Calo lurched to his knees and ended what had been a fine, vigorous declamation by vomiting. Locke, watching from the shade of a wall, put his hands to his forehead and groaned.
“Gods above,” said Moncraine, “I’ve seen songbirds with more iron in their gullets than you Camorri. One dance with the Ash Bastard and you’re acting like you’ve been killed in the wars. Understudy!”
Galdo, his complexion a shade green in its own right, seemed uninterested for once in making sport of Calo’s discomfort. He stepped forward and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders.
“I can do it .… I’m fine … ,” panted Calo. He spat and wobbled to his feet.
“Like hell, idiot,” said Galdo. “Here’s a thought. Let’s do it together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Toss it back and forth.” Galdo faced Moncraine, and spoke with the precise tone and volume of his twin before the stumble: “Swords unblooded hang in scabbards unworn, and, sun-like in its dispensations, the imperial court sheds grandeur on the world.”
“Sweet summer of the Therin Throne,” said Calo, interrupting smoothly, conquering his wobbly knees and willing the hoarseness from his throat. “Some that live as beggars within would scorn to live as dukes without, such an empire it is, and some wear stolen splendor with the dignity of right-born kings! Below the streets the skulkers, the cozeners, the vagabonds of fortune raise bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight.”
“If thieves pretend to eminence,” said Galdo, “and meet in eager regiments, defying rightful law and crown, is it not suiting to the temper of the age? So high the tides of fortune rise beneath the Therin Throne, its outlaws pay tribute with matching insolence!”
“Matching insolents,” said Moncraine. “That’d be you Asinos. Hold, everyone, hold. This is all verypretty. Why don’t we just dispense with the notion of parts altogether? We can stand on stage in a group and chant the lines for all the roles. Hells, we can even hold hands to keep our spirits up while it rains rocks and vegetables on us.”
“I rather liked it,” said Chantal.
“As if I gave a—”
“She’s right, Moncraine.” Sylvanus stirred, emerging from the shade as well as his usual torporous morning fuddle. “How often do you see a pair of twins on stage? We should make something of it. We’ve got precious little spectacle as it stands.”
“When we’re in want of spectacle, Andrassus, I’ll start walking around without my breeches.”
“You useless Syresti coxcomb! Think on it—twins for a chorus. Something never seen before, to let the peons know they’re not watching Old Father Dullard’s Piss-Weak Boredom Revival, but a proper something from the Moncraine Company!”
“Actually, it’s the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company these days,” said Chantal.
“Any time you want to return to being an ambulatory pair of tits, turncoat, you can mince straight back to Basanti and ask how many lusty maids are still on offer.” Locke noticed that Moncraine’s shoulders sagged despite his tone of voice. However the impresario might ridicule Sylvanus, the old lush had occasional sway over him. “Ah, gods, past the third or fourth row of groundlings, who can tell they’re twins, anyway?”
“It’s what they do with their voices,” said Alondo. “You have to admit it’s good, when they’re not pitching vomit everywhere.”
“We’ve got to do something about their hair,” said Moncraine.
“Glue a wig on baldy,” said Calo.
“Hold the fop down and shave him,” muttered Galdo.
“Hats,” said Sabetha in a politely commanding tone. “They can both wear hats. It’s a question of costuming.”
“And that would require the attention of the costumers,” rumbled Moncraine. “I’m sure they’re off somewhere attending to clothes at this very instant, but whether they’re taking them off or putting them on is the question.”
“Moncraine!” A stout middle-aged Therin strolled into the inn-yard. He had no chin to speak of, and long hair so ill-kept it looked as though a brown hawk had perched on the back of his head and clung there until it died. “Jasmer, you lucky bastard, I didn’t believe ’em when they said you were off the hook. How many cocks did you have to lick to get them to slip the chains?”
“Master Calabazi,” said Moncraine, “you know a gentleman never does his own dirty work. I simply made a lot of promises concerning your daughters. Or was it your sons? Gods know I can’t tell them apart.”
“Ha! If you’re a gentleman, I fart incense. But you’re out, and now someone’s conjured a wild fantasy about you playing the Pearl. Is this the show? A little one?”
“It’s not the size, but the employment,” said Moncraine, losing some of his forced good cheer. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Well, you know what me and my lads need.”
“Speak to Jenora; she’s the woman of business.”
“Well, I thought with that fancy new owner you’ve got you might lay a surety—”
“ Patron, Calabazi. We’ve got a noble patron, not a new owner. And you wouldn’t get a surety if Emperor Salerius himself crawled out of his tomb to watch the show. You get paid when the rest of us do, on performance nights.”
“It’s just that there’s some, ah, uncertainty, in your situation, and we’d like something firmer than a heartfelt assurance we’ll be working—”
“I was in gaol for two days, you idiot; I didn’t breathe Wraithstone smoke and lose my wits. If you want the work, you can have the usual terms, and if you don’t, I won’t lie awake at night wondering where I’ll get three or four half-wits to shovel shit!”
The two men moved chin to chin and continued arguing in low, impassioned tones. Locke gestured to Alondo, who was lounging nearby, and whispered, “What’s this?”
“It’s the trenchmen, Lucaza.” Alondo yawned. “The Countess might be pleased to hand out the Old Pearl for shows, but she doesn’t pay to keep the place clean. We do. That means empty trenches for a few hundred to piss in every night, dammed up and tended by apes like Calabazi.”
“This whole thing is more complicated than I ever imagined.”
“Too true. And Jasmer hates the business side of business, you know? He negotiates like he’s having his balls scraped.”
Across the inn-yard, Jasmer brought the conversation with Calabazi to a halt by raising both palms to the ugly trenchman’s face and turning away.
“Master Moncraine!” shouted yet another newcomer, appearing from the direction of the stables. Moncraine whirled.
“Gods’ peace, you fucking fool, can’t you see I’m work— Oh, gods, Baron Boulidazi, I didn’t recognize you! You’ve, ah, come in costume again.”
“Ha! I wanted to be in keeping with the spirit of our endeavors!” Boulidazi, once again dressed in a low fashion, wore a dirty broad-brimmed hat that partly concealed his features. “And of course, to intrude as little as possible on your affairs.”
“Of course,” said Moncraine, and Locke was certain he could hear teeth grinding even from across the inn-yard.
“And who’s this? Anyone important?”
“Uh, I’m Paza Calabazi, uh, sir. I handle—”
“No, not important, or you’d know it’s ‘my lord.’ Go be undistinguished somewhere else.”
“Uh … yes, my lord.”
Locke frowned as he watched Calabazi all but scuttle away. His original impression of Boulidazi seemed more naïve than ever.
“Now, Moncraine.” The young lord gave the impresario a firm slap on the back. “I know this inn-yard has a certain unrefined charm, but I’ve arranged for better surroundings.”
“The Old Pearl?” Moncraine made a visible effort to swallow his resentment. “Is it ours, my lord?”
“We can rehearse there commencing tomorrow, and we’ll get two days of actual performance The envoy of ceremonies is a family friend. I’ll even post a man to make sure that you’re not pestered by the Paza Calabazis of the world.”