Breaktooth sat up eagerly.
“Here, then, is the most pertinent lesson of the day: a fair fight is a fool’s fight. So! Where do we aim our attack?”
Hristomarth folded his arms and waited. The wyrmlings looked at him, then at each other, then to Wollop’s group near the musician’s pit. Breaktooth pointed a tentative claw at the stage where Doriana began to monologue.
“Close,” Hristomarth said. “You rightly identify Wollop’s scrofulous gang as the enemy. Can you say it? Say ‘enemy.’”
“Enmy,” tried the wyrmlings in a chorus of whistling chirps.
“Excellent,” beamed Hristomarth. “But to continue, we do not strike at the enemy directly. We strike where he is most vulnerable. Observe.”
He hoisted their leashes and set off, weaving his way across the house floor toward his target. Provon Quaile had left the stage to take a seat on a bench along the western wall, near bins full of props and racks stuffed with costumed clothing. Intriguing, especially considering how little equipment he had for a circus floor act. This was a consideration for later, though. Right now he needed to focus.
The playwright watched the stage with all the intensity of a judge presiding over a trial, doubtlessly weighing the performance of Wollop’s actress against some impossible vision. The ways of such creatives were ever a mystery, though Hristomarth again noted his fine clothes and a physique speaking of many rich meals.
“Sumptuous greetings,” began Hristomarth. “I—”
A sharply upraised hand cut him off. “Your eagerness does you credit,” said Provon, never shifting his eyes from the stage. “But your timing is ill placed. Respect the sanctity of the audition! Your crew will have their own chance to excel.”
“Worthy Quaile,” Hristomarth tried again, “I am only—”
“If this concerns the stipend, then I will set your mind at ease. The remuneration is indeed significant. But do not clutter your mind with such terrestrial concerns! Focus on a scene and how you can best bring it to life.”
A sharp frown from the playwright froze Hristomarth in place. Had he overstepped? No, it was Doriana, gesticulating wildly up on the stage.
Hristomarth frowned as well. This was not proving the avenue to success that he had hoped. Provon was too proud and certain. Another tactic was needed. Perhaps gambling? Or bribery? There was only one way to find out. Hristomarth assumed a more deferential demeanor.
“My humblest apologies,” he said. “I only meant to ask if you wished to—”
Again, a sharp gesture ended his inquiry. “Ut!” grunted Provon. “I have no attention to spare! This actress speaks well, and her rendition of a Shal-Zu fox is excellent. But she waves her arms around like a mime caught aflame! I must study further. Be off with you!”
The command brooked no defiance. Hristomarth bowed sourly and backed away. Retreat was preferable to outright failure.
The wyrmlings followed obediently after, though Splaywing strained against its leash. The little dragon was still focused on the stage, shaking its head sadly at Doriana’s every wild gesticulation. It paused to peer back at Hristomarth.
“Oh, what do you know?” he muttered. “Come on.”
He guided them back across the theater floor, cursing his fortunes to the Black Vault Below. If only he’d had longer, he could have worked his wiles on the old playwright. Or tricked him somehow. A rigged card game, perhaps? It didn’t matter. A different scheme would be needed to undermine Wollop.
Breaktooth chirped and sat back on its haunches. With its snout, it pointed to Wollop’s gang over by the musician’s pit. “Enmy?” trilled the little dragon, staring like a wolf at a flock of sheep.
Perhaps the direct approach might be best. Wollop anxiously watched the stage, while Vernol lazily practiced his lines with the pimple-faced understudy beside him.
The understudy. Ignored by anyone of consequence. Forced to wait for a moment that would never come. That was his opportunity.
Hristomarth yanked Greasetrap away from the buffet again and turned to face the wyrmlings. “Attend,” he said, holding up one finger. “An instructional moment is upon us. At times, an avenue of opportunity will close to you. A weakness will reveal itself as strength. Remember—the world is arrayed against us! In such instances, we must adapt. Cunning and guile wax paramount. Come along now. We must shift our aim.”
He crept through the benches toward the musician’s pit, taking note again of the props bin. A wooden hoop would be just perfect for a performance he was considering. Perhaps one hid within?
