Authors: Scott Lynch
“You don’t seem yourself, Lucaza,” said Boulidazi softly as the company trudged home
one dusty evening. Low style or not, Boulidazi and his men never went so far as to
be without horses, and the baron hopped down now, leading his animal by the bridle
to walk beside Locke. “You tripped over some lines you should have cold.”
“It’s … not the lines, my lord.” So annoyed was Locke, so tired of rehearsal and the
cloudless Esparan sky, that he was confiding in Boulidazi before he could help himself.
“I expected to be Aurin.” He stretched this confidence out with a minor lie, lest
Boulidazi should suspect him of desiring more proximity to Sabetha. “I, uh, read and
studied Aurin on the journey here. I practiced him. He’s got all the better lines.
I’m just … not at ease as Ferrin.”
“You and I share some tastes, I think,” said Boulidazi, grinning that damned insolent
grin of his.
Only one that matters
, thought Locke, and fought down a fresh vision of a career as a murderer of aristocrats.
“I don’t think you’re a Ferrin either,” Boulidazi continued. “He should be older than
Aurin, bigger, the more confident of the two. That Alondo is more suited to the part,
if you’ll pardon the reflection. I’m sure if he’d been offered the choice, he’d rather
have your birth and money than a few more inches of height and muscle, eh?”
“Quite,” muttered Locke.
“Chin up, noble cousin. Face forward.” Boulidazi glanced casually around to ensure
nobody important was within earshot. “Luck’s a changing thing. Just look at your man
Jovanno, eh? Hooked that fine
smoke-skin seamstress, gods know how. Hardly the sort of thing you’d want to give
the family name to, but tight and wet where it counts. And she must be hot for it,
sure as hell.”
“Jovanno’s got some qualities that aren’t plain to the eye,” said Locke, forcing a
bantering tone.
“Carrying a proper sword, is he? Those well-fed types do tend to crowd their breeches,
or so I hear. Well, anyway … how’s our Verena doing?”
“You can’t have missed her onstage.” Indeed, she was doing well, the most effortlessly
natural of the Gentlemen Bastards as a thespian and by far the most pleasing to the
eye and the romantic sensitivities. Even Chantal’s skepticism had given way, first
to tolerance and then to open respect.
“Naturally. I meant the down hours, the nights and mornings. Surely she can’t find
Gloriano’s quite the thing, even as a lark. Gods know I enjoy my rolling in the muck,
but I don’t sleep there, eh? She might well wish a respite … even just for a night.
A proper meal, a bath, silk sheets. I’ve many rooms at the house sitting empty. You
could make the suggestion.”
“I could.”
“And I could have a word with old Moncraine about a change in roles for you.”
“Well, now, my lord, that would hardly … that is, I’m not sure Moncraine is open to
persuasion on the matter.”
“You’ve got some liberal notions for a Camorri, my friend. I don’t persuade; I command.
Except, of course, in pursuit of fair hand and heart.” Boulidazi chuckled, but turned
serious in an instant. “So you’ll speak to her, then?”
“I’ll do whatever can be done.” Which was nothing, Locke thought to himself, absolutely
nothing. Sabetha would never let herself be procured on the sly for Boulidazi’s pleasure,
but the baron hardly knew that. And if he could swap Locke into the role of Aurin!
A warm feeling of unexpected satisfaction grew in Locke’s gut. “Cousin Verena is very
particular about her comforts, my lord. I’m sure she’s quite ready to, ah, call at
your house a second time.”
“You would do me such a service, Lucaza.” Boulidazi’s slap on Locke’s back was hard
and careless, but Locke bore it like the gentle
anointing of a priest. “She needn’t fear indiscretion, either coming or going. My
men have handled this sort of thing before.”
No doubt
, thought Locke.
“
IT
’
S NOT
that I mind reusing so much of your old mess,” said Jean the next morning, driving
an iron needle through a pad of salvaged canvas. “I’m just curious as to why you’re
so averse to pinching a little more money out of our esteemed patron for new stuff.”
“Because he’d give back two pinches for our one,” said Jenora, who was picking through
a pile of seedy costume lace. The two were comfortably seated in the shade behind
the Pearl’s stage, surrounded by their usual jumble of clothes and props. By a process
of steady cannibalism, they were turning the dusty remains of all the troupe’s previous
productions into suitable and perhaps even ambitious trimmings for this one. At present
they were making
phantasma
.
