Sylvanus, sober, or at least not actively imbibing, sat next to Jenora. Alondo’s cousin stood against a wall, arms folded.
This, then, was the complete roster of the company. Locke sighed.
“Hello again.” Moncraine appeared, looking almost respectable in a quilted gray doublet and black breeches. “Now, let us discover together which of history’s mighty entities are sitting with us, and which ones we shall have to beg, borrow, or steal. You!”
“Me, sir?” said Alondo’s cousin.
“Yes. Who in all the hells are you? Are you a Camorri?”
“Oh, gods above, no, sir. I’m Alondo’s cousin.”
“Got a name?”
“Djunkhar Kurlin. Everyone calls me Donker.”
“Bad fucking luck. You an actor?”
“No, sir, a hostler.”
“What do you mean by spying on my company’s meeting like this?”
“I just want to get killed onstage, sir.”
“Fuck the stage. Come here and I’ll grant your wish right now.”
“He means,” said Jean, “that we promised him a bit part in exchange for helping us sell off some surplus horseflesh.”
“Oh,” said Moncraine. “An enthusiast. I’d be very pleased to help you die on stage. Stay on my good side and it can even be pretend.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.”
“Now,” said Moncraine. “We need ourselves an Aurin. Aurin is a young man of Therim Pel, basically good-hearted, unsure of himself. He’s alsothe only son and heir to the emperor. Looks like we’ve got a surplus of young men, so you can all fight it out over the next few days. And we’ll need an Amadine—”
“Hey,” said Calo. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering, before we all get measured for codpieces or whatever, where the hell are we supposed to be giving this play? I hear this Basanti has a theater of his own. What do we have?”
“You’re one of the Asino brothers, right?” said Moncraine.
“Giacomo Asino.”
“Well, being from Camorr, Giacomo, you probably don’t know about the Old Pearl. It’s a public theater, built by some count—”
“Poldaris the Just,” muttered Sylvanus.
“Built by Poldaris the Just,” said Moncraine, “as his perpetual legacy to the people of Espara. Big stone amphitheater, about two hundred years old.”
“One hundred and eighty-eight,” said Sylvanus.
“Apologies, Sylvanus, unlike you I wasn’t there. So you see, Giacomo, we can use it, as long as we pay a little fee to the countess’ envoy of ceremonies.”
“If it’s such a fine place, why did Basanti build his own?”
“The Old Pearl is perfectly adequate,” said Moncraine. “Basanti built to flatter his self-regard, not fatten his pocketbook.”
“Because businessmen like to spend lots of money to replace perfectly adequate structures they can use for nearly nothing, right?”
“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”
“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”
“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”
“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”
“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”
Sabetha gave a slight, satisfied nod.
“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”
Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.
“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very romanticand tragicand the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some dead weight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”
“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lèse-majesté as a new hobby.”
“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”
“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.
“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all read, I assume?”
“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”
“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”
“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.
“What the fuck’s the matterwith you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”
“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:
This stage is wood, these men are dust—
And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”
“No,” said Jasmer.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”
“If you say so,” said Galdo.
“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”
“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.
“Give us a Chorus.”
Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly:
“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thievesof wonderare these poor senses, whispering—”
“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”
“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.
“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a man’swords. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and bloodbehind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”
“Because they can’t fuckin’ read?” said Galdo.
“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are angrywith your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”