“Gods damn it, you brick-skulled hostler,” Jasmer growled. “If the rest of us have to suffer through this farce, then so do you!”
“What’s the name of this hireling of Boulidazi’s?” said Locke.
“Nerissa Malloria,” said Jasmer. “Used to be a lieutenant in the countess’ guard. Now she’s sort of a mercenary. Hard as witchwood and cold as Aza Guilla’s cunt-plumbing.”
“Where’s she meant to take the money after the play?” said Locke.
“The hell should I know, boy?” Jasmer ran his hands slowly over his rough stubble. “His lordship might’ve been screwing me, but it wasn’t the sort of affair where we had pillow talk afterward, know what I mean?”
“I’d bet my life he’d have told her to bring the money to his countinghouse,” said Jenora. “It’s at the Court of Cranes, not far from his manor.”
“No retrieving it from there,” said Sabetha. “I’ll have to work up another note in Boulidazi’s hand and send her somewhere more private.”
“She will still expect to deliver the money to him,” yelled Moncraine. “And she’ll expect a signed receipt, and she will rather expect him to have a PULSE when he signs it!”
“Well, she’s not working for the countess now,” said Sabetha. “She’s not an agent of the law. She’s Boulidazi’s by hire, and she’ll bend to his eccentricities. All we need to do is contrive some that will make her leave the money and go away satisfied.”
“Well, Amadine, Queen of the Shadows, what do you suggest?” Jasmer waved his hands in elaborately mystical gestures. “Magic? Pity I’m only a sorcerer onstage!”
“Enough!” shouted Locke. “The sand is running into the bottom of our glass, and no fooling. Leave the details of the money switch to us, Jasmer. This company needs to move to the Pearl in good order, and all of you need to act as though the play is the only care you have in the world. Stout hearts and brave faces! Out!”
The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company shuffled from the room in mingled states of shock, hangover, and grim resolve. The Sanza twins followed; it had been Sabetha’s suggestion that after the meeting they lurk conspicuously, leaving as few opportunities as possible for anyone to slip away.
“Any ideas toward parting this Malloria from the money?” whispered Sabetha.
“I’ve got one notion,” said Locke. “But you might not appreciate it. We’d need you to play the giggling strumpet again.”
“I’d rather do that than hang!”
“Then we need to find out what the best bathhouse in the city is, and ensure that Baron Boulidazi has a reservation there after the play is finished.” Locke rubbed his eyes and sighed. “And please remember that I did warn you. I think this is going to work, but it’s not going to have more than a scrap of dignity.”
2
“DEMOISELLE GALLANTE, I don’t understand!” Brego looked uncomfortable in finer-than-usual clothes, and he gestured with clenched fists as he spoke. “Where the devils has he got off to? Why won’t he simply—”
“Brego, please,” said Sabetha. “I know where his lordship is meant to be later. As for the present, you know as much as I! Didn’t his notes give you instructions?”
“Yes, of course they did, but I’m uneasy! I’m charged with m’lord’s personal safety, and I wish that I could—”
“Brego!” Sabetha was suddenly cold and stern. “You surprise me. If you have clear directions from the Baron Boulidazi, why are you in difficulty about following them?”
“I … I suppose I have no, ah, difficulty, Demoiselle.”
“Good. My own duties are about to become rather overwhelming.” Sabetha kissed her fingers and touched them to Brego’s cheek. “Be a dear and look to your business. You’ll see what our lord is playing at soon enough.”
The company had left the yard of Gloriano’s, arrayed in some semblance of a spectacle. Three black horses had been loaned by Boulidazi, caparisoned in his family colors, red and silver. Sabetha sat the first, sidesaddle, and Chantal walked beside her holding the reins. Behind them came Andrassus tended by Donker and Moncraine tended by Alondo. The players on horseback wore their costumes, and Alondo wore a hooded mantle and a linen mask that left only his eyes bare. A cruel thing in the heat, but it couldn’t be helped.
The wagon, driven by Jean and Jenora, had also been draped in red and silver and was piled high with props and clothing. At the very bottom of the pile, shrouded and well-dusted with scents and pomanders, lay the corpse of the company’s patron. Galdo walked in the rear, juggling stingingly hot alchemical balls that spewed red smoke, while Locke and Bert led the column waving red pennants.
Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon, began to shout:
“Invitation! Invitation!
Hear our joyous declamation!
The gods are kind to you today!
Cast off your toil and see a play!”
Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot, and proclaimed:
“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi company returns in triumph to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN! See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”
So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for those who would strut the stage.
3
A BOLD green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before, how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics, minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of the theater walls.
“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”
Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden cups chained to kegs, the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.
“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices! May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession. “Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with Espara! May the gods—”
Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.
At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by a pair of burly hirelings.