Page 146 of Play of Shadows
Always in the Eyes
Over the days that followed, consciousness became an elusive, unreliable companion. Every time I woke, faces were looming over me, mouths opening and closing, their words faint and distant. Their eyes told me I might yet die. Sometimes I’d try to rasp reassurances, but before my dry lips could utter a word, I fell back into the abyss, which was growing ever more familiar, and ever more comforting.
But my body clung obstinately to life, and after a time, the fraught expressions I saw whenever I woke showed me their new fears:Why wasn’t I speaking?Why was I sleeping all through the days and nights? Had I pushed my Veristor’s gift so far past its limits that I’d irreparably shattered my mind?
For my part, I was fascinated by the myriad variations in those ever-present eyes watching over me: big, round eyes beneath thick red brows that surely belonged to some barbarian warlord out of myth rather than the kindest, most gentle soul ever to bring grace to my life. Narrower, darker eyes, filled with a thousand dangers, whose uncharacteristic anxiousness tugged at the corners of my mouth, making me smile.
Other sets of eyes suggested irritation as much as concern; I assumed they must be physicians.
The eyes that finally brought me out of my slumber were of a particular blue so rich they might almost have been called violet; they drew from me the first words I’d spoken in many days– which was unfortunate, because one would expect an actor’s first utterance to have a little poetry in it.
‘Observations Of Ocular Maladies,’ I muttered.
‘Damelas?’ His Grace, Duke Firan Monsegino, leaned over me and offered a pewter goblet. ‘Do you need to drink something?’
I did, but now that I could see a bit more clearly, I felt it prudent to examine my surroundings. That’s when I saw the scarlet curtain and my heart began to race.
Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears! I’m back on stage and I haven’t memorised my lines– I can’t even remember which part I’m supposed to play—
‘It’s all right,’ the duke said, pressing a hand gently down on my shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to fear.’
Nothing to fear? Has this half-witted nobleman never faced an enraged audience after a botched performance at the legendary Operato Belleza before?
I turned my head towards the wings, praying that the director would be there to mouth my lines at me. . .
. . . and remembered that Hujo Shoville was dead, his remains entombed beneath the ruins of the Belleza. Tears blurred my vision.
I wiped them away, and only then noticed that the curtains weren’t just in front of me, but on either side as well.
A bed, I realised.I’m in a bed hung with red velvet curtains.
My free hand was lying on something equally sumptuous. I stretched my fingers to stroke the coverlet. This was the most luxurious bedchamber I’d ever slept in before. I lifted my head an inch, then pressed it back down again, allowing the remarkably soft pillows to envelop me once again. Above me, a mahogany canopy was adorned with painted blue pertinesbeneath golden crowns.
At last I figured out where I must be, which brought on a fit of wheezing laughter. Damelas Chademantaigne, a pauper from Cheapside, had not only sat upon the ducal throne of Pertine, but had spent the last several days or weeks lounging around in the duke’s own bed.
‘Damelas,’ Monsegino asked, ‘what were you saying– is there something you need? Shall I go and find Beretto or Shariza?’
‘Nothing of conse—No, wait, I remember now.Observations Of Ocular Maladies, Being An Account Of Certain Peculiar Conditions Of The Eyes Such As Those Of Prelate Urdius, Archduke Corbier, And Other Notables.’
Monsegino’s unnaturally captivating eyes widened in confusion. ‘A book? Do you want me to send for it?’
I managed to prop myself up on my elbows before nodding at the pewter goblet, and the duke held it to my lips so I could drink. I raised a shaking hand to wipe away the water dribbling from my mouth and noticed my sleeve, which made me suspect I was wearing a monstrously expensive embroidered silk sleeping robe. I feared it, too, probably belonged to the duke.
‘When I was researching the part of Corbier,’ I croaked at last, ‘I wound up in the Grand Library, thanks to Viscountess Kareija.’ I coughed for a bit, then asked, ‘How is she, by the way?’
‘Imprisoned,’ Monsegino replied. ‘Awaiting sentencing.’
‘Rude accommodation for one’s relatives,’ I observed, and waved tremulously at the opulence all around me.
Monsegino sighed. ‘I’ll set my aunt free soon enough. I just need to lure a few of her co-conspirators out of hiding. I’ve put it round that anyone who turns on her will be granted clemency. It’s damned complicated tracking down traitors when almost none of them know who the others are.’
‘What happened after I. . . ?’ My voice trailed off.After I what? Died? Allowed the memories of a thousand dead soldiers topossess my fellow citizens without their consent?
Monsegino gave a wry smile. ‘The instant the battle ended, those same nobles who’d stood by as I was about to be crowned with iron spikes gave very moving and patriotic speeches demanding that I retake the throne. Should you ever lack for particularly melodramatic actors, I can offer a number of recommendations.’ His momentary good humour dissipated. ‘Alas, those outbursts of feigned loyalty are making it all the more difficult for me to identify the truly dangerous ones.’
I gestured for more water to soothe my parched throat, then said, ‘I’ve every faith that you’ll unmask the deceivers, your Grace, given your own expertise in hiding your identity.’
A flicker of anger crossed Monsegino’s face, but he was a decent sort, as rulers went, and the outrage faded quickly. ‘Observations Of Ocular Maladies,’ he repeated. ‘Was that how you figured it out? Or was it my great-great-great grandmother who informed on me?’
