“An amateur? We are to open a new tragedy with an amateur in a principal role?”
“I think this fellow is more than up to the task. He has a natural talent for the portrayal of character. He will audition for my father this afternoon.”
It was true that Doran had an eye for acting talent, and several of his discoveries had earned themselves permanent places in the troupe. But it was rare for him to pick an unknown with the intention of having him portray a major character as his first role.
“Well?” Edison said.
“Well what?”
“What else can you tell me about this fellow?”
“He is amply endowed.” She grinned and strode off down the street, disappeared at the next corner.
Was she teasing him? Or had this amateur player already performed for her? When he caught up with her, she was watching two bare-chested men unload barrels from the back of a wagon and roll them along an entry to the rear of a tavern.
“You are drooling, darling,” Edison murmured, close to her ear.
“Beast,” she said, moving on.
“Are you not going to tell me about this street performer, then?”
“I thought you were not interested?” She had raised her chin and was walking along a little in front of him, pretending to ignore him. Edison took her elbow and steered her towards a small cobbled square where a bench sat beneath a tree. He sat beside her, determined to wrest from her every detail he could before they went on.
Captain Meg watched a small, portly gentleman in a too-tight jacket and ill-fitting hair-piece cross the square. “Why is it that men of wealth are so often unpleasant to the eye? Acres of pale, soft flesh. Self-centred and spoiled, with the charm and personality of a week-old halibut. They are mostly insecure to the point of paranoia, and find constant need to dominate and belittle others. Who could be attracted to such a man?” she asked.
Edison shrugged, but she needed no prompting to continue.
“Those who work with their own strength and actually earn their money, they are a much better people. More natural. There is an honesty in what they do, and in the way that their bodies develop and their skin browns under the sun. Do you not agree?”
“Are we speaking of love proper or simple physical attraction?” Edison asked.
“Whichever it takes to make one feel alive,” Meg answered.
“And that is how this vagabond player affects you?”
“He was performing in the marketplace, by the fountain. I spotted him almost immediately across the square, pale-skinned and beautiful. He didn’t belong in such surroundings. Even though he wore simple clothing, he stood out like a lord among the peasants who had gathered around to watch him. There was something dark and dangerous about him. And he moved in a way that made you feel...”
“Moist?”
“It was a physical reaction, yes. I wanted to walk over and feel the hard ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. To smell the maleness of him. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted him at that moment.”
“Why did you not just offer him money?”
“To what end?” Meg asked.
“Most of those wandering players supplement their incomes by selling their services.”
“It would have been worth the expense, I have no doubt,” Meg said.
Edison remained silent.
“My decision was made – I would have him in my bed; and I set out to win his attention. There was the danger of rejection, of course. There was the risk of making myself appear foolish. But this only added an extra frisson, a little tension. Danger!” she said. “I pretended indifference. Even when our eyes met. Yet I worked my way closer to him. When his gaze turned towards me again, I tried to maintain eye contact, to snare him. But his eyes just drifted over me. Unseeing. And I was disappointed. Then he looked straight at me. Smiled. It was as if he was seeing inside my head, seeing what I wanted to do to him. I shivered. When his performance was over, I had a waiter carry a drink to him.”
“Did it never occur to you that the male normally courts the female?” Edison inquired.
“When he pulled off his shirt to wash himself in the fountain, I wanted to take hold of him so that I could taste his sweat.” Meg’s voice was a deep, breathy whisper.
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not! I could not do something like that. Not in public, anyway.”
“A tawdry tale of animal passions,” Edison said.
Meg got to her feet. “You will have to watch yourself, Edric. Anton may soon take your place as the principal in my father’s little dramas.” She looked down at him, pleased by his unhappy expression. “Will you come with me to the Siren’s Head and watch the auditions?” she asked.
“I think not,” Edison said.
Meg kissed him on the cheek.
“How long before you set sail?” Edison asked, as she walked away from him. There was a gnawing in his stomach, a nagging fear that events were overtaking him, and he tried to remember the moment at which he had begun to lose control. It seemed that Fortune was intent on making him her fool.
Chapter Fourteen
“You came,” Meg said. “I hoped you would.”
“I would not have dared miss it,” Anton said, looking around the crowded courtyard at the back of the Siren’s Head.
“I have seen the competition,” Meg whispered. “I think you have little cause for concern. And I can speak to my father on your behalf if you would like...”
“Please, don’t,” Anton said, placing a hand on her arm to restrain her.
Meg frowned.
“If the part becomes mine as a result of nepotism, then it will mean nothing,” Anton said “I do not want to buy this role with a favour. I need to properly earn it. You understand why this is important to me?”
Meg nodded. Then she smiled. “My father would not give you a part no matter what your relationship with me,” she said. “If you cannot act, you will not be in the play. But having seen you perform in the market place, I should say that you have a fair chance of making the part yours.”
