Heir's Revenge (Return of the Aghyrians Book 4)

by Patty Jansen

  “I’m doing this for my mother. It will be a present to her.”

  This was getting ever more strange. “Your mother is Mirani?”

  “No, she is Aghyrian, like me.”

  “You mean . . .” Aghyrians were the people who had originally fled from Asto, and were the forefathers of the Endri. She saw why she had mistaken him for an Endri man last night.

  “Doesn’t your mother already have a house?”

  He smiled. “She does, but she’s going to move here, but she doesn’t know that yet.” He winked. “Don’t tell her.”

  This was the strangest thing she had ever heard. The very few foreigners who had lived in Miran when she was young were long gone. His mother might be younger than Father, but why would she want to move to Miran if she wasn’t Mirani? He had to be either really bold or incredibly naïve. Did he know anything about Mirani politics?

  “Well, um . . .” What could she say? If she told him what people thought about foreigners, would he laugh in her face or feel offended?

  “I’ll tell you the story about my mother, one day.”

  One day? She studied his serious face for signs that he was joking, but she saw none. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  “At least until the house is finished. After that, who knows?”

  There was another awkward silence in which she was dying to tell him that if her brother and his friends had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t even stay that long, but telling him so felt like betraying her brothers. They were right: who knew why he was really here and what he wanted? It was best not to get involved.

  “I’m really here because I’d like to come to an arrangement with you about my workers.”

  A slight frown.

  “The ones who normally work for the theatre during this time of the year. I don’t want to take them off you, but the theatre is lost without those men. We have about two months to get the production finished, and I don’t think I can train replacements, as well as give them time to build the stage props, before the date of the performance. Is there a way we can share? It won’t be for all that long.”

  His frown deepened.

  “I know that you employed them fairly, but I have a theatre production to complete, and the council won’t be very happy if it’s not done to their standard.”

  “I guess they wouldn’t be.”

  “I mentioned that you had hired the men I needed, and a couple of young men told me they’d sort it out for me. I don’t know what they’re planning, but I know who’s involved and it’s unlikely to be pleasant.” She cringed. Next he would ask for Raedon Tussamar’s name. He would probably know who he was, too. “I know these men, and I know that they can be very aggressive. If I could make a deal with you, that would stop them—”

  “If I let you have these workers?” He completed the sentence for her, and smiled at her.

  “Yes. Pretty much.” She blew out a relieved breath.

  He smiled, fixing her with those eerie sand-coloured eyes. “You’re much too nice and honest to resort to blackmail.”

  Yes, probably. But if she didn’t come to some sort of arrangement, Raedon would turn up, and Enzo would rope Jintho into doing stupid things. “Well, that’s the deal. Because these men really exist and they will cause you trouble.”

  “I have no doubt that they exist. There are always those who would resort to thuggery if they can’t get what they want in an honest way.” He gestured at the men in the yard. “These workers chose to work for me. I pay them what I think is a fair rate and I feed them. I had a long list to choose from, a very long list. If there is some sort of rule that prohibits me from hiring them, why did none of them bring it up? Why, indeed, do they turn up here without looking over their shoulders? They sure like to work here.”

  It’s amazing how money will do that to people.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I didn’t say they should stop working here. I asked if you could spare the men who normally build the stage for me and let them work for me until the stage is built.”

  “How many of them would that be?”

  “There’s four or five of them. I won’t need them all the time either. It’s probably enough if they could just come in the mornings or afternoons.”

  He looked out over the building site. A group of men had already started mixing cement and were getting stones ready. He nodded, once. “All right. I wouldn’t want to impede the Mirani theatre. So what is this play about?”

  “We’re playing a classic Mirani work called Changing Fate. I guess you’re not familiar with it.”

  “Actually, I am.”

  She frowned at him.

  “It’s the play where Miran takes charge over its fate and ousts the invaders. The one that follows from The Invasion. From what I believe it starts out with a scene with three vagrants sitting in the streets while a group of Coldi prisoners of war are marched into prison.”

  “Yes.” She was impressed. “Have you ever seen it?”

  “Not a live performance, no, but I would love to. Do tell me when and where this play is on and I’ll come to watch.”

  With all the dignitaries from the council there? “Um—I’m not sure if you’ll be able to—”

  “All plays put on by the council are free, are they not?”

  “Yes. Yes. But it gets very busy.” Not half as busy as she would like, and the size of the audience was becoming smaller each year. There were days that all seats in the grand hall had been filled up on Theatre Day, but that was before she was born.

  “Well, I shall be there early, then. Now, do tell me which are the men you would most like me to lend you for this marvel of culture?”

  She couldn’t help chuckling. “Do you always talk like that?”

  He frowned at her. “What do you mean, talk like that? What is wrong with the way I talk?”

  It occurred to her that the way she’d brought this up was not very polite. He’d done nothing to justify ridicule.