The distraction had its cost. Vernol noticed his approach, sniffing in disdain. “Why have you brought those things here?” he demanded, folding his arms. “Their stench disrupts my sensibilities!”
Splaywing had sat back on its haunches to better regard the actor. Now the little wyrmling hunkered down, ashamed. The other siblings all drew together and hissed. Hristomarth pressed his lips together. “There is no need for rancor,” he said. “We simply came over to wish you well, in the spirit of thespian affection.”
Wollop whirled. He narrowed his eyes at Hristomarth and raised a threatening finger.
“Enough!” roared Provon Quaile. “Cease your wild gesticulations—your audition is through!”
Wollop froze. Up on the stage, Doriana sagged unhappily.
“My turn,” Vernol said with relish. “Out of my way. Now you will see how it should be done.” He pushed past with head held high, focusing wholly on submerging himself into the role.
Wollop struggled to split his attention between his player, Provon, and Hristomarth himself. “Just stay out of my way,” he muttered, racing off to speak with the playwright. The understudy was left to face Hristomarth alone.
“Sumptuous greetings,” said Hristomarth brightly, rounding on the pimple-spotted youth. “We had no time for proper introductions before. Who might you be?”
All manner of interesting avenues opened to Hristomarth now. Blackmail would be best and fastest, as usual. Some ghastly secret of Wollop or his players that he could use to force their withdrawal.
The understudy croaked in alarm as the wyrmlings surrounded him. He raised his manuscript, holding it like a shield. Splaywing watched the parchment intently, beady eyes never wavering as the wyrmlings began circling him like wolves around a deer. A minute passed. Then another. On the stage, Vernol struck a dramatic pose and began his monologue. The understudy quavered and made a brief, breathless noise.
“What was that?” asked Hristomarth, straining to hear.
“I’m ... L-Lubith.”
“Excellent,” said Hristomarth with a smile. “Now that we are acquainted, feel free to regale me with all manner of salacious gossip. How is that old rascal Wollop? Does he still turn to itinerant toad-washing when times are lean? Has he, mayhap, accrued any interesting poxes?” Hristomarth gave a wink, the universal sign to show that he could be trusted.
Lubith could not tear his eyes from the wyrmlings. Greasetrap, seeming to realize it wouldn’t be able to slip away to the buffet, chewed experimentally on Lubith’s boots. The boy yelped and dropped his manuscript, which was snatched out of the air and taken underneath a bench. Lubith reached hesitantly after the wyrmling, but the others closed ranks, forcing him back. He glanced at Hristomarth for help, making a small breathless squeak.
“Crippling shyness is rarely considered a virtue,” Hristomarth said flatly. He sat down on a bench, his patience by now quite drained. At his sharp cough, the wyrmlings paused their circling to copy him, sitting back on their haunches. Intimidation and extortion seemed to come naturally to them—they stared at the understudy like a cat would a mouse. Except for Greasetrap, who began slinking away.
“I am sorry, great worthy ...” stammered the understudy. “But I am deathly afraid of your dragons.”
“These things?” Hristomarth asked, stamping on Greasetrap’s leash. “Oh, they’re harmless!”
Breaktooth reached up with a foreclaw and slowly tore Lubith�
�s trousers.
Lubith backed away with a yelp, only to freeze and glance worriedly up at the stage. “Could you restrain them? I am happy to converse—no one is interested, except for practice. But I mustn’t make much noise right now. Master Vernol requires absolute concentration for this monologue.”
Hristomarth pounced on the vulnerability. “Why ever for?”
“Well, this is the fifth act, fourth scene.” Lubith seemed to relax as he watched the actor. “This is the penultimate speech by the last prince of the Xelenites, where he casts away his slaves, his lover, and his favored mount, all to spite his parents’ decision to give to charity! The scene is inordinately difficult to portray properly—and fraught with all manner of competing emotions. Vernol has practiced it for over a year. How fortunate that the playwright chose the Fox of Shal-Zu for the audition!”
“Positively providential.” Hristomarth glanced up at the stage. “The Ministers of Fate must surely have had their hand here. This moment…it is a sensitive one, then?”
“Oh, yes.” Lubith nodded. “Quite easily derailed.”