“Only a fair chance?” Anton asked. He grinned.
Anyone for whom acting was an unquenchable passion could not survive in a little town like Sangreston. They would have to venture southwards, to one of the great cities – perhaps even the Raensburgh itself – there to try and impress those who controlled access to the stage of one of the real theatres, the great wooden structures that had been built to replace the arenas and bear-pits as centres of entertainment for the civilised masses. Failing that, they would have to join a travelling troupe and live as a vagabond.
But for those who lacked the passion or self-confidence to head out in search of their dream, the seasonal open-air performances which marked the various festivals – the solstices, equinoxes and the harvest celebrations – offered occasional outlets for their artistic talents. And now, for the first time, Doran Jarrett was providing Sangreston with its own permanent stage. And with it came the possibility of a local becoming a professional actor rather than a hobbyist. Until now, all of Sangreston’s actors and musicians had, by necessity, also held other jobs. Some of them might make a modest living as street performers, but the majority had to find other ways to put food in their bellies and to occasionally placate their landlords.
Anton Leander had been around actors and theatres enough not to be surprised by the throngs which surrounded the dockside tavern. He recognised the various common sub-groups: the old hams with their booming voices and artificial diction, pretending they had been great performers in their day; the young men, and even a few women, seeking the adulation they thought life on the stage might bring them; the innocent-eyed hopefuls, with no real sense of whether they could perform in public, but who needed to put themselves through the awful audition process just in case it allowed the butterfly to emerge.
Fewer in number were the final group, those who already considered themselv
es actors and who had performed before. These were quieter, more intense in their preparations, keeping themselves apart from others, slowly building up reserves of energy and emotion which they would not release until they stood before the impresario and spoke their audition piece with as much passion as they could muster in so short a space of time. For these young men, acting was their all. They might work for the baker or chandler or butcher for great swathes of their time, but these mundane periods felt painfully close to impotence. Without an outlet for their creative energies, they were nothing but hollow shells. An actor cannot be an actor unless there is something to act. For these few, nervous excitement welled up inside them, the sensation so very like the night on which they had finally lost their virginity, blood pounding behind the eyes, light-headed, and unable to eat.
Although he did not truthfully consider himself an actor of this kind – he was not so single-mindedly passionate – Anton Leyander suffered many of the same symptoms in his anticipation. And why should these people not feel so strongly? For a baker is judged only by the freshness and taste of his bread; a butcher only by the quality of his meat. But an actor is judged for himself: his own body, his voice, and his emotions. It was their own worth being weighed: were they of adequate height and build? Too fat or too skinny? Their voice too loud or too soft? Their countenance too stern or too bright? To go away today without a role was to go away rejected as a person. What soul could survive such a pounding? To be humiliated by having one’s own dreams and ambitions thwarted by rejection.
Nervousness and excitement hung about the tavern in about equal measure. For as well as rejection, there was the promise of success, a chance to appear on stage before a paying audience: to appear in costume and make-up, and speak words that made you appear grander than you ever might feel in life. Such was the lure of the stage.
There were others here who knew that their limited abilities would never gain for them a featured role, but their desire to be part of this magic had them queuing up to appear as courtiers and spear-carriers.
And there were younger performers, not quite ready for a lead role, but eager to understudy it, to learn the lines and moves, and to see how actors in and out of character performed.
To succeed at this audition, one had to impress Doran Jarrett. He was theatre owner, actor, director, and financial backer. Beneath his theatrical appearance and manner, all knew, was a tough old sea dog whose cynical eye would see through any attempted deception. Beside him was his daughter, Meg, unconnected with the theatre, but on hand to offer an objective opinion as a theatre-goer, no doubt. And also present an unshaven young man with dark wavy hair and eye-glasses: co-writer with Doran of this particular drama. They sat at one end of the room behind a couple of tables. The rest of the barroom had been cleared of furniture to provide space for the applicants to perform their chosen pieces.
No one knew which roles might be available to them if they were successful: the nature of the drama was being kept a secret, though some roles had almost certainly already been secured before the audition process had commenced. Edric Edison would have the male lead, few could doubt, given his previous success in the seasonal dramas. In fact it was expected that the role would have been written with him in mind.
It could be anticipated that certain traditional roles were almost certain to be present: the hero’s friend and confidant, someone for him to share his thoughts and plans with. The leading lady’s handmaiden. And a villain, of course, no play would be complete without one. Though rumours were circulating that Edric Edison might be playing that role.
Eventually it was Anton’s time to enter the barroom and stand before judge and jury. At first they didn’t look at him, sharing whispered comments, about the last performer he presumed. Then they turned, and he felt the weight of their combined gaze upon him. The moisture dried in his throat and he swallowed audibly.
“Name?” Doran Jarrett asked, voice booming.
“Anton Leyander.” His voice sounded tiny.
