by Kage Baker
“Didn’t we do that one year before last?” said Miss Ironbolt.
“No. You’re thinking of Curse of the Dark Lord,” said Mr. Tinwick. “Now, the opening scene: you enter at left, Mr. Carbon, carrying the dummy infant. At the rear of the stage we’ll have some light effects behind a skyline cutout to signify the burning city. And you’ll say …?”
Mr. Carbon scratched his head and thought.
“Er … Oh, horror! If only the queen had heeded my wise counsel and not listened to the Dark Lord’s secret emissaries, all had been well! Where now shall I conceal thee, young prince?”
Rehearsals went badly, until Gard understood the manner in which the Epic was played. It was all improvisation, up to a point; a general outline of each story and some specific text was written by Mr. Tinwick. The actors stepped out onstage and brandished their characters like swords, occasionally scoring points at one another’s expense.
Gard found that if he sat down with the immense and untidy heap of thumbed promptbooks, he could memorize the appropriate speeches for any plot twist that might occur. There were only so many situations, so many responses, so many characters. The more he thought of it as arena fighting, the easier it became for him.
Vile tyrant! Now thy reign is done
For I have tracked thee over trackless plains
That I might drive this blade, my murdered father’s blade,
Through thy black heart!
Gard brandished the wooden sword and struck an attitude of attack. Mr. Tinwick, teetering on absurdly high patens that were nevertheless not high enough to keep his black cloak from trailing along the floor behind him, lifted his fearsome black mask.
“Cheat out,” he reminded Gard. “Again, please.”
With a prickle of irritation, Gard faced the empty seats, rather than Mr. Tinwick, and delivered his lines again. Then he turned for the attack.
“Cheat out,” said Mr. Tinwick.
“But I’m going to attack you.”
“Hold on,” said Mr. Bracket, lifting Batto’s mask and rising from where he had been cowering at the back of the stage. “I see what it is. You’ve been a soldier, haven’t you?”
“… Yes,” said Gard.
“And I’ll bet you were a damned good one, old man, but this is a two-dimensional venue. Think of yourself as a paper cutout, eh? We have no depth up here. Take your sword moves and sort of flatten them out.”
“Oh,” said Gard. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Mr. Bracket donned his mask once more and resumed his crouch, hands held wide in alarm. “Oh, my master, have a care lest he smite thee! Oh, that I were back in the meadow stealing apples! Oh, gods have mercy on us!”
Gard faced front and executed a maneuver that would have gotten him slain in the arena, but Mr. Tinwick said, “Oh, very nice,” and then, in the sepulchral boom that was his Dark Lord voice, added:
I know that blade of old. It is
A puny blade, child; it did not save thy father,
Nor will it save thee. Dost thou not know
Whom it is thou facest? I was powerful then;
Ten times more great is my dark power now.
“For, see, I have but to wave my hand—and then I bring up my sorcerer’s staff like this and you come in and attack like so—and, oh, wait, that’s not the right sword! Where’s the break sword?”
“Here! Sorry, it was in the wrong basket,” said Clarn, handing it to Gard. “This is the one you want. You just pull this pin down with your thumb, see, when he drops the flash charge.”
“Thank you.” Gard took it and resumed his pose of histrionic attack.
“For, see, I have but to wave my hand—me, staff, you, attack, I drop the flash pellet, and,” said Mr. Tinwick encouragingly, “boom! Yes, perfect, and the sword breaks and you fall and …“
Oh, Batto, bitter is the taste of despair!
I cannot move my arm! The blade is broke
That was my vengeance! His dread might
Overpowers me at last!
Gard, reciting, writhed in what he hoped was a convincing show of agony.
“Very nice, and now the twist ending …”
“Oh, master mine, I cannot see you slain!” Mr. Bracket scrambled to his feet, ran downstage, and grabbed up one piece of the broken sword.
Oh, foul sorcerer, now you’ll see
How humble devotion makes a man brave!
