his lips back from his teeth, as if he’d hiss at Maske like an angry cat. “You arrogant…” The twins made a move as if to strike Maske.

  I stepped between them.

  “Please.” I cut Taliesin off. “It’s almost time for you to begin. We’ll soon find out who wins, and there will be no cheating. On either side.” I met the Taliesins’ glares squarely.

  They left, and we watched them go.

  “Are they planning to cheat, Cyan?” Maske asked.

  “The twins aren’t,” Cyan said. “But Taliesin is so delirious on Lerium I can’t tell. I’m surprised he could even focus his eyes, much less speak.”

  “Let’s hope that means he’s too addled to cheat properly,” Drystan said, his mouth twisted.

  “Time to beat the bastard once and for all,” Maske said, his calm fractured. His eyes blazed, and I saw the man who had been capable of counting cards in front of hardened criminals.

  “We’ll beat him.” I said.

  We had to.

  The time had come.

  The head of the Collective of Magic, Professor David Delvin, and the solicitor, Christopher Aspall, met us and showed us to our private box in the theatre. Our feet sank into the lush carpet, and the chairs were upholstered in expensive red velvet.

  I tried not to gape as I saw who else was in the other private boxes. Directly across from us were none other than the Princess Royal and the Steward of Ellada. The young princess wore a little tiara perched in her dark curls, and a red and gold dress with small cards embroidered on a sash around her waist. Her cheeks were pink with excitement as she craned her head to see the empty stage. I found myself smiling, but it was tinged with sadness. She was just a little girl, and the poor thing was torn between the Forester protest that could result in civil war, a dour old uncle who wanted to keep the crown for himself, and all the many nobles who only wanted to curry favor with her by virtue of her blood. I sent a brief prayer to the Lord and Lady that we would put on a good show, both to win and to give this little girl some magic in her life.

  In other boxes were prominent nobility and some of the biggest merchants and property owners. People occupied every seat below, waving fans and perusing the programs. My palms grew damp. There were so many people, and many more would be out in the parks, bundled against the cold, watching us on the blank sides of buildings. So many to see us if we failed.

  The lights dimmed in the body of the theatre and brightened on the stage. The show began.

  The twins strode onto the stage from opposite ends, and bowed low. In unison, they turned to the audience and waved. They then proceeded to try to kill each other in a number of ways. Sind took out a pistol and Jac held up his hands in surrender before twisting and grabbing a pistol from his own pocket. They circled each other, yelling insults.

  Sind fired and Jac flew back, but when he stood, only colored confetti fell from the “bullet wound” and he bowed. Jac threw a dagger that apparently went through Sind without causing injury. It stuck fast to a wooden post behind him, quivering.

  The performance was like the Specter Shows, yet on a larger scale. Gone was the demonstration of small-scale magic. All was stage illusion, meant to impress and be seen from the farthest seat in the theatre.

  They caused each other to explode, disappear in a cloud of smoke, and then reappear, looking composed and without a hair out of place. The audience gasped with shock and amazement. Several clutched the hollow of their throats in fear. In the Collective of Magic’s theatre box, their faces were impassive as they surveyed the illusions before them.

  They next brought out the magic lantern for the phantasmagoria from the Specter Shows. Death again appeared on a shifting curtain of smoke. The magicians bowed before it, apologizing for having just cheated Styx himself of their deaths. Styx began to weave his hands and little figures appeared in the smoke. Chimaera with the wings of bats and angels flew overhead, and below people with forked fish tails and fins on their backs swam through the currents of the River Styx. Beings with the legs of fauns or horses or the large horns of antelope, deer, or bulls staggered toward their fate in death.

  “You have escaped me, for your magic is mighty,” Death intoned, a disembodied voice I recognized as Taliesin’s booming through the theatre. A projection of his face undulated on the shifting smoke. “You are the only ones I will ever bow to. In return, I will give you more power.” Death himself bowed to the first twin, and then the other, before disappearing.

  The next few illusions showcased the twins reveling in their new power. Coins fell from their pockets to scatter on the floor, rolling and spinning.

  They levitated themselves, and I narrowed my eyes in triumph. Their levitation was shoddy and even from this distance I could see a few of the wires, though perhaps that was only because of my good eyesight. Hopefully the Collective would notice as well. But would that be enough? All of their other illusions were so expert
ly performed.

  My stomach twisted and I bit my lip so hard I feared drawing blood. Every illusion was calculated to show that they held the power – they wielded it over death itself. The message they sent was clear: nobody could defeat them. Especially us.

