Page 2 of Play of Shadows
At least the Orchids can always be counted on for something,I thought.Now I just need them to be even louder.
‘Oh, do shut up, you swollen-sacked fustilarians!’ I shouted.
‘Rabbit, Rabbit!’they roared eagerly, suitably encouraged, and started bashing the steel bosses of their bucklers against the alley walls for added effect. The endlessly repeated chant was paralysing, as if the words were unleashing some ancient spell upon me, transforming me into a cornered hare cowering as he awaits the jaws of the hounds.
Come on, come on!I thought, watching the back of the stage door.Don’t tell me any company of actors is going to tolerate this racket outside their walls?
The Orchids would be upon me any second now. I couldn’t hope to bribe them– my job as a merchants’ messenger was no path to fortune– and nor could I roll the dice and challenge my captors to fence me one-on-one here in the alley, since I’d been forced to abandon my rapier a mile back to keep it from slowing me down.
Also, I’m rubbish with a blade.
The squeal of a heavy door grinding angrily on its hinges surprised all of us, especially when it heralded the sweet melody of a roaring bear woken too early from its hibernation.
‘What unholy hubbub intrudes upon these hallowed halls?’ the outraged voice demanded. ‘What halfwit interrupts the sacred work of this city’s finest actors rehearsing the most magnificent play ever conceived?’
Wild, curly red hair and a thick beard framed a face better suited to the war chief of a barbarian horde come to sack the city than an actor performing in one of its legendary theatres. The lantern-light leaking from the backstage door lent a flickering glow to a bronze plaque bolted onto the theatre’s back wall.
OPERATO BELLEZA
PLAYERS ONLY
I nearly wept in gratitude to the many, many saints who’d ignored my prayers over the years. What moments before had seemed atrulyterrible plan had, by this tiny interruption, been redeemed into a scheme of unrivalled cunning.
‘What the Hells is this about?’ one of the Iron Orchids asked. ‘You run all this way to hide in atheatre, Rabbit?’
‘Actually. . . yes!’
Ignoring the pain in my sprained ankle, I sprinted up the three stone steps, ducked under the burly actor’s arm and shot into the dimly lit hallway.
‘Hey! What are y—?’
I limped as quickly as I could down a long corridor, the damned ankle grinding like broken glass, past closets bulging with costumes and cabinets filled with props. My shoulder hit the edge of the wall as I took a left turn, following as best I could the sounds of promisingly pompous voices. Rounding a second corner, I found myself confronted with a pair of oak doors sagging on their hinges. Heedless of what awaited me on the other side, I barrelled through and into a massive hall where more than two dozen men and women in ill-fitting costumes were milling about as sullenly as if the gods themselves were pitted against them.
Actors, I thought, jubilantly steadying myself.Now I just need my second miracle.
A broad-chested woman in a too-tight red velvet dress jabbed her thumb at me. ‘Who the Hells is this now?’ she demanded. ‘Has Shoville hiredmorebloody amateurs for this stupid play?’
Two things I ought to mention at this juncture: the first is that the Belleza is one of the oldest theatres in Jereste, and one of only three entitled to call itself an operato. This might sound trivial for anything other than calculating the price of a ticket, but there’s a far deeper significance to that lofty title. Historical plays staged in the city’s operatos are deemed sovital to the spiritual wellbeing of the city that its performers are granted privileges once exclusive to the legendary Bardatti actors and troubadours of old. These rights include exemption from military conscription, immunity from incarceration over unpaid debts and, according to ancient tradition, the right to demand reprieve from certain affairs of honour. . .
Oh, and the second thing? In addition to being an excellent runner, I’m also a superb liar.
I swept back the damp hair from my brow before favouring my buxom saviour with a wink and a smile. ‘I’m the new herald,’ I announced, venturing deeper into the room and glancing about for a spare costume.
That there would be a herald’s part in their play was an educated guess on my part, as most of the Grand Historias are about ancient battles and the reigns of princes and dukes, which meant they invariably needed at least one herald to proclaim their glorious victories.
A tall, skinny fellow about my age, with a hooked nose and ash-brown hair cut in the fashion of a royal page, and dressed to match in doublet and hose, stamped his foot. ‘Roz,’ he complained to the voluptuous woman in the red velvet dress, ‘I thoughtIwas playing the herald in the final act! Has that bloody director given awayanotherof my parts?’
‘Oh, do give it a rest, Teo,’ she replied, tying back her brassy-blonde tresses with a scarlet ribbon. ‘It’s only one line.’
‘Well, it wasmyline,’ Teo grumbled. ‘Why should this guy get—?’
My newfound rival for the most trivial of acting roles was cut off by the return of the red-bearded lummox who’d unintentionally rescued me from the Iron Orchids two minutes ago. ‘There you are,’ he said.
‘Hey, Beretto,’ Teo called out, ‘did you know Shoville gave this arsehole my part?’
Whatever Beretto was going to say in reply was drowned out by the clanging of weapons as a dozen armed men and women crowded their way into the rehearsal hall behind him. Even though the doors were already open, one fellow kicked it anyway, shouting, ‘There’s our rabbit!’
Teo and the rest of the players, most of them costumed in fake finery or imitation armour, retreated to the shadows at the back of the hall. As a species, actors are largely immune from such ailments as courage or dignity. Only the one they’d called Beretto was standing his ground.
