Page 125 of Play of Shadows
But not beyond ours. . .
The idea was implausible, preposterous– and yet fitting, in a way. If it worked, it would surely give credence to Shoville’sclaim weeks ago that actors were the gods’ most inspired creation.
‘Any chance we have lies in the past,’ I told the others. ‘I have to return to Ajelaine, but to do that, I need a distraction.’
‘Distraction?’ Abastrini demanded. The blustering actor, his costume armour straining to encompass his broad shoulders and abundant belly, stomped across the stage to me, eyes wide with that subtle hint of madness that always made sharing a scene with him simultaneously terrifying and somehow comical.
‘You sodden-witted fustilarian!’ he hissed. ‘You addle-brained walking cataclysm– how, I ask you, are we supposed to distract the fucking Iron Orchids? Do you expect me to yank down my trousers and wave my cock at the enemy in hopes they fall on their swords in astonishment and despair at beholding such a kingly sceptre?’
Despite the danger looming all around me– not least from Abastrini himself– a reckless laugh slipped past my lips. ‘As it happens, that’sexactlywhat I need.’ I bent at the waist to give the ranting melodramatist a deep bow. ‘Master Abastrini, I believe our audience would be eternally appreciative if, during this brief intermission, you might regale them with a performance of. . . “The Rampant Paramour”.’
Abastrini stared at me, mouth agape. ‘You want. . .what? You want me to. . .’ He glanced over at the petrified crowds huddling back from the Iron Orchids. ‘All by myself?’
For so long I had despised this pugnacious boaster for his arrogance, his smug self-importance and above all else, his criminally overrated acting abilities. Now I was about to bet all our lives on those very talents.
‘Master Abastrini, in the history of the theatre, no actor has been tasked with a more challenging role than the one I beg of you now. So I ask you, can you name for me any player in this city– or any other– more capable of delivering the necessaryperformance than the man standing before me?’
Ellias Abastrini swallowed. Everyone knew he was past his prime, debased by drink and self-pity until his very existence was a parody of the actor he’d once been. Yet now the steel inside him, long-buried beneath bluster and indulgence, shook itself free. His shoulders squared and his chest swelled as his belly admirably attempted the opposite. A fire long dimmed by languor, lust and lethargy gleamed anew as his lips parted in a feral smile.
‘For Hujo Shoville,’ he said.
Then Ellias Abastrini shoved his way through our fellow actors, stormed his way to centre stage and, like a mythical warrior conjured out of legend, faced off against the tide of panicking innocents and bloodthirsty thugs.
And told a dirty joke.
Chapter 63
The Rampant Paramour
‘The Rampant Paramour’ is widely acknowledged among actors to be the most lascivious, perverse and corrupting soliloquy ever written. The vulgar monologue is rumoured to have been composed decades ago by a trio of players confined in a gaol cell together, awaiting trial for criminal bawdiness. Being massively drunk at the time and deeming the charges against them entirely unfounded, they decided to prove their innocence by concocting a performance so depraved that once presented to the court, the magistrate would have to agree that, by comparison, their previous crime had been negligible.
The first actor recited ‘The Rampant Paramour’ before the court, and all in attendance did indeed gape in horror at this unearthly degradation of common decency. The other two then demanded their own opportunities to best his performance. The magistrate, a fair jurist by all accounts, duly allowed them their turns.
After the trial, their bodies were left hanging from the courthouse awning for a full seventy-seven days– a week longerthan that mandated for any other known crime. And even now, should a player appear at risk of becoming dangerously bawdy, their fellow actors will surreptitiously signal them, holding one hand down with the three middle fingers wriggling like dangling corpses.
For this reason, ‘The Rampant Paramour’ is only performed backstage, long after the last audience member has left, when reckless players vie for the dubious honour of exceeding in lewdness and offensiveness all those who have gone before.
And here was Ellias Abastrini, performing ‘The Rampant Paramour’ for the largest audience ever assembled in Pertine.
He swore. He bragged. He pranced about the stage, gesturing incessantly at his groin, claiming to list– without pausing for breath– a full three dozen titles granted to his member by kings, queens and religious mystics who came from far across the sea, his manhood to acclaim. He described sexual feats both physically and– so we all devoutly hoped– spiritually impossible. He was not even halfway through before every face was flaming crimson – even before he presented his own blushing cheeks to them while describing one of the titles granted his vaunted staff– in farts.
It wasshocking,hideous.
It wasglorious.
The sheer shock of the performance first paralysed, then captivated the audience, some convulsing with laughter, others roaring their disapproval. By the ninth verse, a remarkable number of noblemen had fainted. The Iron Orchids, who had stopped their advance, now stared at the stage in baffled stupor. Tonight, with the fate of the city, the duchy and possibly the entire country at stake, Ellias Abastrini held an army at bay with nothing but his foul mouth and his prodigious phallus.
‘Genius,’ Rhyleis breathed, her face aglow with an unfeigned awe I would never have believed of the cynical Bardatti.
Alas, my own efforts were less formidable.
Why can’t I get back to Ajelaine?I asked Corbier again, but the Red-Eyed Raven remained silent, leaving me helpless, with no idea why my Veristor’s gift had abandoned me.
‘Pull yourself together, brother,’ Beretto said, shaking me by the shoulders. ‘Not even Abastrini can keep this up for ever!’
‘I’mtrying! But I don’t know how to get back to that exact moment outside the fortress. The Veristor magic won’t work properly unless we first set the scene—’
‘What do you need?’ Beretto asked.