It was traditional in Therin theater for the players of dead characters to dress up
as
phantasma
, in pale death-masks and robes, to silently haunt the rest of the production as ghostly
onlookers.
“There’s two sorts of patron,” she continued. “Some rain money like festival sweets
and don’t mind if they lose on the deal, so long as the production goes well. They
do it to impress someone, or because they can piss coins as they please. Others take
what you might call a more interested position. They expect full and strict repayment.
“Now, our lord and master ain’t the one who’s keeping track, but some creature of
his damn well is, down to the last bent copper. I’ve seen the papers. We can have
all we like to make the production grand, sure, but if we spend past what we’re apt
to take in from the crowds, there won’t be profits enough to cover us plain-blood
sorts after Boulidazi gets his.”
“But you said you had some sort of precedence as original stakeholders—”
“Oh, we’re guaranteed a cut of profits; it’s just that profits have a way of magically
turning into something else before that cut gets made. Boulidazi gets security on
his expenses under Esparan law. The
rest of us divide the leavings. So you see, if we tap our noble patron for too many
pretty expensive things, we only piss our own portion away.”
“Savvy,” said Jean. Camorr lacked that particular privilege for business-minded nobles;
no doubt the wealth of its lenders and money-changers gave them teeth that Espara’s
commoners had yet to grow. “I can see why you’re so keen to economize.”
“A bit of pain to the wrists and elbows might save us the pain of a sharp stick in
the purse when this is all—”
Uncharacteristic noises from the stage snapped Jean and Jenora out of their habitual
prop-making reverie. Jasmer Moncraine had stomped across the stage with Boulidazi
close behind, interrupting whatever scene was being rehearsed. Jean had seen them
all so many times by now he’d learned to ignore them, but there was no ignoring this.
“You’ve no right to interfere with my artistic decisions,” yelled Moncraine.
“None of your decisions are privileged by our arrangement, artistic or otherwise,”
said Boulidazi.
“It’s the damned principle of the matter—”
“Principle gets you kind words at your temple of choice, not power over me.”
“Gods damn your serpent’s eyes, you up-jumped dilettante!”
“That’s right.” Boulidazi stepped in close to Moncraine, making it impossible for
the impresario to miss if his temper should snap again. “Abuse me. Forget the fact
that you’re a nightskin peasant. Say something I can’t forgive. Better yet, hit me.
You’ll be back at the Weeping Tower like an arrow-shot, and I’ll have the company.
You think you can’t be replaced? You’ve got five scenes. I’ll hire another Calamaxes
away from Basanti. The play will go on without you, and you’ll go on without one of
your hands.”
Jasmer stood with terrible rigidity, lines and wattles of his dark face deepening
as his jaw clenched harder and harder, and for a moment it seemed he was about to
doom himself. At last he took a step back, exhaled sharply, and barked, “Alondo! Lucaza!”
Locke and Alondo appeared before him with haste.
“Swap your roles,” growled Moncraine. “Lucaza’s Aurin from now
on, and Alondo’s got Ferrin. If you don’t like it, discuss the aesthetic ramifications
with our honorable gods-damned patron.”
“But we just did up the Aurin costume yesterday, sized for Alondo,” said Jenora. Moncraine
whirled and stalked toward her, plainly itching to pass on some of the abuse he’d
just received from Boulidazi.
“Then take a knife to it,” he shouted, “or put Lucaza on a fucking rack and grow him
four inches. I don’t give a damn either way!”
Jenora and Jean both leapt up, but before either could speak Moncraine turned and
stormed away. Boulidazi smirked, shook his head, and gestured for the actors to continue
practicing.
Eyes wide, Jean slowly eased himself back into his seat. The baron had never before
so publicly taunted or countermanded his unfortunate “partner,” and coarse as he was,
Boulidazi always seemed to work to a design. What was this ploy in aid of?
“I, uh, I’m sorry about this, Alondo,” said Locke, breaking the silence before it
stretched too long.
“Bah,” said the young Esparan. “Not as though it’s your fault. Jasmer tells me to
play a baby rabbit, I’m a baby rabbit, you know? And I’m still in most of the best
scenes anyway. If I had to go begging work from Basanti I wouldn’t even have a lusty
maid part waiting for me, eh?”