  “Well, obviously you’re not a local. But excuse me. I should be complimenting you on your Mirani instead. I mean, it’s not as if we get a lot of visitors.” Her cheeks burned with heat. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I didn’t expect a grand welcome.” One corner of his mouth moved up. His eyes met hers, and the corners crinkled with a smile.

  Her blush intensified. That should teach her to keep her big mouth shut.

  She glanced over the wall at her house. What if Enzo or Jintho saw her here, or Jaeron? They had said not to go here. They had said they would handle it, and her bumbling would only prove that they were right.

  “Um, mister?” This was a male voice behind her. Ellisandra turned around. A council guard had come into the yard, a Nikala man wearing the council-issued grey cloak with the red and white Mirani crest embroidered on the chest.

  “Yes, how can I help you?” Vayra said.

  “You’re the guy in charge here?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re going to undertake a major building project. I have to inform you that you need a licence for that in Miran.” His Nikala accent was barely audible.

  “I have a licence. Wait.” Vayra dug in the inside pocket of his cloak and pulled out a small card. He held it under the guard’s nose.

  The man frowned. “What is this? I can’t read it. You’ll have to have it translated—”

  “It’s Damarcian. It’s a licence from the Masterbuilders’ Guild.”

  The guard’s frown deepened. “You’re a licensed Masterbuilder?”

  “Correct.”

  “I will . . . have to get someone to verify that.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “You will also have to submit building plans to the heritage committee—”

  “It’s not necessary for rebuilding a structure exactly as it was. The council’s rules are that only new structures have to be approved.”

  The guard glanced sideways at Ellisandra in a Did-you-tell-him-th
at? manner. Ellisandra shook her head.

  The guard went on about building regulations and Vayra seemed to have an answer to every problem the man could bring up. Ellisandra had the impression that he knew more about the rules than the council worker did, and although the council worker seemed to get more frustrated, Vayra’s calm manner never changed. It reminded her of the Trader jokes, which usually involved Traders remaining absolutely calm while the world exploded around them. She didn’t even know if Traders actually did that or if it was a myth. She had certainly never seen them do it. There were so few Traders left in Miran. Just the main branch of the Tussamar family and a few other minor Endri families.

  It didn’t look like the conversation between Vayra and the guards would end any time soon, and the girls would be waiting for her at the theatre, so she turned around and made for the gate.

  “Wait, lady!” Vayra called after her.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  “Where do I tell the workers to go?”

  Ellisandra frowned.

  “You wanted to use their expertise, and I understand that. Your project will probably not take all that long, so I’m happy for the men you need to work for you in the afternoons. I just want to tell them where to turn up at midday.”

  The council worker frowned at her in a does-he-always-talk-like-this? way.

  “Let them come to the theatre. They know where it is.”

  “I will tell them that. It is a pleasure to meet you, lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  He returned to his discussion with the council worker, and Ellisandra made her way out of the yard.

  She stopped at the gate.

  Work at the site was in full swing. Men were hauling stone blocks on sheds. Others were hammering away old stones. Still others cleared away snow. Given their usual unwillingness to do anything during snow days, this activity was incredible. Vayra must treat them exceptionally well.

  He and the council worker had gone to the shelter of the canvas tent, where they studied the plans on the table. Vayra gestured and the council worker pointed.

  Vayra looked up over the man’s shoulder, and met Ellisandra’s eyes. He smiled.

  A chill went over her back. Hadn’t her brothers and Jaeron told her not to talk to this man?

  9

  MIRAN’S STATE THEATRE was a stately building in the commercial district. Flanked by some of the most prestigious shops, the building’s imposing façade dominated the streetscape. A set of broad marble steps led up to the main entrance: two large doors each custom-made of a large panel of resin. If you stood close up, you could see the hundreds of layered grass stems in the resin. Someone would have built each door with resin poured over layer upon layer of carefully-arranged stems.

  Ellisandra by-passed the main entrance with its echoing and empty foyer and grandiose-looking arches with little painted animal heads.

  The staff and actors had their own entrance at the end of an alley that ran down the side of the building. Via the door under the porch, she entered the theatre’s dressing rooms, now all dark and empty. Mannequins with old costumes lined the walls like silent sentinels to times past. There were little signs on the wall next to them, indicating which famous actor or actress had worn the costume for which performance. Ellisandra passed all of these and went up the stairs.

  Her office above the dressing rooms had a little window through which she could see onto the stage. The curtain would be pulled shut during performances, but was always open for rehearsals. A couple of people stood on the stage. One of them was Tolaki, two of the others were the lead actors in the play. Keldon Nirumar was such a typical ladyboy. Mirani men took pride in their hair, but he had explained to her at length that he washed his every day with the spawn of some kind of fish that made his hair shine. Most Mirani men wore small golden hoops in their ears, but his hoops were huge, and had tiny jewels set into them that glittered when he moved. Most Endri men had tattoos, usually of the family crest, and mostly on their shoulders, normally hidden under their clothes, but he had green tattoos all over his upper arms and his shoulders and into his neck.

