by Scott Lynch
Exhilarated, exhausted, and pleasantly bewildered, he clung to her for some time as their heartbeats slowed from a gallop to a canter. The pains of his tussle with Bertrand the Crowd seemed a hundred years in the past.
Jenora found her jacket in the mixed scatter of their clothing, pulled out a slim wooden pipe, and tamped it full of a tobacco mixture that smelled alien and spicy to Jean. They covered the room’s feeble alchemical globe and shared the pipe back and forth in the near-darkness, talking softly by the orange glow of the embers.
“So I really was your first.”
“Was it that obvious? Would you have known, even if I hadn’t said?”
“Enthusiasm is the first step,” she said. “Artfulness comes later.”
“I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”
“I’m not displeased, Jovanno. Hells, having a lover that’s new to the dance means you can train him properly. Give me a few nights and I’ll have you whipped into proper form.”
“The Asino brothers … they always, well, they always invited me to go with them when they went out. To buy it, you know.”
“There’s no shame in doing that. And there’s no shame in not having done it. But those two are hounds, Jovanno. Any woman could smell it a mile away. Sometimes a run with the hounds is just what you’re in the mood for, but in the end they’ll always roll around in muck and shit on your floor.”
“Oh, they’ve got an endearing side,” said Jean. “It comes out once a month, when the first moon is full. They’re like backwards werewolves.”
“Well,” she said, “when I take someone into my bed, I prefer brains and balls in more equal proportion.”
“I like the sound of that. Hey, there’s a … sorry, beneath your legs, did we …?”
“Ah. My apprentice, allow me to introduce you to the concept of the wet spot.”
“Is that uncomfortable?”
“Well, it’s not what I’d call ideal. Hey, what are you—”
With an enthusiastic excess of groping and giggling, he applied his strength to shifting their positions. In a few moments, he’d pushed her to the dry side of the bed and taken her former place.
“Mmmm. Jovanno, you have a gallant streak. Another smoke?”
“Absolutely.”
They were just finishing carefully lighting the second bowl when the door burst open.
“Jovanno,” shouted Locke, “it’s the Asino brothers, you wouldn’t believe what they oh my gods holy shit!”
He stared for a second or two, then whirled away and faced out into the hall.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“The idiot twins,” said Jean, “are they in trouble?”
“No,” said Locke, with less than believable haste. “No, no, no. Actually, it’s not important at all. We’ve got it handled. You, uh, you just … hell, I can sleep in the common room, you two just forget I exist. Sorry. Have, uh, have a good time!”
“We are,” said Jenora, calmly exhaling a line of smoke.
“Great! Well! Excellent! Just … going now!”
“He’s down off the roof a lot sooner than I would have thought,” said Jenora once the door was closed again.
“Yeah,” said Jean, frowning. “Something must have happened. Whatever the Asinos did—”
“Your friends,” said Jenora. “They sort of look to you to hold them together when there’s trouble, don’t they?”
“Well, that’s a pretty flattering way of putting it, but—”
“Let ’em fend for themselves for a night,” she whispered. “Now we’ll have privacy. If Verena wants to sort Lucaza out she can always take him to my room.”
“She can,” said Jean. “She sure as hell can. So, uh, is it too soon to start hearing about this artfulness you mentioned?”
3
“LONG SUMMER of the Therin Throne,” shouted Calo, arms outflung to encompass the inn-yard, “ordained time for building and growing, while earth and sky are generous. These years for princely Aurin lie fallow as a field, plowed and yet unseeded with valorrrrrruurrrrrrrgh—”
Calo lurched to his knees and ended what had been a fine, vigorous declamation by vomiting. Locke, watching from the shade of a wall, put his hands to his forehead and groaned.
“Gods above,” said Moncraine, “I’ve seen songbirds with more iron in their gullets than you Camorri. One dance with the Ash Bastard and you’re acting like you’ve been killed in the wars. Understudy!”
Galdo, his complexion a shade green in its own right, seemed uninterested for once in making sport of Calo’s discomfort. He stepped forward and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders.
