Coll wondered when his sister was going to make up her mind—and whether or not it would do her any good. “Only in the right game,” Dirk said, grinning, “and for the right stakes.”
“Oh? And what stakes are those, sir?” she said with a saucy smile, stepping a little closer.
Dirk abruptly sobered. “Peace, and the end of all these wars the noblemen wage. Freedom would be a nice added fillip, but I’ll settle for one thing at a time.”
Dicea stared, taken aback by the enormity of it. Then she recovered, gave him a look of mock exasperation, and said, “You can become so stuffy so easily, Sir Dirk!”
“Indeed,” Ciare said, stepping up to Coll’s side. “Can you be playful, sir, even though your master is not?”
Dicea flashed her a look of annoyance, but Coll favored her with a long look and an intent smile. Her eyes met his directly, and he felt as though some force was speeding from her into himself, making his whole body thrum like a fiddle string. “What game did you have in mind?”
“Ducks and drakes,” Ciare answered, just as Dicea said, “Roundelays,” and they were off into a three-way contest that featured hidden meanings and not-so-subtle innuendos. Coll found himself wondering whether he was really a player—or only a referee.
The next day, Elspeth and Duse vied for the honor of showing Gar his duties when he wasn’t acting; diplomatically, he stated that he needed both points of view and strolled about the innyard with one on each arm. Ciare stayed out of that competition, only guiding Coll to show him his duties. Of course, Gar really didn’t need a half-hour’s tour and explanation of how to hold the horses of the gentry while they watched the play, and Coll certainly didn’t need anywhere near an hour’s coaching on how to roll a rock across a sheet of iron to mimic the sound of thunder. Coll did have to admit that he was asking for far more detailed explanations than he needed to, but he noticed that Dicea kept dropping in on Dirk from time to time with one unnecessary question after another, so he felt justified.
At last Ciare led him through the curtains behind the two carts into a large tent with the stage as one wall and the inn for another, with canvas above them and canvas to each side. “This is the tiring house,” she said.
“How does one tire?” Coll asked.
Ciare turned to him, smiling, leaning back against the inn wall. “Why, one tires by long exercise.”
“Then I must have tired you in this long excursion, especially with all the questions I have asked.” Coll’s heart beat faster; he hoped the beckoning in her face was really there, not only the result of his wishful thinking. He stepped closer, and her smile widened, eyelids half closing.
“Not so much effort by half,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Can you not give my mouth more exercise than that?”
Coll stepped closer still, his face mere inches from hers, their bodies almost touching, and smiling into her eyes, feeling his whole body tingling with her nearness.
“You are too distant,” she breathed.
He kissed her, then kissed her again, longer—then again and again, longer and deeper each time.
From that time on, Coll and Ciare were always careful to be very decorously well apart from one another—but they found frequent opportunities to be alone.
Coll had to admire the skill of the older actor-women with their needles—but his sister’s skill was another matter. She was soon sitting beside Dirk every chance she could make, asking him all sorts of questions, finally hitting on the matter of government and war, and settling herself to listen to a lecture. Unfortunately, her smile faltered a few times, and her boredom began to show.
But there wasn’t enough time for Dirk to become too elaborate in his subject. As soon as the bread and cheese had been washed down with ale, the players were up and rehearsing. They breezed through the show so quickly that Coll found himself wondering how they could make it last long enough for the audience to feel they’d had their money’s worth. Dirk seemed to think so, too, for he asked Ciare, “Only an hour?”
“No, they’re just practicing the difficult parts,” she told him, and gave Coll a look that said she would enjoy practicing herself. “With the audience, it will last several hours.”
“Several hours of pleasure would be well worth the effort,” Coll murmured, gazing into her eyes. Then he gave himself a shake and asked, “How does the innkeeper make enough money from this to be so eager to have you perform? Do you pay him?”
She nodded. “One penny in two—but most of his money he makes from the knights and lords who rent the rooms that look out into the courtyard—the only time he can charge more for them than for those on the outside.” She gestured at the second-story rooms and the porch that ran in front of them. “He charges for the food and wine they eat, too, of course.”
“Sounds like a wonderful way to spend the afternoon,” Coll said, with a look that made the statement ambiguous. “I would love to have the chance, someday,” she returned, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Even if the play were boring?”
“Our play would be anything but tiresome,” she assured him. “Even if it were, though, a knight and woman could simply retire into the room and draw the curtains.”
“How could you lose?” Coll leaned a little closer to her. “They come! They come!” Androv bustled up to them. “The apprentices lead them! The audience nears our gates! To your stations, one and all!”
In a few minutes, they were trooping in, the young bloods handing their horses’ reins to Gar and one or two of the younger players where they sat by the hitching rail. When anyone tried to push past the boys taking coins, Gar rose from his seat, towering over the gateway, and the customers suddenly remembered where they had put their money.
Soon the patrons had formed a long line, jostling elbows and chatting merrily as they waited—merriment that grew as the landlord’s potboys passed up and down the line with wineskins, pouring flagons for anyone who paid a penny. One or two chafed at the delay, though, grumbling about the unfairness of it. Coll, holding horses, could scarcely believe his ears when he heard Gar say, “Be glad you’re only waiting for a play to begin, friend, not waiting for the next battle to start.”
People fell silent around them, staring, appalled. The grumbler turned on Gar. “Oh, we’re always waiting for that! But at least we don’t have to stand idle, or pay to be admitted!”
“Of course you pay,” Gar said, “in blood and ruin. What you really need is a playscript for war, so that only the evil are slain.”
Startled silence greeted the statement, a silence that erupted into shouts of laughter. Even the grumblers had to grin. “Well said, play-actor! But where will you find such a script, eh?”
“In the courage of common folk,” Gar answered. “Did you see the play last night?”
“With the giant Gargantua? Aye! A brave tale, that!”
“Brave indeed,” Gar agreed. “Where was the knight or the lord when the giant came?”
The people fell silent again, staring. Some began to glance around them nervously.
“Why, that’s right.” It wasn’t the grumblers who spoke, but a merchant with grey at his temples. “There wasn’t a knight, was there?”
“The play called for it, but the actor who played him was sick,” Gar said. “Did you miss him?”
The merchant’s eyes kindled. “Not a bit!”
“Nor did I,” one of the grumblers said, frowning. Coll wasn’t sure he wanted to hear any more.
“That’s the way plays are,” Gar told them. “When you see knights and lords, you have wars.”
“Only in plays?” an apprentice asked. He was beginning to look angry.
But the line moved forward then, and Gar was saved from an answer. Instead, he turned with interest to the next knot of grumblers, who were complaining about not being able to see very well. “The lords can,” Gar told them.