Page 91 of Play of Shadows
I removed her hand from my face. ‘You’re talking as if a play were some kind of spell.’
‘Ofcourseit is,’ Beretto boomed, wringing his hands together excitedly. ‘What we do isn’t merelyperformance; it’sritual– and just like with any ceremonial spell, the magic only works when all the right elements are in the right place.’
I returned to the sofa and slumped down, suddenly burdened with the dread certainty that Beretto, for all his foolish fancies about the sacred nature of the actor’s art, was absolutely right. ‘Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears,’ I swore, ‘so our only hope of uncovering the Court of Flowers before they kill us all is to go ahead and put on the final act of the play?’
Rhyleis and Beretto grinned at the same time, proving irrational optimism to be as contagious as any disease. Even Shariza and the duke were nodding in agreement.
‘Cheer up, Veristor,’ Rhyleis said, slapping me playfully on the cheek. ‘Nobles across this city are paying in gold and gems for a ticket to the final act. I’ve a suspicion that for once in their miserable, privileged lives, they’re going to witness a performance worth the price of admission.’
Chapter 44
The Percussionist
Less than a day had passed since last I’d been at the Operato Belleza, but returning with Beretto and Rhyleis that afternoon, I felt like a stranger. Outside the stage door, life in the alley had returned to its normal, dreary ways. Roslyn’s body had at last been pulled down from the lantern-post and her blood had been cleaned off the flagstones. All that remained was a broken piece of the sign that had hung from her neck:Let actors give us merry tales.
A few drops of Corbier’s fury must have still been flowing through my veins, because I found myself badly wanting to meet the men who’d inscribed those words.You haven’t yet learned the meaning of melancholy, you bastards– but I’ll teach you soon enough.
‘Gonna be a good one tonight?’ asked Grey Mags, sitting in her usual spot, knitting her scavenged lengths of wool.
‘Nothing of particular note,’ I replied, swallowing my anger so I wouldn’t take it out on her. Mags was so thin these days, more rags than flesh. If we had a cold winter this year. . .
‘Might see if I can buy meself a ticket,’ she said. ‘Our Zina got herself a starring role yet?’
The clatter of Vadris the drug-pedlar’s cart rolling along thecobblestones preceded his guttural laughter. ‘You can’t afford a ticket, you poxy old sewer frog!’
‘Got meself a pair of copper tears yesterday,’ Mags protested. ‘Fixed a rip in a proper Lord’s coat– he said as how I sewed better’n his own tailor, he did.’
‘Bet you those two copper that Lord can’t get a ticket hisself, you old sow.’ Vadris jerked a thumb at me. ‘His Lordship set the city on fire with his little scam.’ He turned to offer up a sarcastic grin. ‘Come on, then, Damelas, let us in on the game, eh? Don’t leave yer old friends out in the cold with nuthin’ but stray coppers while you fill yer purse with noble silver.’
‘Old friends’, I thought, my eyes drawn to the brooch pinned to the drug-pedlar’s collar. Was it you, Vadris? Were you the one to tell the Iron Orchids how to find Roslyn? Did you help them torture and murder her?
I wondered, just for a moment, how it might feel to drive the point of the rapier I’d held hours before through the bastard’s heart– but I couldn’t allow myself to be taken by Corbier’s rage again, not when there were so many other lives inside the Operato Belleza at risk of the Orchids’ vengeance.
I forced my breathing to slow, my hands to relax. ‘I’m sorry, Mags,’ I said at last. ‘The show really is sold out.’
‘Oh,’ she said, as if it meant nothing at all, but in the cracks of her fading smile, I saw the hurt of ten thousand nights in the damp and cold, of being mocked and kicked and spat on by even the lowest of men.
‘Really, Mags, if I could—’
‘Hah,’ Vadris roared, ‘don’t waste yer sympathies on ’er, Damelas. She’d only stink up the place– ain’t ’ad a bath since the last duke’s reign.’
‘Shut your mouth, Vadris.’
‘Or wot? Gonna stick me with one o’ them wooden swords of yours, “Archduke Corbier”?’ Vadris pulled a butcher’s cleaverfrom his cart. The edge was pitted, but it looked plenty sharp.
You see, you fool?Corbier whispered, the promise of violence waking him like a church bell.You could have crushed his throat with your bare hands a moment ago, but you hesitated and now you’ll need to take a few cuts from that cleaver before you end him. Next time, let me—
Rhyleis and Beretto had kept silent until then, but now, ignoring Vadris’ leer, Rhyleis squatted down next to Mags and pulled two metal discs from her pocket. They looked like large bronze coins, only with loops of cord attached to the backs. She slipped one loop over her thumb and the other over her forefinger, then began clapping them together in a simple rhythm. ‘Are those knitting fingers of yours deft enough to keep time with these?’ she asked.
Mags looked at her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
Rhyleis handed her the discs and showed her how to attach them to her fingers, then clapped out a rhythm.
Mags followed along. She wasn’t perfect at first, but soon got the hang of it. The old woman grinned. ‘Clinkety-clink, clackety-clack,’ she sang along.
Rhyleis rose to her feet and reached out a hand. Mags tried to give her back the discs, but Rhyleis took hold of her arm instead and raised her up. ‘I’m short a percussionist in this half-arsed company. You’ll watch me for cues, follow the rhythm I set and muffle the discs the instant I shake my head. Understand?’
Mags looked at her wide-eyed. ‘I’m to be a player, then?’
