by Scott Lynch
“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:
This stage is wood, these men are dust—
And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”
“No,” said Jasmer.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”
“If you say so,” said Galdo.
“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”
“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.
“Give us a Chorus.”
Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly:
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering—”
“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”
“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.
“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a man’s words. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and blood behind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”
“Because they can’t fuckin’ read?” said Galdo.
“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are angry with your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes!” said Galdo. He gestured disdainfully at his own face with his free hand, and took two threatening steps closer to Calo. “And hear us not at all, though straining your ears!”
He reached out and snapped a finger against one of Calo’s ears. The long-haired twin recoiled, and Galdo moved aggressively toward him once again.
“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses,” said Galdo, all but hissing with disdain, “whispering: this stage is wood, these men are dust, and dust their deeds and thousand … dust their ducks … aw, shit, lost myself, sorry.”
“It’s all right,” said Moncraine. “You had something there, didn’t you?”
“That was fun,” said Galdo. “I think I see what you mean.”
“Words are dead until you give them a context,” said Moncraine. “Until you put a character behind them, and give him a reason to speak them in a certain fashion.”
“Can I do it back to him like he’s the stupid one?” said Calo.
“No. I’ve made my point,” said Moncraine. “You Camorri do have a certain poise and inventiveness. I just need to awaken you to its proper employment. Now, what’s our Chorus doing here?”
“He’s pleading,” said Jean.
“Pleading. Yes. Exactly. First thing, out comes the Chorus to plead to the crowd. The hot, sweaty, drunk, and skeptical crowd. Listen up, you unworthy fucking mongrels! Look, there’s a play going on, right in front of you! Shut up and give it the attention it deserves!”
Moncraine changed his voice and poise in an instant. Without so much as a glance at the script, he spoke:
“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:
This stage is wood, these men are dust—
And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.
For us it is not so.
See now, and conjure with present vigor,
A happy empire! Her foes sleep in ruins of cold ambitions,
And take for law the merest whim of all-conquering Salerius
Second of that name, and most imperial to bear it!
His youth spent in dreary march and stern discipline
Wherein he met the proudest neighbors of his empire—
With trampled fields for his court, red swords for ambassadors,
And granted, to each in turn, his attention most humbling.
Now all who would not bow are hewn at the feet to better help them kneel.”
Moncraine cleared his throat. “There. I have had my plea. I have taken command, shut those slack jaws, turned those gimlet eyes to the stage. I am midwife to wonders. With their attention snared, I give them history. We are back in the time of the Therin Throne, of Salerius II. An emperor who went out and kicked some ass. Just as we shall, perhaps excepting Sylvanus.”
Sylvanus rose and tossed his copy of the script aside. Jenora managed to catch it before it hit the ground.
“Chorus, you call yourself,” he said. “You’ve the presence of a mouse fart in a high wind. Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.”
If Locke had been impressed by the change in Moncraine’s demeanor, he was astounded by the change in Sylvanus. The old man’s perpetually sour, unfocused, liquor-addled disposition vanished, and without warning he was speaking clearly, invitingly, charmingly:
“From war long waged comes peace well lived,
And now, twenty years of blessed interval has set
A final laurel, light upon the brow of bold, deserving Salerius!
Yet heavy sits this peace upon his only son and heir.
Where once the lion roared, now dies the faintest echo of warlike times,
All eyes turn upon the cub, and all men wait
to behold the wrath and majesty
that must spring from such mighty paternity!
Alas, the father, in sparing not the foes of his youth
Has left the son no foe for his inheritance.
Citizens, friends, dutiful and imperial—
Now give us precious indulgence,
see past this fragile artifice!
Let willing hearts rule dullard eyes and ears,
And of this stage you shall make the empire;
From the dust of an undone age hear living words,
on the breath of living men!
Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,
And with us, jointly, devise and receive
the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius.
And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed
Learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made.”
“Well remembered, I’ll give you that,” said Moncraine. “But then, anything more than three lines is well remembered, where you’re concerned.”
“It’s as fresh now as the last time we did it,” said Sylvanus. “Fifteen years ago.”
“That’s you and I that would make a fair Chorus,” sighed Moncraine. “But we need a Salerius, and we need a magician to advise him and do all the threatening parts, or else the plot goes pear-shaped.”
“I’ll be the Chorus!” said Galdo. “I can do this. Wake everyone up at the beginning, then sit back and watch the rest of you in the play. That sounds like a damn good job.”
“The hell you’ll do it,” said Calo. “You and that shaved head, you look like a vulture’s cock. This job calls for some elegance.”
