Authors: Scott Lynch
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.
“
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.”
“Uh,” said Jean, looking up from his script, “what’d I do wrong?”
“If you had any wit for the work you’d already know,” said Jasmer. “Go sit the fuck
down and count our money or something.”
“Hang on,” said Locke, who’d been playing Aurin to Jean’s Ferrin. “You’ve got no business
talking to Jovanno like that.”
“This is the business of the play,” said Moncraine, “and in this realm I am all the
gods on their heavenly thrones, speaking with one voice, telling him to shut up and
go away.”
“Agreed, you can order him around,” said Locke. “But mind your manners.”
“Boy, I do not have fucking time—”
“Yes you do,” said Locke. “You
always
have the time to be polite to Jovanno, and when you don’t, we will pack up and go
back to Camorr! Do I make myself clear?”
“Hey,” said Jean, tugging at Locke’s tunic, “it’s fine.”
“No it isn’t,” said Sabetha, joining Locke and Jean in the center of the courtyard.
“Lucaza’s right, Jasmer. We’ll slave for you as required, but we won’t eat shit for
no reason.”
“Send me back to gaol,” muttered Moncraine. “Fuck me and send me back to gaol.”
“We shall accommodate neither request,” said Sabetha.
“I can use him,” said Jenora, appearing from the door to the inn. “Jovanno, that is.
If he’s not going to be onstage he can help me manage the property and alchemy.”
“I, uh, guess I’ve got … no real choice?” said Jean.
“And speaking of the common property,” said Jenora, “I’ve got to tell you now, the
mice and red moths have been at it. All the death-masks and robes are too scrubby
to use, and most of the other costumes are only fit for cutting up as pieces.”
“Well, then, do so,” said Jasmer. “I’m busy out here turning dogshit into diamonds;
it’s only fair you should get to do the same in your line of work.”
“I need funds,” said Jenora, “and we must have a sit-down, all the stakeholders, and
decide where those funds are coming from, and how to address the shares of our friends
that cut and ran—”
“Good gods,” said Moncraine.
“… and on what terms! And I need to hire someone who can handle a needle and thread.”
Jean raised his hand.
“You can sew?” said Jenora. “What, mending torn tunics and so forth? I need—”
“I know hemming from pleating,” said Jean. “And darning from shirring, and I’ve got
the thimble-calluses to prove it.”
“I’ll be damned.” Jenora grabbed Jean by the arm. “You can’t have this one back even
if you decide you
do
need another actor.”
“I won’t,” said Moncraine sourly.
“Are we taking a break?” said Calo, sitting down hard.
“Sure, sit on your ass, sweetheart. Those of us still in condition will play for your
amusement,” said Galdo. He kicked dirt across his brother’s breeches.
Calo didn’t even waste time on a dirty look. He lashed out with his legs, hooked Galdo
below the knees, and toppled him. Galdo rolled over on his back, clutching at his
left wrist, and howled in pain.
“Oh, hell,” said Calo, jumping back to his feet. “Is it bad? I didn’t mean to, honest—GNNNAKKKH!”
This last extremely unpleasant sound was forced out of him by a kick from Galdo that
terminated in Calo’s groin.
“Nah, it feels fine,” said Galdo. “Just having a bit of acting practice.”
Locke, Jean, Alondo, Jenora, and Sabetha descended on the twins, separating them before
Moncraine could get involved in the melee. What followed was a pandemonium of finger-pointing
and hard words in which the intelligence, birth city, artistic capacity, work habits,
skin color, dress sense, and personal honor of every participant were insulted at
least once. Through it all the sun poured down relentless heat, and by the time relative
order was restored Locke’s head was swimming. He didn’t notice that someone had come
around the corner from the street until they cleared their throat loudly.
“How grand,” said the newcomer, a tall woman of about thirty. She wore a tight gray
tunic and baggy trousers, and she was of mixed Therin and dark-skinned parentage,
though she was lighter than Jasmer or the Gloriano women. Her black curls were cut
just above her ears, and she had the sort of cool self-composure that Locke associated
with Camorri
garristas
. “Jasmer, I’m impressed, but not really in the way I expected to be.”
“Chantal,” said Moncraine, conjuring his dignity with the speed of a quick-draw artist.
“A fine afternoon to you as well, you opportunistic turncoat.”