Blackmail material this was not, but inaction would be downright irresponsible. Hristomarth grabbed Coalbelly and hoisted the wyrmling into his lap. He aimed its maw with one hand and squeezed it in a sharp hug. Reflexive flames coughed out, low and focused, so that they singed Lubith’s boots and blackened his trousers. Lubith leapt back, tripping over a bench and letting out such a piercing shriek that the air itself seemed to shiver.
The theater went silent as a tomb. The wyrmlings slithered quickly behind Hristomarth, who did his best to appear nonchalant. Wollop and Doriana stared in their direction. Provon Quaile pulled at his mustachios. Up on the stage, Vernol stood frozen. His expression was caught halfway between bittersweet emotion and sheer surprise. Both quickly gave way to a twisted visage of utter rage.
“Could I please have some quiet on the floor?” he snarled, glaring down at Lubith.
The understudy scrambled back upright, blushing from head to toe. “M-my apologies.”
“Well, I’m glad that you’re feeling sorry,” snapped Vernol. “I am certain that will resolve the gravity of the moment. Your apology will surely put me back on the right track now, won’t it?”
Lubith looked away. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” continued Vernol. He bent an ear as if to hear better. “What was that?
“No. The scene is ruined.”
“Exactly correct!” sneered Vernol. “Ruined! You’ve ruined a year of hard effort, you incompetent, pustule-ridden—”
“Enough.” Provon Quaile’s booming command echoed across the theater. He waited until all eyes were upon him before speaking again. “The audition is over. It is obvious that further effort would only lead to inadequate and misaimed results.
Wollop clutched his hands beseechingly. “Worthy playwright—”
“Be assured all aspects of the audition will be weighed appropriately.” Provon turned to face Hristomarth. “Worthy Rofolio! It is now your turn to take the stage.”
Dismay washed over Hristomarth. The outcome of both auditions for Wollop’s troupe were better than he could have dreamed. And the murderous glare the mountebank was now aiming his way was most agreeable. But forcing their withdrawal had been the goal—not actually having to compete! Curse it all to the Black Vault Below. He knew no plays, had memorized no sonnets. There was no way he could take the stage. But who else could? Access to the stipend depended upon it. And more importantly, true victory over Wollop.
He coughed to buy more time. The wyrmlings shared a look among themselves, sensing his uncertainty. Even Greasetrap looked worried, though one eye was still locked on the sideboard.
The bench beside him fell as Splaywing erupted out from beneath. The little wyrmling clambered up with the stolen manuscript clenched in its jaws, staring imploringly up at Hristomarth. Eagerness burned in its beady little eyes.
So be it. Hristomarth held a finger up at the other wyrmlings. “Attend,” he sighed. “An instructional moment is upon us. Occasionally, schemes fail. Plots fall through! Then, only one recourse is left to us—desperation. In this, a proper application of studious cunning and opportunistic guile may still turn defeat into victory.”
“Master Rofolio?” asked Provon Quaile.
“Go on,” Hristomarth muttered, shooing Splaywing toward the stage. “Get up there.”
The little dragon gave a muffled trill of excitement. It leapt off the bench, over its siblings, and headed for the stage. Hristomarth stood and hauled the rest of the wyrmlings to the center of the theater floor. Behind him, Lubith took the opportunity to flee. Maybe he could still pull this off. In the meantime, he could also pick Wollop’s pockets. Just in case.
Vernol watched the little wyrmling climb awkwardly up, then stalked to the edge of the stage. He faced Provon with both fists clenched knuckle-white, positively livid.
“You can’t be serious!” he snapped. “They’re lizards! This is a farce!”
“I have seen excellent performances from those belonging to every class and phyle,” replied Provon, gesturing dismissively. “And fairness is the soul of art. Stand secure in your own accomplishments. Let this other player make their audition!”
Vernol looked like he was about to spit. Instead he glared daggers at Splaywing and stormed off to one side. Down on the floor, Wollop smirked sourly at Hristomarth and pointedly turned to watch the wyrmling fail. Which was both premature and foolish—now his back was to Hristomarth. The mountebank should have known better.
Splaywing crept to the center of the stage and spat out the manuscript. It sat back on its haunches, staring wide-eyed at the audience.
