“The Queen has summoned you, fool. Now.” Pelmen made the journey through the halls and into the throne room without speaking again.
There seemed little point in trying. These were not the relaxed guards who kept a casual watch from the castle’s towers. They were hard-faced warriors probably the pick of Joss* own crack brigade. They showed little inclination toward joviality.
When he was ushered into the throne room, he found it that much more difficult to smile. There, facing him, sat the Queen herself, along with Joss, Kherda, Jagd, and a host of other court lings whose names and offices all merged together in his mind. To Ligne’s right, on a small version of her own throne, sat Rosha, his jaws locked and his lips forming a tight frown. But the most distressing sight of all was to Ligne’s left. There stood Serphimera, bound in heavy chains, and standing beside her was a man Pelmen dimly remembered as Naquin, the High Priest of the old dragon faith a man who had long ago ordered his death. Pelmen assumed it was for that same purpose he’d been summoned this morning.
Yet Fallomar the fool found a smile and jerked three balls from his pocket. “What will it be, my Lady? Juggling?” He tossed the balls into the air and juggled them until, at a nod from Joss, a warrior knocked them bouncing across the room. Fallomar grinned. “No juggling?”
The Queen smiled back primly. “No juggling.”
There was a weighty silence. “Well?” FaHomar asked at last.
“Are you ready to perform your wonderful play, Fallomar?” the Queen asked.
“Certainly. Tonight you’ll witness a performance that—”
“Not tonight,” she interrupted. “Now.”
Pelmen glanced at Rosha. The young warrior gazed up at him, his eyes filled with despair.
“Now?”
“The rest of your troupe is all assembled, but they informed me that you were sick last night. They wondered whether you had recovered enough to perform this morning.” Ligne smiled a bright, wicked grin and husked, “Evidently, you are!”
“My Lady, the entertainment would be better if played tonight ”
“I have other entertainment scheduled for tonight, clown.” At this, Ligne looked down at Rosha, and stroked the back of the young man’s neck. To his credit, Rosha didn’t stiffen under the caress.
“Why, if the others are in place, certainly I am ready,” beamed Fallomar. He glanced casually at Serphimera’s face. The distress evident there disturbed him, but at least Ligne hadn’t ordered his immediate execution. Perhaps she still hadn’t recognized him. The play was two hours long there might yet be time for Bronwynn and Rosha, at least, to escape.
“I hear the role you play was modeled after King Talith. Is that true?”
“Most correct, my Lady.” Fallomar smiled.
“I made a fool out of him perhaps you remember?” Ligne gazed into his eyes.
Fallomar gazed back. “I certainly do that’s why we play him as a fool.”
“Appropriate,” Ligne said meaningfully. “Take them to prepare.”
Rosha and Pelmen were marched down to the great hall by the same squad that had fetched Pelmen from his room. There was no chance for conversation, but he could tell from the young swordsman’s dull expression that Rosha had already surrendered the fight. What had transpired through the night? Had some slip finally revealed them all to Ligne? As they turned into the great hall and climbed the steps onto the stage, the soldiers began dispersing to the tower doors. The other actors, their faces creased by worry, clustered around him.
“What are we going to do?” Gerrig whispered.
“Where is Bronwynn?” Pelmen demanded, and someone ushered the Princess to him through the crowd. In sharp contrast to her outfit of an hour ago, she was now swathed in yards of lace, and her hair was tied up in bows. They’d layered on the greasepaint until her skin looked like porcelain in fact, almost as white as his own. She looked every inch the dainty, innocent ingenue. She shattered that illusion as soon as she opened her mouth:
“Why didn’t you let me stick her when I had the chance?” she spat.
He ignored her. “Rosha and Bronwynn,” he began crisply, “since you really have little to do in the early part of the play, maybe we can get you out of here. When the act begins, make for that door behind you and into the kitchen. There are no soldiers blocking it yet and perhaps they won’t. Once there, jump feet first into the cistern. It connects with the underground passages, and Bronwynn can lead you out.”
“What about us!” Gerrig pleaded.
“I have a long soliloquy at the close of this first act I’ll make it longer. Much longer.”
“And we take the same route?” DanyUyn asked.
“I can’t swim,” Gerrig murmured,
“Don’t worry,” Yona Parmi whispered, looking at Gerrig’s belly, “you’ll float.”
“What about you?” Danyilyn asked.
“What about me?” Pelmen snapped. “I’m a power shaper aren’t I?”
Danyilyn nodded. Suddenly they were all slamming their hands over their ears, as trumpets blared above them on the grand spiral. Any further conversation was impossible in the wake of that deafening noise, which grew louder as the heralds descended the stairs. They were followed by the ladies of the court, who smiled courageously in the face of then1 own pain. Each resolutely refused to cover her ears, though it was obvious that all would have liked to.
As the the heralds reached the stage, the castle’s other inhabitants began pouring into the great hall through the guarded doors. Pelmen was cheered by the sight of the cook and his helpers that signaled that the kitchen might be empty and the getaway a real possibility. He glanced over at Yona Parmi and saw that the man watched him grimly.
Pelmen smiled encouragement, but Yona Parmi’s expression didn’t change.
He hadn’t been fooled by Pelmen’s grand speech to Danyilyn about power shaping In their many late night discussions, Pelmen had told him much about shaping the powers. If Yona remembered nothing else, he’d learned at least that shaping demanded energy and he knew Pelmen was too exhausted for the task. Less than a day before, Pelmen had wrestled a rival sorcerer in a perilous contest of power and that on top of a morning-long battle of more conventional character. Pelmen couldn’t defend himself against this horde of soldiers, and he knew it.
Evidently, so did Yona. Pelmen shrugged then, slightly, and Yona nodded and looked away. They would all have to make the best of it.
“House,” Pelmen muttered, “are you there?”
If the House had given an answer, it would have been lost in the renewal of the fanfare. Pelmen continued to hope…
The Prime Minister made his entrance then, followed by a pair of servants bearing the Queen’s throne between them. They walked across the stage and down onto the floor, placing Ligne’s chair in the center of the front row. Then there was another trumpet announcement, and Ligne made her own entrance on the arm of Jagd of Uda. The assembled throng stood to welcome her and, in keeping with custom, began clapping. Pelmen joined the applause, searching out Bronwynn to see what she would do. She’d had the same idea, and their eyes met. Pelmen glanced down at her hands, and she finally lifted them to her waist and patted them together. Her eyes, however, never left ! his. She gazed at him accusingly.
When Ligne was seated in her place, the trumpeters quit blowing, and scrambled for their own seats. A flurry of bench scraping and coughing ensued, until all had found places. Then the audience was silent.
“Are you there?” Pelmen asked softly.
The House was silent.
Ligne enjoyed the stillness for a moment, then she clapped her hands together twice. “Let it begin,” she commanded. She leaned back in her seat to watch.