Page 107 of Play of Shadows
‘A piece of advice then, your Grace, from one player to another: beware of getting too comfortable in your role. That’s always when another actor comes to take it away from you.’
Chapter 52
The Bars
Crouched in a suitably dank cell, my back pressed against the cold iron bars, I passed the time scratching with my fingernails at the blood and muck that was threatening to become a permanent part of my skin. The guards had left behind a jug of water for the second night in a row, an unusual kindness, given the point of locking up a man for refusing to obey a ducal order was, presumably, to change his mind. I’d drunk half the water, but kept the rest to scrub as much of myself as possible.
Lacking both light and a mirror, I stopped every few minutes to run my fingertips over my skin, trying to tell if it felt clean, or if I needed to keep exhuming more of the man I’d been before the battle of the Belleza– before all of this madness had started.
‘The flaying of prisoners is typically the job of a trained torturer. Shouldn’t you leave such abuses to the professionals?’
The whisper came so close to my ear that only the grace of a generous saint prevented me leaping away from the bars like a panicked rabbit.
I guess she really was being polite two nights ago when she allowed me to hear her walking up to me.
‘Just an itch,’ I said. ‘Possibly fleas.’
‘Over every square inch of your body?’
I leaned back nonchalantly against the bars, still refusing to look at her. ‘Has no one ever told you it’s impolite to spy on a condemned man? How long have you been hiding there?’
‘Not so long,’ she replied, but I caught the defensiveness in her tone. ‘I didn’t want to. . . it seemed important to you, this obsessive cleansing.’
‘It’s a ritual my grandmother did when she returned from a mission. She wanted to make sure she brought none of the violence and despair of her travels into our lives.’ A troubling thought occurred to me. ‘My Lady, are you here for my execution?’
The heavy silence that had me holding my breath was broken by the rasping sound of an amberlight match being struck. A brief flash of light reflected on the back wall of my cell, followed by the flickering of a torch that floated in mid-air until it came to a stop in what I guessed was an iron holder.
With my back still to the bars, I watched the play of light against the rough stone of the cell wall, imagining myself sitting in the alley outside the Belleza with Grey Mags and Zina, boasting that I couldn’t stay long, for the vital role of the herald awaited me upon that sacred stage. I stayed like that a while, waiting for whatever came next. If Shariza had been sent to kill me, well, it was just a shame it would happen so far from the Belleza and my friends.
The Black Amaranth finally answered my question with one of her own. ‘Were I here to execute you, would I tell you?’
The words were glib, the tone light, but something lurked underneath. Hurt? Resentment? I couldn’t tell. Maybe I’d never been able to tell and all those conflicted emotions I’d allowed myself to believe were at play within her had been nothing but a tale I’d been telling myself to lessen the ache of my own longing.
‘I suppose not,’ I replied, ‘although I must confess, I’ve little experience with Dashini assassins.’
She sighed, and I felt her shoulders press against mine as she sat back to back with me on the other side of the bars. Her dark curls tickled my neck.
‘I’m done apologising, Damelas Chademantaigne.’
‘I hadn’t realised you’d begun.’
‘I never hid from you what I am, nor what I do. We all have our roles to play and I have played mine with as much dignity and decency as my profession allows. I would think you of all people would understand that.’
Guilt made my skin itch. Or maybe it really was fleas. ‘That’s the thing, my Lady– when it comes down to it, I’ve never been a particularly good actor.’
Her shoulders shifted and then her fingers reached back to touch my cheek. ‘I cannot speak for the rest of your audiences, but I have often found your performances unexpectedly charming.’
My first instinct was to pull away. The fire that had left the Operato Belleza in ruins was still smouldering inside me; people I cared about had died. But I had no way to punish the Iron Orchids and whoever led them, nor even Duke Monsegino, and I found I lacked the will for pettiness.
‘Shoville once told me that no actor could come to grips with their character until he appreciated all their. . .incongruities.’
‘What did he mean?’
‘I didn’t really understand at the time– all the herald had to do was to walk to the middle of the stage and deliver a handful of words. Who in all the Hells cares about the damned herald anyway? I thought he was just. . . you know, being Shoville.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I understand what he was talking about– how someone can be two opposing things at once. That’s what makes us human.’