“Anytime you are ready,” said Provon.
Splaywing glanced about, head low. Then it opened its maw to begin a monologue.
Hristomarth had never heard anything like it. Judging by the looks on their faces, neither had Wollop, his players, or Provon Quaile. The diminutive dragon chirped, hissed, trilled, and growled. Occasionally the gibberish included something approximating an actual word. But there was a cadence to it all, with meaning emphasized by tiny forelegs gesticulating just the right amount. Splaywing demonstrated the passion burning in its scaly breast.
Optimism bloomed as Hristomarth listened. His wyrmling seemed to possess a hidden talent. Just as pleasing, Wollop’s purse was easily moved to his own pocket. Things were actually looking up.
Eventually the little dragon’s passion transformed to wistful hope. It changed again to bitter loss. The performance slowly wound down to its end. Splaywing at last laid down upon the stage, its sides heaving. The theater was quiet as a tomb.
“Not bad,” said Provon Quaile after a time. The supercilious playwright stroked his mustachios thoughtfully. “The portrayal of the Tophic pilgrim is unusual—my interest is piqued. And it was not badly done at all.”
“Ridiculous!” gasped Wollop. He whirled to face Provon, so that Hristomarth had to quickly hide the blackjack he’d just lifted. “That was pure gibberish! The hooting and bleating of a wild animal!”
“I have seen far worse from those who should be better,” said Provon, one eyebrow arched. “At least it wasn’t waving its forelegs around like a peasant having a stroke.”
Wollop bit back his reply, glancing sharply at Doriana. The actress looked away with a cough. Realization dawned over Hristomarth. They’d won. Splaywing’s passion had put it ahead of the flaws in Wollop’s players. They had actually won. But he had to think quickly. What would be the best way to parade this accomplishment in front of Wollop?
“The very Ministers of Fate must have woven this day,” said Provon. “Never have I seen such excellent portrayals as the auditions on display. Now I shall rate them. Wollop Mabram?”
Wollop forced his sour grimace into a smile. “Yes, great worthy?”
“Your Doriana performs well, though her gesticulations are of the most irritating sort. Vernol was clearly the superior. If we average the two,
I must rate your troupe as above average.”
Wollop frowned like he had bitten an underripe persimmon. “Only above average?”
Provon Quaile gestured dismissively. “Be not ashamed! The theater is a difficult business.” He looked to Hristomarth. “Worthy Rofolio? Your dragon is possessed of true talent.”
Hristomarth stood up straighter. “I have always known this,” he replied.
“Indeed,” he said with a nod. “If she practices, her skills could eclipse even Vernol’s, someday.”
Hristomarth’s smug triumph dissipated like spring mist on a warm morning. “What?”
“I suggest a period as an understudy,” continued Provon. “The passion is there. Alas, the language barrier is considerable. Wollop’s players shall have a place in my new production.”
The wyrmlings looked to Hristomarth, mirroring his confusion. “But ... what about that outburst?” he asked. “Vernol’s indelicacy is sure to repeat, providing certain offense to the delicate sensibilities of the common theatergoer.”
Provon Quaile waved dismissively. “True actors are often prickly by nature, their spirits coiled like tightly wound springs. Such passion often overflows its boundaries. I have often said that the fires of perfection are quenched in the tears of trauma.”
“Ha!” cried Vernol. He stalked across the stage from the curtains to loom over Splaywing, where the little wyrmling lay demoralized. “Ha!” he cried again, jabbing a finger for emphasis.
Hristomarth sighed. The wyrmlings sunk down, similarly dejected. Oh well. Parading victory before Wollop would have been fine, but it wasn’t like he’d even really wanted the job. The duty was sure to have been onerous anyway—prancing around on a stage for a bunch of toothless rubes. At least he had the purse lifted from Wollop. And the blackjack was surprisingly well made.
“Ha!” cried Vernol again.
The actor’s outthrust finger stabbed Splaywing in the side of the head. That was going too far. It whipped itself about to glare at Vernol, who paused. But his wariness came too late. Splaywing latched onto the actor’s hand, trapping it in a toothy maw all the way up to the wrist. Vernol screamed and shook the wyrmling about as he tried to free himself.
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