Doran was an immense figure of a man with a florid complexion. What was left of his hair was white and wildly haloed his head. Large, upwardly sweeping eyebrows made him appear owl-like, and his carefully combed moustaches were equally upswept. His beard was an impressive feature too, shot through with the original fiery red of his hair, it helped proportion his head better to fit the bulk of his velvet-wrapped body. And like many men of his girth, his calves were sturdily muscled.
“No need to be nervous, lad,” Doran boomed. “Try to relax, speak clearly, and use as much of the space as you need.”
The great man smiled warmly.
Anton’s heart froze. He was supposed to move about as he spoke? He had not even considered this during his preparations.
“Take a moment to compose yourself, and begin as soon as you are ready.” Again Doran smiled encouragingly.
Anton closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes, he did not see Meg or Doran or the playwright, instead his mind conjured up a castle chamber which bore a striking resemblance to a part of Sangreston Castle, except that its walls were painted canvas rather than granite. This was the scene for his chosen audition speech, a soliloquy from a bloody revenge drama he’d seen a couple of times as a teenager.
“What do I want here? What I want is for you to suffer. As I suffered. The pain and the fear. I thought I would never walk again. My legs you broke, and left me lying in the mud and the rain. Outlaws found me eventually. If I had been a dog they would have killed me, but they kept me alive. They straightened my legs as best they could, bound them in splints. The fever almost killed me. Every breath was agony. I lay trying to make each breath last as long as I could, feeling the burning pains in my chest, the throbbing of my legs. You could have killed me, stood on my neck until I stopped breathing. But you left me to live.
“The months passed, I’m sure, but I have no memory of them. Through all the sweat and the red clouds of pain, it was your face that gave me the will to go on. It gave me reason to survive, to endure. I knew that I would come for you.
“When my senses were my own again, I found myself a helpless cripple. Weak bones, shrunken tendons and wasted muscles conspiring against me. But I endured the frustration of it. Until one day – oh great victory! – I could stand. With the aid of a staff, of course. I spent all of every day exercising, a little more and a little more; by use of the staff I could move around on my own legs, both hands clutching it, holding up my weight, lifting the right leg and planting it a few inches ahead of me, then dragging the left leg up beside it. More months passed as I tried to regain what I had lost. I endured it all, Farran, for you.”
Anton’s face was flushed and his eyes were blazing with an insane light.
“It was a year, perhaps half as long again, before I could walk with some semblance of normality, before I could cast aside the staff and walk like the youth I was supposed to be.
“I have spent five years travelling this land, plotting. Imagining what I would do to you when I decided to return. I have been an assassin for much of that time, and I have learned many ways to kill a man. Some of them are swift and painless, some much the opposite.”
Anton smiled coldly.
“What will I do to you now, you are wondering. I will do nothing. Not yet. I will not tell you when it is to be, or where. But I will get around to it. Eventually. I am in no hurry, you see. I have had time to plan this, and want to savour every moment of it. This is just the prologue: I wanted to have this parley, to let you know that I am out there. And to let you know that something is coming, Farran. Something terrible. You will not know what. You will not know when. But you will live your life from this moment always looking over your shoulder. Every morning you will ask yourself: Is it today? And every night you will dream terrible dreams about what it will be when it comes.
“I go now. But I will be back. When you least expect. Sleep well, my friend.”
As the last echo died away, there was silence for a m
oment. Anton blinked to clear his vision and peered into the gloom. His audience sat motionless, their mouths a little way open. He could not be sure whether this was a good sign or not, but then Doran Jarrett recovered himself and smiled.
“Well done, lad,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? And you have performed on stage before, I think.”
It was not a question. Anton looked away, seemingly embarrassed.
“We have several more to see before the afternoon is finished, but we will contact you as soon as we have completed our deliberations. Feel free to wait, if you wish, or make your escape.” Again the smile.
Anton looked at Meg who was also smiling, looking up at him under half-closed lids.
The playwright smiled and winked at him.
Anton decided not to wait around outside with the other hopefuls, instead he set off for the centre of town and a drink in a quiet tavern.
It was several drinks later, and the sky was turning a glorious purple, when Meg came in search of him.
“Anton,” she said, her expression unreadable. “I have news, if you would hear it?”
“Some wine?” he asked.
She nodded, and he called for another glass, and another jug.
“I had supper with my father,” she said, “and I learned something about this secret play he is preparing. Apparently, Edric Edison will play a man in league with the Lord of the Underworld, and an actor is sought to play the man he torments.”
“I thank you for this first-hand detail,” Anton said. “It promises to be a most entertaining drama.”
“The actor they are seeking to play the role of tormented hero must have a natural talent for the portrayal of character, yet be possessed of freshness and innocence...”
“Ah, then that rules me out,” Anton said, grinning. “I have not had an innocent thought in years!”
“Then you had better practice fake innocence,” Meg said, “for the role is to be offered to you.”
Fortune's Fools Page 10
