Page 28 of Play of Shadows
‘My Lord Director, on my oath as a player, I would never. . .’ But I couldn’t finish the sentence. There was no point. Nothing I could say would convince this man, whose sense of decency and loyalty I’d come to admire deeply, that this wasn’t all a self-serving scheme on my part.
Shoville saw my distress and put up his hands in surrender. ‘Ignore me, lad. Ageing theatre directors are prone to flights of fancy.’ At the door, he turned to offer a smile so unconvincing it belied his own years of experience as an actor. ‘Perhaps there’s a simpler explanation than any of us have considered.’
‘Which is?’
‘Beretto believes you’re hiding something from the rest of us.’
The prick of this minor betrayal stung deeper than it should. Beretto was the best friend I’d ever known. That he would harbour secret doubts about me. . .
‘What exactly am I supposed to be hiding?’ I asked.
‘Talent.’
I started to laugh, thinking this had been another of Beretto’s jokes and that Shoville had misunderstood, but the director looked deadly serious as he handed me the jewelled scabbard and painted wooden blade that went with the Corbier costume. ‘You let Abastrini beat you black and blue in sword practice, and yet Beretto claims that you’re a far better fencer than you let on– which one might expect from the grandson of two famous Greatcoats.’
‘For the love of all the saints,’ I shouted, unable to stop myself, ‘I’msosick to death of for ever being measured against my grandparents! No one ever mentions my mother, the blacksmith’s apprentice who died in childbirth, or my father, who abandoned us both days before– no, it’s always the King’s Parry this and the King’s Courtesy that, and how I’m namedafter thelegendaryDamelas Chademantaigne, but I’m no Greatcoat, Lord Director. On that score, you, Duke Monsegino, the Vixen – and, in fact, this entire city – can rest assured!’
Despite my bellowing at near-Abastrini levels, Shoville pretended to be casually scrutinising the Corbier costume one last time for flaws. I could sense he was searching for something else, though.
‘You pretend to faint-heartedness,’ he said quietly, ‘yet I’ve seen you stand up more than once for the alley-rats outside– even at the risk of your own hide.’
‘I promise you, Lord Director, my cowardice is earnest and well-proven.’
Shoville shook his head. ‘And this.’
That’s all he said. ‘And this.’
‘Sir?’
Again, the director went silent for a moment, staring at me with such intensity I felt as if I were being stripped bare.
‘You play the parts I give you with mediocre competence,’ Shoville said at last. ‘And yet, you’re a far better actor off the stage than on. In unguarded moments, you speak with greater eloquence than Abastrini on his best day. You listen more carefully. Youseemore deeply.’
The director’s words were eerily reminiscent of Shariza’s words: ‘You look at people too closely, Damelas.’
‘Those things hardly make one a great actor,’ I protested.
‘You want something to fear, lad?’ Shoville asked as he walked back to the door. Outside, the bustle of actors and crew pushing past each other became louder as they started making their way to the stage. The director gave me one last, searching glance, then said, ‘What should really scare you is that those are the exact attributes one might expect of a true Veristor.’
Chapter 13
The Speech
The opening night of a new play is a frantic affair. Sets only recently built are nervously inspected by the carpenter, who stands in the wings silently praying none of her creations will come crashing down on the heads of the actors – or worse, upon the audience. The costumer sees for the first time a hundred flaws in the fit or seams or hems, only now realising that fabrics meant to glimmer like gold reflect only a dull brown under the stage lights. While ushers race up and down between the hard wooden benches at the back and the expensive plush chairs nearer the front, seating the audience, actors run lines they’ve barely had a chance to learn. And the director, well, he mostly runs around in circles.
‘Barely a third of a house,’ Shoville moaned, pacing a groove in the boards in the wings. ‘Not even enough to cover expenses.’
‘We’re still getting paid, though, right?’ asked Teo.
The director shot him a look that would normally have quelled the entire cast, but now only set them to grumbling. The Knights of the Curtain weren’t an especially large company, and as their reputation had diminished, so too had their numbers. There were twelve principal players: Abastrini, who played the kings, dukes and princes; Beretto, the ever-loyal warrior;the once lauded Ornella, whose silver-haired beauty hadn’t diminished nearly so much with age as the roles she was given; twenty-five-year-old Roslyn, with six children at home, a player only because it was a more lucrative use of her rosy features and ample bosom than her other options. Likewise, Ezio, Luticia, Fedarei, Madaline– they all had their typical roles to play.
The bit parts went to the supernumeraries: ever-surly Teo, always convinced he was destined for greatness, and Bida, who, when not serving as Roslyn’s understudy, was everything from a page to a tavern strumpet. Now little Tolsi would join them in spending their days anxiously hoping for one of the principals to break an ankle or show up too drunk to perform. Until tonight, I had reckoned on permanently remaining among their number.
None of my fellow supernumeraries were cheering my unexpected advancement. Instead, the entire cast, along with the dozen or so crew who remained, were all standing in a loose circle, nervously staring at me.
‘Your big moment’s arrived, brother,’ Beretto said, jostling me with an elbow.
‘What are you talking about? The curtain’s not up yet, and I don’t come out until the second scene.’