“I can do it … . I’m fine …” panted Calo. He spat and wobbled to his feet.
“Like hell, idiot,” said Galdo. “Here’s a thought. Let’s do it together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Toss it back and forth.” Galdo faced Moncraine, and spoke with the precise tone and volume of his twin before the stumble: “Swords unblooded hang in scabbards unworn, and, sun-like in its dispensations, the imperial court sheds grandeur on the world.”
“Sweet summer of the Therin Throne,” said Calo, interrupting smoothly, conquering his wobbly knees and willing the hoarseness from his throat. “Some that live as beggars within would scorn to live as dukes without, such an empire it is, and some wear stolen splendor with the dignity of right-born kings! Below the streets the skulkers, the cozeners, the vagabonds of fortune raise bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight.”
“If thieves pretend to eminence,” said Galdo, “and meet in eager regiments, defying rightful law and crown, is it not suiting to the temper of the age? So high the tides of fortune rise beneath the Therin Throne, its outlaws pay tribute with matching insolence!”
“Matching insolents,” said Moncraine. “That’d be you Asinos. Hold, everyone, hold. This is all very pretty. Why don’t we just dispense with the notion of parts altogether? We can stand onstage in a group and chant the lines for all the roles. Hells, we can even hold hands to keep our spirits up while it rains rocks and vegetables on us.”
“I rather liked it,” said Chantal.
“As if I gave a—”
“She’s right, Moncraine.” Sylvanus stirred, emerging from the shade as well as his usual torporous morning fuddle. “How often do you see a pair of twins onstage? We should make something of it. We’ve got precious little spectacle as it stands.”
“When we’re in want of spectacle, Andrassus, I’ll start walking around without my breeches.”
“You useless Syresti coxcomb! Think on it—twins for a chorus. Something never seen before, to let the peons know they’re not watching Old Father Dullard’s Piss-Weak Boredom Revival, but a proper something from the Moncraine Company!”
“Actually, it’s the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company these days,” said Chantal.
“Anytime you want to return to being an ambulatory pair of tits, turncoat, you can mince straight back to Basanti and ask how many lusty maids are still on offer.” Locke noticed that Moncraine’s shoulders sagged despite his tone of voice. However the impresario might ridicule Sylvanus, the old lush had occasional sway over him. “Ah, gods, past the third or fourth row of groundlings, who can tell they’re twins, anyway?”
“It’s what they do with their voices,” said Alondo. “You have to admit it’s good, when they’re not pitching vomit everywhere.”
“We’ve got to do something about their hair,” said Moncraine.
“Glue a wig on baldy,” said Calo.
“Hold the fop down and shave him,” muttered Galdo.
“Hats,” said Sabetha in a politely commanding tone. “They can both wear hats. It’s a question of costuming.”
“And that would require the attention of the costumers,” rumbled Moncraine. “I’m sure they’re off somewhere attending to clothes at this very instant, but whether they’re taking them off or putting them on is the question.�
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“Moncraine!” A stout middle-aged Therin strolled into the inn-yard. He had no chin to speak of, and long hair so ill-kept it looked as though a brown hawk had perched on the back of his head and clung there until it died. “Jasmer, you lucky bastard, I didn’t believe ’em when they said you were off the hook. How many cocks did you have to lick to get them to slip the chains?”
“Master Calabazi,” said Moncraine, “you know a gentleman never does his own dirty work. I simply made a lot of promises concerning your daughters. Or was it your sons? Gods know I can’t tell them apart.”
“Ha! If you’re a gentleman, I fart incense. But you’re out, and now someone’s conjured a wild fantasy about you playing the Pearl. Is this the show? A little one?”
“It’s not the size, but the employment,” said Moncraine, losing some of his forced good cheer. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Well, you know what me and my lads need.”
“Speak to Jenora; she’s the woman of business.”
“Well, I thought with that fancy new owner you’ve got you might lay a surety—”
“Patron, Calabazi. We’ve got a noble patron, not a new owner. And you wouldn’t get a surety if Emperor Salerius himself crawled out of his tomb to watch the show. You get paid when the rest of us do, on performance nights.”
