Locke and Alondo appeared before him with haste.
“Swap your roles,” growled Moncraine. “Lucaza’s Aurin from now on, and Alondo’s got Ferrin. If you don’t like it, discuss the aesthetic ramifications with our honorable gods-damned patron.”
“But we just did up the Aurin costume yesterday, sized for Alondo,” said Jenora. Moncraine whirled and stalked toward her, plainly itching to pass on some of the abuse he’d just received from Boulidazi.
“Then take a knife to it,” he shouted, “or put Lucaza on a fucking rack and grow him four inches. I don’t give a damn either way!”
Jenora and Jean both leapt up, but before either could speak Moncraine turned and stormed away. Boulidazi smirked, shook his head, and gestured for the actors to continue practicing.
Eyes wide, Jean eased himself back into his seat only slowly. The baron had never before so publicly taunted or countermanded his unfortunate “partner,” and coarse as he was Boulidazi always seemed to work to a design. What was this ploy in aid of?
“I, uh, I’m sorry about this, Alondo,” said Locke, breaking the silence before it stretched too long.
“Bah,” said the young Esparan. “Not as though it’s your fault. Jasmer tells me to play a baby rabbit, I’m a baby rabbit, you know? And I’m still in most of the best scenes anyway. If I had to go begging work from Basanti I wouldn’t even have a lusty maid part waiting for me, eh?”
7
LOCKE AND Sabetha conferred in a rare, brief moment of privacy on the changing nature of Boulidazi’s expectations. Changed as they were, the Esparan baron’s old habits didn’t shift, and it was simply too dangerous to attempt to steal more meaningful privacy at Gloriano’s Rooms. Boulidazi or one of his several associates might appear at any time, from around any corner, up or down any flight of stairs.
Still, the baron had delivered on his promise to transmute Locke’s role, and had to be kept thinking that Lucaza de Barra was his earnest ally. To this end Sabetha began to play a closer and more dangerous game of flirtation with Boulidazi. While not allowing that the time was right for her to enjoy a secret sojourn under the baron’s roof, she doted on him more frequently, met his eyes more often, pretended to smile at his alleged jokes. She also deployed more of her arsenal of feminine fascinations, carefully letting her smock hang an inch or two lower on her chest, trading boots for cheap slippers to display her ankles and elegantly muscled calves. These steps, coupled with the casual ease with which Jean and Jenora went off together each night, kept the twin flames of distraction and jealousy flickering lively in Locke’s breast.
His new role as Aurin turned out to be no help in the matter. While it sent a thrill shuddering up and down his every nerve to be working so close to Sabetha, professing love in the marvelously lurid language of Lucarno, the hawk-eyed vigil of Boulidazi was a check on every other expression of passion. In fact, he was so careful and so chaste in his stage embraces that Moncraine, his patience burnt to ash and the ashes ground deep into the dirt of his mood, soon snapped.
“Gods’ piss, you gangling twit, the love’s the whole matter of the play! Who the hell wants to pay good money to see a tragic love story if the lovers handle each other like fine porcelain? Bert! Chantal! Educate this idiot.”
Husband and wife came forward eagerly upon realizing they weren’t to share the rebuke. Chantal swooned into Bertrand’s arms, and he turned toward Locke and Sabetha.
“Exaggerate,” he said, “and lean. Leaning’s what makes a good embrace. Stage kissing you’ve got down. When she’s in your arms, tilt her a bit. Take her off her feet. It looks good to the audience. Quickest way to show passion that even the drunks at the far back can see. Isn’t that right, jewel?”
“Oh, Bert, you couldn’t explain swimming to a fish. But you’ve always been one for doing, hmmm?” Giggling and poking playfully at one another, the two of them nonetheless managed to rapidly correct the flaws in Locke’s pretend-girl-embracing technique. Even Moncraine grunted satisfaction, and Locke found himself suddenly able to be arm to arm, chest to chest, cheek to cheek with Sabetha without Boulidazi raising the slightest objection. Yet anyone who has ever pretend-held an intensely desirable other person will know how little it assuages the longing for genuine contact, genuine surrender, and so even this improvement was no balm to Locke’s mood or desires.
Thus the situation carried on, gaining momentum like a cart nudged off the top of a hill. The crowds at Gloriano’s grew larger and more boisterous. Calo and Galdo indulged their appetite for dice and cards, closely watched by the others to ensure they didn’t indulge their appetite for never losing. Jean and Jenora churned out costume after costume, restored theatrical weapons to full polish, and spun minor miracles out of dusty scraps. The daily rehearsals became tighter, scripts and notes were discarded, costume and prop trials were made. At last, one evening as the bronze disk of the sun slid westward, Moncraine summoned the company to the stage.
“Can’t say for sure that we’re getting any better,” he growled, “but at least we’re no longer getting any worse. I think it’s time we gave public notice. My lord Boulidazi, you and the stakeholders must consent.”
“I do,” said the baron. Alondo, Jenora, and Sylvanus nodded.
“Gods save us,” said Moncraine. “What this means, dear Camorri, is that we hire our bit players and spear-carriers. Then we announce the times of our shows, and if we don’t manage to put them on, we’re bloody liable. To the ditch-tenders, the beer- and bread-mongers, the cushion furnishers, the envoy of ceremonies, and the countess herself, gods forbid.”
“I presume we’ll need some handbills?” said Jean.
“Handbills? Who reads? Put those up in most neighborhoods and the good citizens would use them for ass-wiping. We send criers around the poor districts, notes to the nicest. Maybe just a few handbills around the trade streets, but in the main we keep the oldest of old fashions.”
“What’s that, then?” said Galdo.
8
“ARE YOU tired of life itself?” yelled Galdo, attempting to strike the most dynamic pose possible while perched atop a weathered market stall barrel. “Are you dull to spectacle? Are you deaf to the timeless poetry of Caellius Lucarno, master wordsmith of the Therin Throne?”
A light warm rain was pattering down around him, rippling the mud of the market square, where dozens of Esparans were hawking food, junk, or services from under tarps in various states of repair. It seemed only natural to Galdo that after endless days of merciless sun the sky should close up and start pissing the instant he went out trying to look impressive.
“Because even if you are—,” said Calo, who stood on the ground beside his brother.
“Fuck off,” yelled the nearest merchant.
“EVEN IF YOU ARE,” shouted Calo, “you will not be able to resist the romance, the excitement, the grand dazzling festival of forthright astonishments that awaits you when the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company mounts its exclusive presentation of the legendary—”
“—the daring,” shouted Galdo.
“—the bloody and heart-wrenching REPUBLIC OF THIEVES, this coming Count’s Day and Penance Day—”
Galdo had to admit that the state of full sobriety, while in most considerations far less interesting than any degree of inebriation, did at least lend itself to the better employment of reflexes. The irate merchant hurled a turnip, which Calo plucked out of the air just before it struck his head. He tossed it up to Galdo, who leapt off the barrel, somersaulted in midair, caught the turnip, and landed with arms outflung in a flourish.
“Turnips can’t stop the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company!” he shouted.
“I’ve got potatoes too,” yelled the merchant.
“Count’s Day! Penance Day! Limited engagements,” hollered Calo. “At the Old Pearl! Don’t miss the most stupendously exciting sensation that has ever graced your lives! The dead will live and breathe and speak again! True love, flashing blades, treachery of the heart, and the secrets of an imperial dynasty, all yours, but if you miss it now you miss it forever!”