“You were off to the Weeping Tower,” said the woman. “I do like to eat more than once
a month. I’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“What’s the matter, Basanti not handing out charity to any more of my strays?”
“Basanti’s got work for the taking. But I heard some interesting things. Heard you’d
found a patron.”
“Yes, it turns out that not all the good taste has been bred out of Espara’s quality.”
“Also heard that those Camorri you promised weren’t a lie after all.”
“They’re all here,” said Moncraine. “Count ’em.”
“And you’re still serious about doing
The Republic of Thieves
?”
“Serious as a slit throat.”
“Is Jenora finally getting onstage?”
“Gods above, no!” said Jenora.
“Aha.” Chantal strolled toward Moncraine. “By my count, you’re short at least one
woman, then.”
“What do you care if I am?”
“Look, Jasmer.” Chantal’s cat-and-mouse smile vanished. “Basanti’s doing
The Wine of Womanly Reverence
, and I don’t want to spend the summer giggling and flouncing as Fetching Maid Number
Four. We’re in a position to help one another.”
“Hmmm,” said Moncraine. “Depends. Did you drag that husband of yours back over here
as well?”
As though on cue, a brown-haired Therin man came around the corner behind Chantal.
He wore an open white tunic, displaying a rugged physique decorated with dents and
scars. Those and the fact that his right ear was half-missing led Locke to guess that
he was either a veteran handball player or an aging swordsman who’d seen the writing
on the wall.
“Of course you did,” said Moncraine. “Well, my new young friends, allow me to introduce
you to Chantal Couza, formerly of the Moncraine Company, and her husband, Bertrand
the Crowd.”
“The Crowd?” said Locke.
“He hops costumes from scene to scene like nobody else,” said Alondo. “He’s half a
dozen bit players in one.”
“Him I can use,” said Moncraine, “but what makes you think I’ve forgiven either of
you?”
“Cut the crap, Jasmer,” said Chantal. “I want decent work. You want a happy audience.”
“Dare I ask if there will be any more reverse defections?”
“Not for a basket of rubies the size of your self-regard, Jasmer. They’re more worried
about being taken in as accomplices to assault and sedition than they are about losing
their places in your troupe.”
“Well, I say take Bert and Chantal back,” said Alondo.
“Likewise,” said Jenora. “We’ve got parts to fill, and we don’t have time to be choosy.
Shall I pry Sylvanus out of bed and see what he thinks?”
“No,” said Moncraine. “He’d say yes just because he can’t take his eyes off her. Fine!
You’re in luck, the pair of you, but it’s on wages. No percentage. You know the papers.
You lost that when you walked.”
“We might have to argue that,” said Chantal. “Either way, it’s worth it to avoid Fetching
Maid Number Four. Believe me, I’d much rather be Amadine, Queen of the Shadows.”
“I’m ever so sorry,” said Sabetha. If the words THAT WAS A LIE had suddenly sprung
up behind her in letters of fire ten feet high, the effect could scarcely have added
to her tone of voice. “That role is no longer available.”
“Are you kidding?” Chantal strode across the courtyard until she was looking down
at Sabetha, who was a hand-span shorter than the older woman. “Who are you, then?”
“Amadine,” said Sabetha coolly. “Queen of the Shadows.”
“Bloody Camorri. You’re young enough to have come out from between my legs! But not
pretty enough. You can’t be serious.”
“She certainly can,” said Locke. Heat and frustration mingled badly with his acute
sensitivity at hearing a stranger say anything uncomplimentary about Sabetha.
“Jasmer, you’re mad,” said Chantal. “She’s no Amadine. Give her Penthra, by all means,
but not Amadine! What is she, sixteen? Sixteen, boy-assed and average!”
“Average?” said Locke. “
Average?
How the hell do you get around the city with two glass eyes in your gods-damned head,
woman? You gotta be stu—”
Before Locke could append the second syllable of that heartfelt but unwisely chosen
word, Bertrand the Crowd, true to his appearance, had one rough hand on Locke’s tunic
collar and was dragging him toward a rendezvous with his other fist, already drawn
back. The world moved in horrifying slow motion; Locke, who was no stranger
to a beating, was cursed with an uncanny ability to recognize one just before it ceased
to be theoretical.
A miracle the size and shape of Jean Tannen appeared out of the corner of Locke’s
vision. An instant before Bertrand could throw his punch, Jean hit him shoulder-to-stomach
and slammed him into the dirt.