“And I stab you and of course I’ll be wearing the prop hand, and it goes bang and papier-mâché fingers and red syrup go flying everywhere—horrified gasp from the audience—”
“Then I think I’ll just wear the explosion vest with the blue and green charges,” said Mr. Tinwick primly. “Because, of course, one doesn’t want to upstage the Dark Lord’s death scene.”
“No, of course not,” muttered Mr. Bracket.
“And I’ll stagger back, all flaring lights and bleeding green and yellow syrup—I’ll need a Number Seven Flash charge, Clarn, please have a few made up.”
“Right, some Number Sevens,” said Clarn, making a note on a tablet.
Now is fulfilled that prophecy
That Kendon should not slay me,
That an insect in the dust at his heel
Should do me more harm.
Triumph while thou wilt, O fool;
For I will rise again!
“And then I drop the Number Seven and roll off the back of the platform and—a word for your wounded manservant might be appropriate here, Wolkin.”
Gard scrambled to his hands and knees and grabbed Mr. Bracket’s wrist. “What are you doing?” asked Mr. Bracket, opening his eyes.
“Putting a tourniquet on your wrist with my sandal lace.”
“Oh, good touch!”
Er, Oh, Batto, do not say that thou art slain!
Oh faithful friend, stay yet awhile with me
Or I shall die with thee, for shame that my strength failed
While thine was steady as the humble earth!
“Good, good, and, er, I’ll say:
Oh, dear master, however shall I cook your breakfast now
And me with one hand gone?
“And I suppose at this point we can either have me die pathetically brave—”
“Not right after the Dark Lord’s death scene, I think,” said Mr. Tinwick, from the floor.
“Hm. All right; I could maunder on about how I think I’m going to die, and do that speech where I ask Dear Master to comfort my Old Father and tell my Sweetheart how I’d been going to set up in business with her and run a clam stand. Shall I?”
“That one runs on a bit, I think. We want to go fairly quickly to the Wedding/Coronation scene, don’t we?” said Mr. Tinwick, getting up. “Do we?” Mr. Bracket glared at him. “What about this?” Gard got up on his knees.
Fear not, Batto, dearest friend,
Though my strength failed me, still I have enough
To carry thee hence, though thou weighedst twice
What thou dost. Let us go; stopping only
To free good Elti and Jibbi from the Black Dungeon of F’narh.
Without effort, Gard lifted Mr. Bracket in his arms. Mr. Bracket looked up at him, startled.
“Good gods, man, what did you use to do for a living besides soldiery? Load barges?”
Gard sagged, pretending to buckle at the knees. “Whew! No. You’re heavier than you look.”
“I’ll just lean on you, then, and we’ll stagger offstage together,” said Mr. Bracket, regaining his feet. “Elti! Jibbi! We’re coming for you, brave lads!”
“A fine house,” said Mr. Tinwick, rubbing his hands together as he leaned back from peering through the screen. “All the usuals plus some new faces. Word must have got round that we have a talented new performer!”
“Either that or they want something to take their minds off the war rumors,” said Pulkas. He fitted on his mask. “Hi ho, out we go. Death and destruction, all.”
Gard stepped up on the platform when his cu
e came and looked out at the audience. All things being equal, he had expected the same sensation-greedy faces that had watched him fighting for his life in the arena. He was unnerved, then, to see a different look entirely, in their reflecting eyes. There was a grim intensity, a solemn attention, a humorlessness that made him wish—briefly—that he were about to face Trathegost or Pocktuun.
He found his mouth was dry when he spoke his lines.
Welcome, Wizard! Often have I thought
Of how thou tutoredst me, in happy days gone by.
What now brings thee to my humble home?
“Well done, well done, all!” said Mr. Tinwick, when the applause died at last and they were backstage, changing out of costume. “Notes tomorrow morning; we don’t want to keep our public waiting, do we? I will just say, however, that Satra brought particular pathos to Clemona’s death scene.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Tinwick!” Satra looked at him with adoration.
“And plaudits to Wolkin as well. Though I do think, Mr. Smith, that you made the sword fights look a little too easy. Kendon must struggle, remember. Kendon must suffer. That is what the audience wishes to see in a Hero.”
“I’ll remember that, sir,” said Gard.