“It’s just that there’s some, ah, uncertainty, in your situation, and we’d like something firmer than a heartfelt assurance we’ll be working—”
“I was in gaol for two days, you idiot; I didn’t breathe Wraithstone smoke and lose my wits. If you want the work, you can have the usual terms, and if you don’t, I won’t lie awake at night wondering where I’ll get three or four half-wits to shovel shit!”
The two men moved chin to chin and continued arguing in low, impassioned tones. Locke gestured to Alondo, who was lounging nearby, and whispered, “What’s this?”
“It’s the trenchmen, Lucaza.” Alondo yawned. “The countess might be pleased to hand out the Old Pearl for shows, but she doesn’t pay to keep the place clean. We do. That means empty trenches for a few hundred to piss in every night, dammed up and tended by apes like Calabazi.”
“This whole thing is more complicated than I ever imagined.”
“Too true. And Jasmer hates the business side of business, you know? He negotiates like he’s having his balls scraped.”
Across the inn-yard, Jasmer brought the conversation with Calabazi to a halt by raising both palms to the ugly trenchman’s face and turning away.
“Master Moncraine!” shouted yet another newcomer, appearing from the direction of the stables. Moncraine whirled.
“Gods’ peace, you fucking fool, can’t you see I’m work— Oh, gods, Baron Boulidazi, I didn’t recognize you! You’ve, ah, come in costume again.”
“Ha! I wanted to be in keeping with the spirit of our endeavors!” Boulidazi, once again dressed in a low fashion, wore a dirty broad-brimmed hat that partly concealed his features. “And of course, to intrude as little as possible on your affairs.”
“Of course,” said Moncraine, and Locke was certain he could hear teeth grinding even from across the inn-yard.
“And who’s this? Anyone important?”
“Uh, I’m Paza Calabazi, uh, sir. I handle—”
“No, not important, or you’d know it’s ‘my lord.’ Go be undistinguished somewhere else.”
“Uh … yes, my lord.”
Locke frowned as he watched Calabazi all but scuttle away. His original impression of Boulidazi seemed more naïve than ever.
“Now, Moncraine.” The young lord gave the impresario a firm slap on the back. “I know this inn-yard has a certain unrefined charm, but I’ve arranged for better surroundings.”
“The Old Pearl?” Moncraine made a visible effort to swallow his resentment. “Is it ours, my lord?”
“We can rehearse there commencing tomorrow, and we’ll get two days of actual performance. The envoy of ceremonies is a family friend. I’ll even post a man to make sure that you’re not pestered by the Paza Calabazis of the world.”
“That’s … well, I suppose that’s very generous, my lord patron. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s in my own interest, eh? Now, what’s the scene?”
“Uh, there’s no scene, my lord. We, ah, need a break, I think. Arguing with Calabazi—”
“Nonsense. You’re no man to be tamed by a mere argument, Moncraine.” Boulidazi mimed a fist crashing into his own jaw, a gesture that made Moncraine plainly uncomfortable. “What did you last practice?”
“Nothing of real consequence—”
“The scene, gods damn you.”
“Uh, six. Act one, scene six. We were just nailing down … nailing down the situation of the chorus.”
“ ‘Vagabonds of fortune raise a bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight,’ ” said Boulidazi. “I like that one. But that means Amadine’s about to come out for the first time. Surely you won’t stop now.”
“Well, perhaps not—”
“Yes. Perhaps not.” Boulidazi settled into the chair that Moncraine had occasionally rested in while watching the morning’s work. “Mistress Verena, might I beg a few moments of your Queen of Shadows?”
“Why, m’lord Boulidazi, your attention is always very welcome,” said Sabetha with a perfect curtsy. Locke would have sworn he felt the blood congealing in his heart, and he fought to maintain a façade of dopish complacency.