  Micah, Cyan said to me, as though she sensed the trend of my thoughts. If I wanted to, I could make them stumble. I could distract them so easily.

  Oh, it was tempting. So tempting. If the Taliesins had a mindreader in their midst, they would not hesitate at all to use that power to win, and the Specter’s Shadows might have planned something already. I shook my head minutely. If we did that, we’d be no better than Taliesin all those years ago. Our act is good. We can beat them.

  I knew you’d say that. Was worth a try. With a resigned little shrug, she turned her attention back to the stage.

  They stepped backwards into two spirit cabinets, locking themselves inside. There was a large sound and a blast of light. The doors of the cabinet swung open to reveal no one inside.

  Another flash of light and a crash of cymbals, and the twins appeared on stage again. But another set of twins were there as well, flanked to either side. I squinted at the stage. It must have been something to do with mirrors, but I could not see the angles. The four twins coalesced into a single person, who bowed low before turning on his heel and disappearing into a wisp of smoke that faded into nothingness.

  I sunk lower into my seat, fighting the urge to swear or cry. How could we hope to defeat this?

  The applause was deafening.

  The show paused for intermission. The audience would be mingling in the gigantic foyer of marble and gilt, sipping drinks and discussing the Specter twins as a dance troupe undulated on the stage to music played by minstrels.

  We were not there.

  Taliesin’s stagehands cleared the props away, and the three of us and Oli labored to move our gimmicks into their proper places. In actuality we should have had another stagehand or two, but Maske did not want to hire anyone he did not trust.

  We stepped back once everything was in place, panting with effort. It was almost time.

  Maske cleared his throat. “No matter the outcome, I want to thank you. Without you, I’d still be moldering in that little theatre. If I lose this time, I’ll know I gave it my all, and had the best help possible.” He sniffed. “But Lord and Lady Above, I really want to win.”

  He drew us into a hug in a rare gesture of physical affection. I returned the hug fiercely. Anisa was in my pocket. Just in case.

  Christopher Aspall came through, folding his hands in front of him. “The show will begin in five minutes. I wanted to tell you personally.” He clasped hands with Maske. “It will be a privilege to see your illusions on stage once again.” His face twitched in the semblance of a smile.

  “Thank you, Mr Aspall,” Maske said in his stage voice, deep and mysterious. “We will endeavor to entertain you as best we can.”

  And then it was our turn.

  We took our places and the curtains fell away.

  I flitted behind the scenes as the puppeteer pulling the strings of the hidden wires and contraptions. Oli helped me when needed, and he proved to be an apt assistant. I gave him a smile and he nodded back, straight-faced and anxious.

  “Maybe I can change callings, be a full-time stagehand, eh?” Oli said, tying a knot tight around a belaying pin.

  “If we win, maybe.”

  He shook my hand. I smiled and nodded my thanks as the show began.

  Like the Specter twins, we created a story to twine the acts together. And, through the lens of theatre, it was Maske’s tale. Drystan, who went by the stage name of Amon Ayu, played the young magician studying to be a scientist who stumbled upon a book of magic. After performing a brief, furious flurry of legerdemain, with scarves pulled from sleeves and a dove flying from beneath his coattails as it had in my vision at Twisting the Aces, the audience laughed at his unabashed surprise and delight at this new magic.

  He learned more, and the tricks grew more elaborate. He set out to impress a lady magician, Cyan, who went by the stage name of Madame Damselfly. At first, they flirted through magic. I smiled to myself as I watched them from behind stage. The illusions were Maske’s, but we had all helped with the storyline. He gave her a bouquet of flowers from thin air, which she turned into a shower of glitter and confetti. He levitated her above his head, with me above stage in the gridiron manipulating wires, and she tilted her head down for a kiss.

  That bit I didn’t like so much.

  Reaching toward Cyan smoothed my doubts. Cyan was not even concentrating on the kiss. She was thinking about the next trick and the way she’d have to move just so to get it perfectly. In that brief brush of her mind, I felt the heat from the lamps and the stares of countless pairs of eyes. I lingered within her mind, as it was the closest as I would get to the stage that night. Cyan knew I was there, and it was as though she wrapped an arm around me, drawing me close to watch the show.

  When Drystan lowered her, he gave her another kiss on the cheek, and when he moved away a small jewel remained where his lips had rested. Cyan planted the jewel into a pot and a tree grew from it before the audience’s very eyes, which bore tiny apples. She cut one in half and gave him back his jewel from the core to more applause. The Jeweled Arbor was one of my favorite tricks – another perfect blend of science, magic, and story to enchant the audience.