LOCKE AND
Sabetha conferred in a rare, brief moment of privacy on the changing nature of Boulidazi’s
expectations. Changed as they were, the Esparan baron’s old habits didn’t shift, and
it was simply too dangerous to attempt to steal more meaningful privacy at Gloriano’s
Rooms. Boulidazi or one of his several associates might appear at any time, from around
any corner, up or down any flight of stairs.
Still, the baron had delivered on his promise to transmute Locke’s role, and had to
be kept thinking that Lucaza de Barra was his earnest ally. To this end Sabetha began
to play a closer and more dangerous game of flirtation with Boulidazi. While not allowing
that the time was right for her to enjoy a secret sojourn under the baron’s roof,
she doted on him more frequently, met his eyes more often, pretended to smile at his
alleged jokes.
She also deployed more of her arsenal of feminine fascinations, carefully letting
her smock hang an inch or two lower on her chest, trading boots for cheap slippers
to display her ankles and elegantly muscled calves. These steps, coupled with the
casual ease with which Jean and Jenora went off together each night, kept the twin
flames of distraction and jealousy flickering lively in Locke’s breast.
His new role as Aurin turned out to be no help in the matter. While it sent a thrill
shuddering up and down his every nerve to be working so close to Sabetha, professing
love in the marvelously lurid language of Lucarno, the hawk-eyed vigil of Boulidazi
was a check on every other expression of passion. In fact, he was so careful and so
chaste in his stage embraces that Moncraine, his patience burnt to ash and the ashes
ground deep into the dirt of his mood, soon snapped.
“Gods’ piss, you gangling twit, the love’s the whole matter of the play! Who the hell
wants to pay good money to see a tragic love story if the lovers handle each other
like fine porcelain? Bert! Chantal! Educate this idiot.”
Husband and wife came forward eagerly upon realizing they weren’t to share the rebuke.
Chantal swooned into Bertrand’s arms, and he turned toward Locke and Sabetha.
“Exaggerate,” he said, “and lean. Leaning’s what makes a good embrace, kid. Stage
kissing you’ve got down. When she’s in your arms, tilt her a bit. Take her off her
feet. It looks good to the audience. Quickest way to show passion that even the drunks
at the far back can see. Isn’t that right, jewel?”
“Oh, Bert, you couldn’t explain swimming to a fish. But you’ve always been one for
doing
, hmmm?” Giggling and poking playfully at one another, the two of them nonetheless
managed to rapidly correct the flaws in Locke’s pretend girl-embracing technique.
Even Moncraine grunted satisfaction, and Locke found himself suddenly able to be arm
to arm, chest to chest, cheek to cheek with Sabetha without Boulidazi raising the
slightest objection. Yet anyone who has ever pretend-held an intensely desirable other
person will know how little it assuages the longing for genuine contact, genuine surrender,
and so even this improvement was no balm to Locke’s mood or desires.
Thus the situation carried on, gaining momentum like a cart nudged off the top of
a hill. The crowds at Gloriano’s grew larger and
more boisterous. Calo and Galdo indulged their appetite for dice and cards, closely
watched by the others to ensure they didn’t indulge their appetite for never losing.
Jean and Jenora churned out costume after costume, restored theatrical weapons to
full polish, and spun minor miracles out of dusty scraps. The daily rehearsals became
tighter, scripts and notes were discarded, costume and prop trials were made. At last,
one evening as the bronze disk of the sun slid westward, Moncraine summoned the company
to the stage.
“Can’t say for sure that we’re getting any better,” he growled, “but at least we’re
no longer getting any worse. I think it’s time we gave public notice. My lord Boulidazi,
you and the stakeholders must consent.”
“I do,” said the baron. Alondo, Jenora, and Sylvanus nodded.
“Gods save us,” said Moncraine. “What this means, dear Camorri, is that we hire our
bit players and spear-carriers. Then we announce the times of our shows, and if we
don’t manage to put them on, we’re bloody liable. To the ditch-tenders, the beer-
and breadmongers, the cushion furnishers, the envoy of ceremonies, and the countess
herself, gods forbid.”
“I presume we’ll need some handbills?” said Jean.
“Handbills? Who reads? Put those up in most neighborhoods and the good citizens would
use them for ass-wiping. We send criers around the poor districts, notes to the nicest.
Maybe just a few handbills around the trade streets, but in the main we keep the oldest
of old fashions.”