“You see us wrong,” said Galdo, “who are about to get your fuckin’ ass kicked!”
“Shut up, idiots.” Moncraine glowered at the twins until they settled down. “It would be to our advantage to leave Sylvanus and myself free for other parts, so yes, one of you may have the Chorus. But you won’t scrap for it in the dirt; you’ll both learn the part and strive to better one anothe
r in it. I don’t have to make a final decision for some time.”
“And what does the loser get?” said Calo.
“The loser will understudy the winner, in case the winner should be carried off by wild hounds. And don’t worry; there’ll be other parts to fill.
“Now,” said Moncraine. “Let’s break ourselves up and put Alondo and our other Camorri through some paces, to see where their alleged strengths lie.”
3
THE SUN moved its way and the clouds moved theirs. Before another hour passed the inn-yard was once again in the full light and heat of day. Moncraine donned a broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise seemed heedless of the temperature. Sylvanus and Jenora clung to the inn walls, while Sabetha and the boys darted in and out of cover as they were required to play scenes.
“Our young prince Aurin lives in his father’s shadow,” said Moncraine.
“He’s probably glad to be out of the gods-damned sun, then!” panted Galdo.
“There’s no glory to be had because Salerius II already went out and had it,” continued Moncraine. “No wars to fight, no lands to claim, and it’s still an emperor or two to go before the Vadrans are going to start kicking things over up north. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Aurin has a best friend named Ferrin. Ferrin’s even hungrier for glory than Aurin is, and he won’t shut up about it. Let’s do … Act one, scene two. Alondo, you do Aurin, and let’s have Jovanno give us a Ferrin.”
Alondo leaned back lazily in a chair. Jean approached him, reading from his copy of the script:
“What’s this, lazy lion cub?
The sands of the morning are half run from the glass!
There’s nothing in your bed ’tis worth such fascination.
The sun rules the sky, your father his kingdom,
And you rule a chamber ten paces by ten!”
Alondo laughed, and answered:
“Why be an emperor’s son, if I must rise
as though to reap the fields?
What profit, then, in my paternity?
What man lives, who, more than I,
has rightful claim to leisure?”
“He that has given you leisure,” said Jean. “Having carved it like rare meat from the bones of his enemies.”
“Enough,” said Moncraine. “Less reciting, Jovanno. Less formula.”
“Uh, sure,” said Jean, obviously feeling out of his depth. “Whatever you say.”
“Alondo, take over Ferrin. Lucaza, let’s have you see what you can make of Aurin.”
Locke had to admit to himself that Jean was the least comfortable of the five of them with what was going on. Although he was always eager to play a role in any crooked scheme that required it of him, he tended to stay within narrower bounds than Locke or Sabetha or even the Sanzas. Jean was a consummate “straight man”—the angry bodyguard, the dutiful clerk, the respectable servant. He was a solid wall for victims of their games to bounce off of, but not the sort to jump back and forth rapidly between roles.
Locke set these thoughts aside, and tried to imagine himself as Aurin. He recalled his own lack of sweet humor each time he was yanked from sleep early, most frequently because of some Sanza mischief. The memory served him well, and he spoke:
“Would you instruct me in the love of my own father?
You push presumption to its limits, Ferrin.
Had I wished to wake to scorn and remonstration,
I would have married by now.”
Alondo assumed a more energetic persona, more confident and forceful in speech:
“Fairly spoken, O prince, O majesty! I cry mercy.
I did not come to rudely trample dozy dreams,
Nor correct you in honoring our lord, your father.
Your perfect love for him is reckoned of a measure
With your devotion to warm, soft beds
And therefore lies beyond all question.”
“Were you not the great friend of my youth,” said Locke, deciding a laugh would be a good thing to add,
“But the unresting spirit of some foe
Slain in Father’s wars,
You could scarce do me more vexation, Ferrin.
Thou art like a marriage,
Lacking only the pretty face and pleasant couplings—
You do so busy my mornings with rebukes
I half-forget which of us is royal.”
“Good,” said Moncraine. “Good enough. Friendly banter, hiding something. Ferrin sees his ticket to glory lazing around, accomplishing nothing. These two need each other, and they resent it while trying to hide it behind their good cheer.”
“Moncraine, for the love of all the gods, there’ll be no play to see and no parts to act if you explain everything at the first chance,” said Sylvanus.
“I don’t mind,” said Alondo.
“Nor I,” said Locke. “I think it’s helping. Me, at least.”
“Moncraine would teach you how to play every part as Moncraine,” chuckled Sylvanus. “Don’t forget that.”
