Bryck had ordered the move, and the others had heeded the order. It was still a strange—and yes, admittedly thrilling—dynamic. He wasn't accustomed to being in charge, to making command decisions. His previous life as a noble hadn't really prepared him for it. Even his status as a playwright was more a matter of celebrity than authority. Bryck had always been content to let his affairs more or less run themselves. If a problem came up, there was always enough money around to salve things. Also, his wife, Aaysue, had an organizational knack and kept the household orderly.
Aaysue, besides being his first line of defense against the pressures of being a noble, had also willingly served as Bryck's first—and perhaps most important—audience. He kept his plays secret until he'd penned enough pages to get the gist of the story across. Then he would take Aaysue aside, after the children were asleep, and read her what he'd concocted. He would enact the various roles with amateurish glee, knowing even as he capered and gibbered that he could never do this in front of anyone but his wife.
And she laughed or didn't laugh. She was surprised by the twists that devotees of his work had come to expect. Or she wasn't surprised. She was delighted, or merely and mildly and insufficiently amused.
That was how he judged the initial value of his work. If Aaysue responded well, the play was worth finishing. If she didn't—and she was kind enough not to tell him sweet lies—then he either repaired the piece or, more often, fed the pages into a fire. Revamping a mediocre work was usually more trouble and more demoralizing than creating something entirely fresh.
Bryck's theatricals had made him famous in a way that being a mere noble with money and lands never would have. It was odd that he had stumbled into the profession at all, since it normally attracted men and women of gloomily serious bents.
Maybe that was why he had succeeded so well. What he wrote were shameless comedies.
He wondered, as he continued to brood over the map, what Aaysue would have made of this work. It was ironic that she wasn't here to give her opinion, since this was most certainly dedicated to her. And to their children. Bron, Cerk, Ganet, little Gremmest. He was doing all this in their memories.
It was vengeance. Vengeance against the Felk, who had destroyed Bryck's family, city, people. Who had destroyed his life.
Now he had assistance, it seemed. The Broken Circle. It was still difficult to think of this group—fourteen, including himself—without feeling the impulse to roll his eyes. Had he still had a jolly disposition, he might even laugh aloud. It was all so improbable. These people were, almost literally, the products of his imagination. In his guise as a minstrel he had spread rumors throughout Callah about the Broken Circle, a clandestine rebel ring bent on overthrowing the Felk. His aim was to incite rebelliousness among these Callahans, if not an outright uprising.
The paradox was that at the time there had been no such thing as the Broken Circle! Bryck had further enforced the illusion by branding that slashed circle sigil all over the city. Only then, after the fable was in place, had a "real" Broken Circle formed; and Bryck, through a series of misadventures, had found himself joining the group. More than that: He had been automatically appointed their leader. They had only the urge to rebel. They keenly needed direction, leadership.
He had occasionally met devotees of his theatricals who thought that the comedies he wrote were somehow real. These people could be comical themselves... or most unsettling. But this was the first time reality had truly sprung from something he had conceived.
Perhaps he should be proud of what his creation had accomplished. But as yet, the Broken Circle had done nothing to threaten or upset the rule of the Felk here in Callah. Bryck at least had violently disturbed the local economy with that counterfeiting scheme. And he himself was personally responsible for the murder of a member of the Felk garrison. But he wanted to do more. He had to do more. The Felk had to pay.
He finally set aside the map. He could gain nothing from staring at it. He had devised this operation and dispatched his agents. It was in their hands now. He sat on his bunk and gazed about at the small dimensions of this room, solemnly noting the bangs and clangs that came through the walls from the bustling workshops.
Bryck, he now had to truly acknowledge, was effectively confined here. The garrison had a description of him, and they were very interested in locating the man who had killed one of their own. If Bryck wanted to play it completely safe, he would have to remain in these rooms day and night. It would be possible, of course, to direct the Circle from here, to continue giving orders and sending the others out.
But there had to be other ways, surely. This confinement rankled him, despite this morning's misadventure. He was a creative individual, even though his days of writing plays were, like so much else, forever behind him. He contemplated the problem as he waited for word of the water-dyeing project's success or failure to come back to him.
He knew it had succeeded even before Gelshiri and the four others returned one by one to the set of rooms that were the Broken Circle's headquarters. The news spread boisterously through the streets. There was a satisfying edge of hysteria to it that Bryck could hear even through the walls.
His fellow rebels arrived in the last watch of daylight. The others of the group assembled as well. Among this band only Tyber was also restricted to these rooms, owing to his having tried to bribe a Felk officer into setting up a contraband operation. Tyber was currently wanted by Colonel Jesile and the garrison, though certainly not with the same vigor with which Bryck was sought.
"Success! Success!"
"Nobody ever even noticed me when I—"
"—slipped that packet into the pipe—"
"—didn't even loiter around to watch the first reactions, though I dearly wanted to."
They were all uproariously pleased with themselves. Each member had been assigned several targets, all publicly accessible, all well trafficked. It really required nothing more than simple sleight of hand, but there was still potential for danger, even disaster.
It was Quentis who gathered up the individual reports, questioning each Broken Circle agent to be certain that no one had been seen and all precautions had been observed. Quentis had a cool nature. Bryck owed her much. She was the one who had given him shelter when he was first on the run from murdering that Felk soldier.
She was a capable woman, a street vendor with a cart. Her face was somewhat weathered, but not so much as some who were nearing their fortieth year. And what age and wear were there was tempered by the softness of her amber-colored eyes.
"The disruption has by now reached all of Callah, I think it's safe to say." She gave Bryck a nod.
"So I've been hearing." He waved, indicating the busy street beyond the shops, where for the past watch he had heard cries and panicky shouts.
"People are... very upset," Gelshiri said, excited and confused all at once. She had done her job well but still hadn't figured out what it was all about.
"Godsdamned right they are," Ondak, Quentis's cousin, said happily. "When water turns to blood, you have to guess that something's amiss!"
Everyone laughed merrily. They made quite a crowd in these undersized rooms. But they were still so few, Bryck couldn't help thinking. So very few, compared with the Felk occupying this city.