Page 149 of Play of Shadows
‘That’s. . . not the usual response,’ Brasti said.
I pushed down the lid of the case. ‘I’m sorry. I’m. . . I’m honoured– more than you could ever guess. But this. . . this was my grandmother’s calling, and my grandfather’s, not mine. Even after everything that’s happened, I’m no Greatcoat. I’m a Bardatti, I suppose– a Veristor, if I ever figure out what that really means. But mostly, in my heart, I’m an actor.’
Brasti Goodbow watched me in silence. A solid minute passed before he nodded at last. ‘Considering the shit plays I’ve seen in the past few years, I suppose we need good actors more than mediocre magistrates.’ He turned to Rhyleis, his expression vastly less sanguine. ‘And you, you lousy, scheming Troubadour. You had Chalmers send me all this way fornothing? When I first got word, I just naturally assumed you wanted to bed me at last– which I would have refused, by the way– but no, I ride all the way to fucking Jereste just to deliver a greatcoat to a guy who refuses it because he wants to bean actor?’
Rhyleis looked not the least bit guilty. ‘Well, obviously I hadn’t expected him to refuse.’
Brasti gave a barking laugh. He turned to me and said, ‘You know how she goes around pretending to know everything about everyone, droning on about the mystical genius of the Bardatti?’
‘She. . . may have mentioned something along those lines.’
‘Ha!’ Brasti said, slapping the table again. ‘Well, she’s rubbish at it, so take it from me – never,everfollow her advice. Half the time she’s so busy mooning over Falcio, who couldn’t care le—’
‘Falcio val Mond?’ I asked. ‘The former First Cantor who. . . who isn’t nearly as famous as you?’
‘Nice recovery,’ Rhyleis said, furiously scribbling in her notebook.
‘What are you writing?’ Brasti asked her suspiciously.
‘A song,’ she replied. ‘About you. Do go on about what rubbish my counsel is and how I constantly embarrass myself.’
‘Now, Rhyleis,’ Brasti said anxiously, putting his hands up in surrender. ‘Let’s not do anything hasty. We’re friends, remember? I’m even willing to reconsider my reluctance to sleep with you.’
‘Keep talking,’ the Troubadour said, still scribbling in her notebook. ‘You want to be famous, Brasti Goodbow? Oh, I’ll make you famous. . .’
I had the strange sense I’d wandered into someone else’s story, but amusing as it was, frivolity wasn’t for me right now. I reached over and flipped the brass clasps on the case closed. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. I’m surprised, actually, because usually Rhyleis is uncannily adept at figuring out what people are going to do. . .’
I turned and stared into those inscrutable blue eyes of hers. ‘In fact, why would you have sent a request to the new First Cantor on my behalf at all? You’re the one who keeps telling me how much more important the Bardatti are than the Greatcoats–would you even have allowed me to become a Greatcoat if I’d wanted?’
There wasn’t a trace of guilt in her smirk. ‘Trade the first real Veristor in a generation for a thick-witted magistrate? Don’t be ridiculous.’
Brasti threw up his hands. ‘Then why in the name of Saint Laina’s glorious left tit did you send word demanding that the Tailor come out of retirement to make a new greatcoat? What am I supposed to tell the First Cantor now? I can’t just go back to Aramor, drop the coat in her lap and say, “Sorry, he decided he’d rather be an actor.” The other Greatcoats will laugh me out of the castle!’
Rhyleis appeared distinctly untroubled by that prospect, but in her gaze I saw something else. . .
‘You really are impossible not to love, aren’t you?’ I asked her, and turned back to look at the case.
‘What?’ Brasti asked. ‘What?Did you miss the part where she made me ride all the way here and now I have to carry this stupid case back and—’
‘Perhaps you don’t need to take the coat back to Aramor,’ I said. ‘In fact, if you think your First Cantor might be willing to bend the rules a little, I believe I have a solution that will satisfy everyone.’
Brasti Goodbow looked suspicious, which was only fair given Rhyleis’ smug grin.
‘I’m listening. . .’
Chapter 77
The Troupe
The Knights of the Curtain assembled one last time among the ruins of the Operato Belleza, standing in the ashes of our former home, with scorched props and charred pieces of set still lying among the cracked stone and burned timbers. Actors and crew alike, we all wore the bruises, cuts, and scars of our battles here and at the palace. Several were leaning on crutches or each other, broken bones and lacerated skin yet to heal.
We were all grinning like fools.
‘I still can’t believe we did it,’ Beretto marvelled, one hand stroking his red beard as if he were playing the Affable Inquisitor fromBetween Two Midnight Murders, come here to investigate the inexplicable mystery of how a troupe of players had overcome impossible tribulations.
‘I’m still not surewhatwe did,’ Teo admitted.
I felt as if I should explain, but I couldn’t think where to begin. Abastrini saved me by kneeling down to pick up a handful of cinders, then squeezing them in his hand as if by sheer force of will he could crush the ashes into something better– something brighter. Something living.