“Not an actor that lives wouldn’t make love to the sound of his own voice,” said Moncraine, “if only he could. You’re no exception, Andrassus. Now, let’s find some swords. Ferrin talks Aurin into practicing in the gardens, and that’s where the plot winds them in its coils.”
Hours passed in sweat and toil. Back and forth in the sun they pretended to fight, with notched wooden blades musty from storage. Locke and Jean and Alondo rotated roles, and Moncraine even swapped in the Sanzas for variety, until it became a sort of whirling pantomime brawl. Stab, parry, recover, deliver lines. Parry, dodge, deliver lines, parry, deliver lines …
Sylvanus procured a bottle of wine and ended his personal drought. He shouted encouragement at the duelists all afternoon, but didn’t move once from his chosen spot in the shade, near Sabetha and Jenora. As the sun drew down toward the west, Moncraine finally called a halt.
“There we are, boys, that’s enough for a mild beginning.”
“Mild?” wheezed Alondo. He’d kept his composure for a respectable length of time, but wilted with the rest of them as the muttering and swordplay had drawn on.
“Aye, mild. You’re out of condition, Alondo. You young pups have all the leaping about to do, and nearly all the speaking. If the audience sees you sucking air like a fish on the bottom of a boat—”
“They’ll throw things, right,” said Alondo. “I’ve been pelted with vegetables before.”
“Not in my company you haven’t,” growled Moncraine. “Right, all of you, sit down before you throw up.”
The admonition came too late for Calo, already wobbling from his hangover. He noisily lost whatever remained in his stomach in a far corner of the inn-yard.
“Music to my ears,” said Moncraine. “See, Andrassus? So long as I can inspire that sort of reaction in our bold young lads, I believe I may claim not to have lost my touch.”
“What do you suppose for us, then?” said Sylvanus.
“The audience might notice, were the emperor of the Therin Throne such a fine rich lovely shade of brown as myself, that his son ought not be a plain pink Therin,” said Moncraine. “And the part of the magician requires more moving about, so I’ll take it. That leaves you to sit the throne.”
“I shall be imperial,” sighed Sylvanus.
“Good,” said Moncraine. “Now, I need an ale before I’m baked like a pie.”
“Emperor, eh?” said Locke, sinking down against the wall next to Sylvanus. “Why so glum? Sounds like a good part.”
“It is,” said Sylvanus, “for the few lines he has. It’s not the father’s play, but the son’s.” The old man took a swig from his bottle and made no effort to pass it around. “I envy you little shits. I do, though no one could accuse you of any deep knowledge of the craft.”
“What’s to envy?” said Alondo. “We’re out there melting in the heat while you get to sit in the shade.”
“Heh,” said Sylvanus. “Spoken like a true lad of none and twenty years. At my age you
don’t get to sit in the shade, boy. That’s where you’re sent to keep out of everyone else’s way.”
“You’re being morose,” said Alondo. “It’s the grapes speaking, as usual.”
“This is the first bottle I’ve touched since my head hit the ground last night,” said Sylvanus. “And for me, that’s as sober as a babe freshly unwombed. No, gentlemen, I know a thing which you do not. Read any script in our common property and you’ll find too many roles to which you’re suited—soldiers, princes, lovers, fools. You could never play them all if you lived to twice my age, which is a frightful number.
“At twenty, you may be anything. At thirty you may do as you please. At forty, only a few doors ease shut, but fifty, ah! Here’s a sting that Moncraine feels for sure. By fifty, you’re becoming a perfect stranger to all those parts that once suited you like the skin of your own cock.”
Locke had no idea what to say, so he simply watched as Sylvanus finished his bottle and tossed it into the leather-hard mud of the yard.
“I used to skim these plays for all the fine young roles my ambition could bear,” he said. “Now I look at the broken parts, the sick men, the forgotten men, and I wonder which of them will be mine. Did you not hear why I’m emperor? Because the emperor need not trouble his fat old ass to move. I am as much entombed as enthroned.”
Sylvanus heaved himself to his feet, joints creaking. “I don’t mean to oppress your spirits, boys. Come find me in an hour or two, and I shall be merry. Yes, I will have quite forgotten anything I’ve said here, I’m sure.”
After Sylvanus had gone inside, Locke rose, stretched, and followed. He had no notion of what, if anything, he should say. In one short afternoon he had grown used to the advantage of having all of his lines scribbled out for him on a piece of paper.
4
“RIGHT,” SAID Jasmer, three hours into their fifth day of practice under the unfriendly sun. “Jovanno, I’m sure you’re a fine fellow, but you’ve got no business saying lines in front of people. I think I can beat your friends into something resembling actors, but you’re as useless as gloves on a snake.”