“Thieves in place for scene six,” shouted Moncraine. Bert the Crowd hurried into the middle of the yard, and was met by Calo and Galdo, who were intended to join the spear-carriers for several mob scenes after finishing their orations. Moncraine had promised to hire a bevy of bit players to flesh out the crowds, but didn’t seem to want to start paying them too early in the rehearsal process.
“Well met, my noble peers and bastards! Well met at Barefoot Court!” Chantal advanced from her side of the inn-yard, hips swaying, arms outthrust, playing to the tiny crowd. “What stirs, you ragged suitors, to bring you hence from drink and dice and warm attentions?”
“Allegiance, fair Penthra,” said Bertrand. “Allegiance, fair and fallen lady, for she that claims our deep regard makes those comforts seem cold distractions.”
“Valedon, you ever were a wool-tongued devil, now here’s the air hung with silk. What makes the change?” Chantal touched her husband playfully on the chin.
“My mistress and yours,” said Bertrand. “Her goodness puts a sting to my conscience. I have been remiss in my tributes, and must amend my courtesies.”
“So would we all,” said Calo. “Penthra, let her come forth. She has sheltered us, and kindled loyal fellowship, and even such poor wretches as ourselves must make obedience.”
“We are all wretches at our ragged court, and none therefore a poorer contrast.” Sabetha’s voice was effortlessly regal as she glided into the scene, out of what would eventually be the shadows of the actual stage. Not even the distraction of Boulidazi could truly dampen Locke’s pleasure at watching Sabetha vanish into the role she’d so coveted.
“Grace like fire’s heat, I am made ashamed of my tribute,” said Calo, sinking to his knees. “You are Amadine, called Queen Beneath the Stones, or I was never born. My gift deserves not the name, for such a beauty. It pales, and with it my pride. I beg a second chance, to steal a more worthy courtesy!”
“Indeed, his offering is slight as a passing fancy,” said Bertrand. “Be assured of my love, bright Amadine, and take my tribute first.”
“Unkind Valedon, this is no race with lines to cross before all others. Stand easy. Surely a moment’s wait can little harm your preparations.”
Bertrand bowed and took a step back.
“I am Amadine, called many things,” said Sabetha, gesturing for Calo to rise. “There is no honor more worthy than this, your gift of friendship. I see you are new among us.”
“Many years a thief, mistress, but far too many passed
before kind fortune brought me to your company. Oh, let me trade this bauble for something more fitting, or gladly hang for trying.”
“Never speak of such an evil,” said Sabetha. “And never speak of shame, but give what you have.”
Calo pretended to hesitantly pass something over, and Sabetha mimed holding it up between thumb and forefinger.
“A speck of a silver ring,” scoffed Bertrand. “Careworn as a scullion’s hands.”
“I more proudly take a speck from a man with empty pockets,” said Sabetha, “than riches from a man whose purse stays heavy. What good thing might not be coined from this courtesy? It shall become bread and wine, and clothing, and sharp steel. It shall harden the sinews of our fellowship, and for that I hold it dear. You are welcome to our band, brother.”
“Gods willing, I shall never leave it!”
“Gods willing.” Sabetha held out her other hand and Calo kissed it. She turned to Bert. “Now, Valedon, let’s know your heart. Some months you’ve spent among us, yet aloof, a proud and solitary sort.”
“Proud and solitary as yourself, artful Amadine, though I admit my poor fellowship. Here’s the remedy! Oh, how I’ve strained my talents to produce a worthy gift!”
“A bracelet,” said Chantal as her husband pretended to display it with a flourish. “Black sapphires set in gold.”
“As suits a queen of shadows,” said Bertrand. “Pray it please you. I beg you wear it, even once, though you later strike it to a royal ransom of coins.”
“Great weight to grace a single wrist. Our thanks, Valedon; your obscure character is made clear. How did you come by this treasure?”
“Three days and nights of pains,” said Bertrand, “watching a great house, until I saw my chance for the seizing.”
“Will you wear it first, to show me its workings?”
“Why, the clasp is simple, gracious Amadine. Give me your hand, I shall anoint it.”
“I would see this treasure on your wrist, ere it touches mine. Or has your deep regard run shallow?”