“Big crowd outside!” said Mr. Carbon gleefully, coming back in. He had already gotten out of costume, the Wizard having died in the first act, and had in fact had time to go down to the nearest tavern for his dinner. “Patrons galore! Lady Pickrock was asking when you’d be out, Bracket. And there was a Lord Garnet asking after you, Miss Ironbolt.”
Mr. Bracket and Miss Ironbolt, who had been kissing quietly in a corner, looked around at that. Miss Ironbolt sighed. Mr. Bracket shrugged. “Duty calls,” he said. “See you at breakfast?”
“Mine usually sleeps late,” said Miss Ironbolt, pulling on her scarf.
“Mine’s been waking with the damned market carts.” Mr. Bracket threw his cloak around his shoulders. “Oh, well; luncheon, then. Good night, one and all.”
“Many ladies outside?” asked Mr. Tinwick.
“Five that I counted, Tinny, and they’re all asking for the Dark Lord,” said Mr. Carbon, nudging him. Mr. Tinwick looked as smug as it is possible for a man to look. Satra looked pale and stricken. She watched without a word as he swaggered out and was greeted by eager women.
Gard stared after him. Clarn, observing his bewilderment, chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s astonishing, the effect black armor has on some ladies. Cheer up! He can only go off with one or two; we usually get the leavings.”
“What?”
“Patrons!” said Pulkas, hurriedly fastening his sandals. “They’ll pay us to entertain them. A drink, at the least. Dinner, probably. Sweet dalliance if you’re very lucky and they’re very stagestruck. Other little presents, if you sing them a song or two. Though all my last one wanted to do was ask me about what Tinny’s really like.” Pulkas threw on his cloak and rushed out the door, followed closely by Clarn.
“You’d better catch up to them,” said Satra in a woeful voice. “The wealthy ones will be all gone if you wait.”
“I thought I’d go home to bed,” said Gard. “I’m tired. Aren’t you?”
“Oh, I always stay late.” Satra blinked back tears. “I need to tidy up Mr. Tinwick’s armor.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Mr. Carbon, who was spreading out a sleeping mat in the corner. “I do hope you won’t take too long, though, eh? A man my age needs his rest.” He raised his head, and over Satra’s shoulder he mouthed at Gard, Take her out to dinner!
“May I take you to dinner?”
“Screwbite’s down the lane is still open,” said Mr. Carbon helpfully, shaking out his blanket.
“Please,” said Gard. “The costume won’t go anywhere before morning.”
Satra hesitated, biting her lip.
Gard took her hand. “Please? It would be nice to have company.”
“All right. I can always come back early tomorrow.” Satra took her scarf from its hook. Drawing it over her head, she followed Gard out.
They walked down the steep lane, between the flaring lamps, through the shadows and the light. Gard thought, I am walking out with a girl I have invited to dinner. Not servicing my owner, not paying for love in a club. How strange. He looked up at the stars and tried to imagine them shining above a dancing green, instead of these stone streets. He tried to imagine the scent of white blossoms. He couldn’t, and gave it up with a sigh.
The tavern was a small place, quiet. They sat outside in a tiled courtyard, by a brick oven. The waiter brought them wine and grilled sausages and onions. Satra was beautiful by firelight, melancholy in a poetic sort of way. Hesitant, Gard asked her to tell him about herself.
She didn’t tell him much—not about herself, in any case. She was twenty-two, had been born in a little town near Troon, and at the age of sixteen had visited a friend here in Deliantiba. They’d gone to the theater. Mr. Tinwick’s performance had left her spellbound. She had known, then, with blinding clarity of revelation, that nothing was more important than a life in the theater. She’d quarreled with her parents, she’d been disinherited, she’d come back to Deliantiba with nothing, but bravely; she’d gone to the theater and begged to audition, and Mr. Tinwick had admitted her into the company.
So much Gard learned from Satra before she got on the subject of what a genius Mr. Tinwick was, after which she talked for two hours straight. Gard nodded and listened and refilled her wine cup until she began weeping into it, after which he finished the jar himself. When the waiter came out and banked the coals in the oven against the morning, Gard suggested gently that he ought to take her home.