  Drystan became more powerful. His illusions grew darker. He disappeared into the spirit cabinet and bats flew out of the empty interior when Cyan went to look for him. He appeared in the audience instead, striding back onto the stage.

  He needed more power. Cyan produced a little mechanical butterfly and it fluttered over to catch his attention. Drystan set it aside and turned back to his books.

  “Am I not enough?” she asked.

  He ignored her. The answer was clear.

  Cyan deflated, moping in a corner, causing lights of candles to extinguish and rekindle.

  After a short time, Madame Damselfly packed her bags and left. It was only after that the magician realized how much he loved her. He tried to call her back, with and without magic. She resisted him at every turn, and then with sleight of hand showed him a new, very large engagement ring. She turned to leave and he grabbed her. Cyan struck him. Drystan yelled and took out a gun and fired at her, point blank. The same trick as the Taliesin twins, but in a different context. Cyan paused, almost as if she’d been struck, and then she spat the bullet from her mouth, which skittered to the floor. She claimed she would never see him again. After she left, a flurry of black crow feathers floated through the air, settling silently on the stage.

  The light dimmed and darkened. The magician regretted his actions. He held his head in his hands. The orchestra beneath the stage whined. But the loss of his love could not deter him. To prove he was the master of magic, he raised the ghost of a Chimaera.

  It had not been easy. Behind a drawn curtain, Oli and I raised the clear plate glass, angling it toward the audience. Down below the stage was a smaller level, like an extra orchestra pit. Down there, all was dark, with Oli swathed head to toe in black velvet. The only objects in the second stage were a moving platform, angled so that a figure standing on it would tilt at the same angle as the mirror, and an oxyhydrogen spotlight that would illuminate the ghostly apparition.

  I jumped down and threw the costume of a patched and ragged coat over my black clothes and stuck a pair of antlers on my head. I stood on a platform brandishing a curved prop sword. Oli made some last minute adjustments before lighting the oxyhydrogen spotlight so my reflection showed on the stage. I went through the rehearsed feints and stints so that it looked like Drystan fought a Chimaera ghost. He vanquished me and I fell to the floor and Oli dimmed the light so I faded from view.

  Once it was safe, I sat up and took the antlers and costume off and let out a tentative sigh of relief. We were almost done, and so far all had gone according to plan.

 
; I couldn’t help but smile ruefully as well. In the circus, I had dressed as a girl for the pantomime, and nobody knew, save Drystan, that I had actually spent the first sixteen years of my life as a girl. Now, I played a Chimaera ghost, and none of the audience knew that I was sort-of Chimaera and hid a Phantom Damselfly in my pocket.

  Drystan began the finale, saying he did not need Madame Damselfly and that he could create the love of his life.

  “But can I do it?” he asked himself. “Is my magic strong enough?”

  Just as in practice the other day, the gauze curtain behind him fluttered. Drystan pulled it away to reveal the automaton on the podium. The audience gasped and whispered. Through Cyan’s eyes, I looked up at the box where Doctor Pozzi sat with the Princess Royal. He leaned forward in his seat.

  Drystan muttered and gestured as he began the “incantations” to bring the automaton to life. I looked around for Oli, as I didn’t see him under the stage and I wanted him around in case I needed help with the star trap. Cyan was changing hurriedly in a dressing room.

  Micah, I heard her say, frantic. I think something’s happened to Oli. I can’t sense him. I can’t feel him!

  What?

  Go check on him. I sensed pain. Can’t get much more – too many people around. And something weird. My ability is fluctuating. I can only reach you because I’m “shouting” as loud as I can.

  I heard footsteps behind stage. I’ll check, I said, but I didn’t know if she heard me. Biting my lip, I guessed I had about ten minutes before I needed to be by the star trap. I sprinted behind the stage and then stopped. Oli lay sprawled across the floor, half-dragged behind a box of props. I heard a rustle of movement and crouched into a fighting stance.

  A large man, bald and muscle-bound, crept toward the stage. I took a step and a floorboard creaked. The man stared at me. Distantly, I heard Cyan yelling in my mind. I rushed him.

  The man grabbed me and threw me across the backstage as though I weighed no more than a doll. The back of my head exploded with pain. With a grunt, I rushed him again, dancing out of his reach and landing a punch into his kidneys. His breath left in a whoosh of pain but he stayed standing. “Was only meant to be one runt back here, not two,” he growled.