  Tameyo, who played the role of Mariandra, looked very plain and classy in comparison. She was from the upper Nikala class and always had great trouble getting her curly hair to remain straight if she played an Endri role. She would often comb her hair with a heated brush in between acts, but this dry weather did it no favours. Flyaway curly strands danced about her head.

  Both she and Keldon held a couple of sheets of paper, from which they read while acting out the actions described. A number of other people played the crowd, although they were not the ones who would do it on the day of the performance.

  Classic plays were usually melodramatic, so there were lots of hand gestures and speaking directly to the audience. The onstage crowd would react to all these gestures with exaggerated responses: opening their mouths for surprise, putting their hands over their eyes for fear.

  Seen from here, without the sound, it looked rather ridiculous, but this was typical of the classical plays. There was even a small modern theatre group who wrote their own plays that often mocked the silly over-reactions of this “crowd” and made fun of the actions. Their performances were hilarious. Pity that so few people paid to see them.

  Ellisandra went to put a firebrick onto the fire and dragged her chair over to the hearth. Seriously, was she getting soft or had this winter started earlier than ever?

  Through the door into the next room, she could see Sariandra seated at a table drawing on a big piece of paper. Flowing dresses—with laces, not buttons—long capes, wide men’s trousers. Sariandra might be shy and a spy for her father, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

  Everything was going to plan so far. The most important test would be if Loret and his team would turn up in the afternoon.

  Ellisandra went to work, leafing through the text of the play to check on everything the men would need to build. Of course she should have done this last night, instead of getting caught up in checking Foundation Law.

  The first act took place on the steps of the council building, and they’d need to build a façade with a door. The second act was set inside the council assembly hall. She’d only need a frame for hanging a painted sheet depicting the inside of the hall. But she would need chairs and benches, although they came from the stores. The third act took place in the dungeons. It would need a foyer with a fake tiled floor, with cell doors with bars so that the prisoners in the cells could all look into the foyer. It was a fictional locality, since the real prison didn’t look anything like that. It had dank corridors and closed doors, low ceilings and roughly-hewn stone floors.

  She wrote setting notes for Loret. In the years he had worked with the theatre, he had become very good at making fake stone walls out of cement-soaked cloth. He could even make them look old, with dabs of paint that resembled sludge and stains.

  She hoped that Vayra would keep his word and let the men go.

  When she finished with the notes, she went to the theatre’s library, a dark and cold, low-ceilinged room off the corridor that led to the actors’ entrance.

  In between the many racks with storage boxes, each containing texts of plays, she found the play’s texts in three boxes that looked like they hadn’t been touched for years, except for a couple of recent fingerprints on the very dusty lid of one of the boxes. Those would have been Tolaki’s fingerprints from getting the texts she was using on the stage right now.

  Ellisandra carried the first of the boxes to a large table in the middle of the room, and tipped the stack of paper onto the tabletop. The last time these scripts had been put away, some of the sheets had gotten folded. A mountain scorpion had eaten a hole into the bottom corner of the box, and had chewed a neat bite out of the corners of the bottom sheets. Those papers were also covered in the creature’s black droppings.

  Ellisandra went to get the other two boxes and tipped the contents of those onto the table, too
. With the last one, a scorpion scuttled over the table and jumped off the edge before she could squash it. She ran after it, but it disappeared under a shelf.

  Wow, what a mess. She should find some money to get someone to dust these shelves.

  She spread all the texts out over the table. Tolaki would have the master text upstairs on the stage. Ellisandra started sorting the papers into individual parts.

  One of the actors had made extensive notes in the margins. The handwriting was rather old-fashioned, but she could figure out that this was the female lead, the woman who had played Mariandra.

  She flicked to the last few pages with that horrible scene of death. The scene description said:

  All the prisoners are dead on the floor. Jihan enters the stage from the main entrance to the foyer. He steps across the bodies and opens the door to Mariandra’s cell.

  JIHAN: Will you forgive me, my love?

  Mariandra comes out of the cell. She steps over the body of Rana and does not look at him.

  This was the part of the play that was just all kinds of wrong.

  For most of the play, Mariandra was strong and defended the prisoners and Rana who had come to negotiate for their freedom. He spoke very little Mirani and was being cheated and lied to by everyone. He was perhaps naïve, but a sympathetic character. She helped him, and they fell in love. Their shared love felt natural.

  How could someone go from being a lover to not even looking at their body in such a short time? What had the hero done, except kill defenceless prisoners, that justified her coming back to him?

  In the top margin, the actress had written:

  This scene symbolises the death of the relationship between Miran and the Coldi. It signifies the start of an independent Miran. The scene has a deep symbolic value that needs to be brought out in the acting through the triumphant exit stage of Mariandra and Jihan.

  Fancy that. If even the actress needed to remind herself to be cheerful, then there was something wrong with the script.