Satra thanked him profusely, tearfully. He escorted her downhill to the wretched quarter where she had a room in a lodging house, even barer than his room, with no window at all. When he took her hand and bent down to whisper good night, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Her tears were hot on his face. She pulled him into the room and they ended up coupling on her narrow bed, desperate with longing, though Gard knew well she did not long for him.
He left her, courteously, before he could fall asleep and betray himself. Walking back up the hill, he was rushed by a thief with a club and merely broke the man’s wrist before driving him off. No dancing green under these stars, no white blossoms.
Next morning at the theater Satra smiled at him, but distantly, as she polished the Dark Lord’s mask with its crested helmet. When Mr. Carbon went out to find some breakfast, they had a moment of privacy; she thanked Gard for a lovely evening, but said it was probably best they didn’t do it again.
Gard was mulling that over when Mr. Bracket wandered in, yawning, still in the clothes he had worn the previous night.
“Morning, Smith. May I just say I thought you did well, for a novice?”
“Thank you.”
Bracket sat down beside Gard and eyed him critically. “Found a patroness last night, did you?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Bracket looked over at the properties shed, where there was a faint clatter as Satra hung up the Dark Lord’s armor. “I see. Well, better luck tonight. A word of advice, my friend?”
“If you like.”
“Drama’s delightful on a stage, but a damnable thing in a bedroom.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
Mr. Carbon wandered in from the street, clutching a paper sack. “Look at these!” He hefted the sack. “Yesterday’s rolls from the bakery. One copper piece for the lot, can you imagine? Have some. I’ve lots.”
“Ooh, Master Wizard, can’t you magic up some food for us?” quoted Bracket absently, helping himself to a roll and handing one to Gard. They were sitting there chewing laboriously when a bright trumpet-call came from the street.
“That’ll be a runner with the broadsheets,” said Bracket, and leaping up, he sprinted to the gate that opened on the street. The runner in her red uniform was just passing, a roll of the fresh-
printed stuff under her arm.
“Here!” Bracket tossed her a coin. She peeled off a sheet and handed it to him, as Clarn and Pulkas edged past her and came into the yard.
“Reviews, is it?” said Pulkas. “Don’t expect them to be good. Plater was in the front row last night, you know.”
“Who?” Gard looked curiously at the wide sheet of cheap paper, as Bracket returned with it.
“One of Deliantiba’s literary lights,” said Carbon.
“He wishes,” said Clarn, delving into the bag of rolls. “He’s a bastard.”
“Is that the broadsheet?” Satra emerged from the properties shed.
“The fellow in the purple tunic, Wolkin,” said Bracket, scanning the rows of print. “Perhaps you noticed? Stared without blinking or smiling the whole time.”
“At least he pays attention,” said Satra.
“Bloody hell, here’s more war rumors. I don’t care whether Parrackas or Skalkin gets the throne, but I wish they’d just fight a duel like plain men and get it over with. Here we are: ‘Shadow of the Dark Lord, at Tinwick’s Theater. A review by Enokas Plater. Attan Tinwick continues his worthwhile effort to present the classical Epic in its purest form. Last night’s entertainment, while solid overall, nevertheless put us in mind of the manifest truth that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.’ “
“Oh, here it comes,” said Clarn, groaning.
“ ‘The story was yet another of Mr. Tinwick’s brilliant and moving variations on the Great Theme. Kendon (played with splendid gravity and sincerity by newcomer Wolkin Smith; we hope to see more of him, as he seems to have an innate understanding of heroic solemnity) is, unbeknownst to himself, the last heir of the nearly extinguished line of Northern Kings. He is living in poverty and obscurity when his old tutor, the Wizard, brings him an unexpected gift: the Lost Sword of Farnglast, misplaced by Kendon’s father twenty years earlier. The Wizard also brings him fearful news: the Dark Lord has once again risen and is gathering his forces at the Crater of Dread, and only the Sword of Farnglast can kill the Dark Lord.’ And blah blah blah.”
