Page 50 of Play of Shadows
Beretto fumbled around our rickety timber dining table in search of quill and ink. ‘It’s how you’ll be saying it in the new play I’m going to write.Of Vixens and Rabbits– A Romance of Rapiers.’ He stopped, muttering, ‘Damn, that’s a good title.’
‘This isn’t funny, Beretto! You weren’t there. I was out of my head. I nearly tried to snatch the Vixen’s blade right from her hand!Lady Ferica di Traizo– the most famous duellist in the city! Consequences to her reputation be damned, she could’ve killed me then and there—’
‘Ah, but she didn’t, did she?’
Beretto abandoned his search for writing implements in favourof a minuscule drumstick wrenched from the unidentified bird Mother had provided for tonight’s supper. He shook it at me. ‘The Vixen expected to find a rabbit hopping unknowingly into her lair tonight, but in truth, she faced that most dangerous of predators, the beast before whom all others must roll upon the ground to reveal their bellies. . .an actor!’
‘You’re enjoying this far too much,’ I said, reaching over to take the remains of the drumstick.
Beretto licked the juices from his fingers. ‘And you aren’t enjoying it nearly enough, my friend.’
I decided to forego a reply in favour of further risking my life by eating the meal Mother had so generously provided. The meat was stringy and tough and the emaciated pigeon who had provided it had probably been diseased. It tasted delicious.
‘Oh, saints,’ I moaned after the first swallow, ‘tell me there’s more of this– I don’t remember when I last ate.’
Beretto, regret painted on his features, showed me the empty plate. ‘I waited as long as I could, my friend, but a man has needs.’ He grinned. ‘But tonight, let us break with tradition and beg of Mother’s goodwill a second feast.’
He took the plate and sent it down with a pair of measly copper tears.
A moment later a menacing voice called up through the shaft, ‘You’ll cry me three more tears or go hungry tonight.’
‘Two coppers were all I had, beloved Mother,’ Beretto cried into the shaft. He didn’t dare admit to possessing a gold jubilant. Our fellow denizens of the Royal would break into our apartment nightly in search of our treasure.
‘Well, now you have none, and you ain’t got no chicken, neither!’
Beretto raised an eyebrow and said– not particularly quietly– to me, ‘I have as many chickens as she does.’
‘I heard that!’
‘Of course you did.’ Beretto placed a hand on his heart as he leaned into the shaft and called down, ‘How could your hearing be other than perfect, when your divine ears were sculpted by the gods themselves to inspire poets– and such a sonnet I’ll write you, my lovely Mother, as none have ever—’
‘That’s worth four tears,’ she called up.
‘Four copper tears for a single sonnet?’ Beretto asked, surprised.
‘Aye. You want me to listen to another one of those silly rhymes of yours, it’s going to cost you four tears!’
The sound of her cackling echoing up the dumbwaiter shaft was the stuff from which nightmares were sewn.
Beretto’s face took on a peevish expression. ‘Fine. I’ll come and clean out the rubbish for you in the morning.’
‘And scrub the cankers on my feet. They’ve been aching something awful lately.’
Beretto paled, but like one of the great warriors of old, compelled by honour to charge the hill no sane man would dare, he said, ‘Marked.’
A few minutes later, his noble sacrifice had become a fresh roasted bird, and big enough this time to suggest that the morning sun would bring Beretto no joy.
‘You are,’ I said, wiping the back of my hand across grease-stained lips, ‘a truer and more boon companion than ever I knew.’
Beretto leaned back in his chair. ‘And you, my friend, have restored my faith in our profession.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘After watching Abastrini chew every line like old leather these past years, I despaired of ever being part of a play worth performing. But last night. . .’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘Last night, I, Beretto Bravi of South Lankavir, stood upon a stage where magic was conjured and the dull-witted cynicism that has plagued our profession too long was banished.’
‘Was it really so impressive?’ I asked.
‘Are you fishing for compliments?’
‘No. It’s just. . . to me it was all a blur– a haze. Like standing in two worlds at once, unable to see either clearly. I completely forgot Shoville’s script.’
‘The script? Who gives a shit about the script? What you gave us was so much better than any mere text!’ The rickety chair protested when he rose to pace about the room. ‘There you were, coming up with those amazing lines, and even better, giving us subtle clues of what the rest of us were to say and do next. It was like. . . it was like you were a conductor and we your orchestra. . . No– no, we were theinstruments! The most finely crafted violins and vitolas, bursting with new melodies as your bow slid across our strings.’
