Player's Ruse

by Hilari Bell

“Oh no, you won’t! She’ll stay with us till her uncle claims her. I can’t fight a man like Baron Sevenson, and I’m not going to try. That honor”—he bowed in Michael’s and my direction—“will go to Sir Michael and his squire.”

  “What?” I yelped. “We can’t—”

  “We’ll handle it,” said Michael. Rosamund cast him a glowing look.

  I moaned, and the thin man gave me a smile that combined amusement and sympathy, though I think amusement came out on top.

  “But if the baron retrieves her,” Makejoye went on firmly, “she’s going to be in the same state as when she came into my hands. By which I mean she’s going to sleep in the women’s wagon and my wife will chaperone her. And you two”—he gestured to us—“will serve as my witnesses to the baron that she was never alone with Rudy for more than a moment. So if anything happens, he can’t go blaming us for it. Is that clear to all of you?”

  So if she was pregnant now, the child was either Michael’s or mine. Oh yes, perfectly clear.

  Rudy was plainly indignant on Rosamund’s behalf. Rosamund, the minx, looked disappointed. And Michael tried, not very successfully, to hide his satisfaction. I don’t know how I looked—probably gloomy.

  “Now, if you’re joining our little troupe, you’ll all have to earn your keep—we don’t take passengers or cargo.”

  Makejoye was enjoying himself, probably because the dozen or so bystanders had given up any pretense of not listening and were frankly appreciating the performance.

  “Can any of you act?” Makejoye went on.

  Rosamund’s “I should love to try” clashed with Michael’s “No.” I shrugged.

  “Well, we’ll give you an audition and see. You can be crowds if nothing else. Never hurts to have extras in the crowd scenes.” But his gaze lingered thoughtfully on Rosamund’s lovely face, and I knew she wasn’t destined to be part of an anonymous crowd. “Can you juggle? Tumble? Throw knives? How about puppets? Dancing? Singing? Oh come, surely one of you can sing?”

  Rosamund, as I’d learned on our journey, had a voice like a jay, and mine’s not much better. Michael’s voice is pleasant, but he doesn’t like to sing in front of strangers. But I suspected that a large share of the menial chores would fall to those who didn’t perform. “I can do card—”

  Michael’s boot-heel came down on my toe and I broke off, concealing my wince as I met Makejoye’s gaze with a shrug and a smile. On second thought, it probably was better for one of us to retain some respectability in the sheriff’s eyes.

  “I fear we can do little in terms of performance,” said Michael. “But I can look after your animals, hunt, and mayhap mend your wagons or tack. And Fisk can sew and embroider most finely.”

  “And I,” put in one of the men who stood at the fringes of the crowd, “can put up your scaffolding if you’ll spare me a moment to talk about it. For if you’re Hector Makejoye, I believe we have an appointment?”

  The audience laughed, and Master Makejoye bowed his admiration for the carpenter’s timing. Observing the crew behind the carpenter, with timber and saws in hand, I murmured to Michael that I’d go back to the inn and get our gear and the menagerie, for I’d no desire to be drafted as a carpenter’s assistant.

  Michael chose to stay, so I was alone when I walked into the inn and Joe Potter hustled out of the taproom and caught my arm.

  The hum of voices told me that luncheon here was popular, and it smelled good too, but one look at Potter’s face told me we’d eat no more meals at the Slippery Wheel.

  “Come upstairs, Master Fisk; I’ve something to say. Your friend isn’t with you?”

  “No,” I said, glad that he wasn’t. It hurts Michael to be thrown out like this. I’m pretty much indifferent to it.

  “Good.” Potter gave the taproom crowd a final glance and hauled me off—or tried to, for I twisted my arm out of his grip before he’d taken two steps. I don’t mind being kicked out, but being manhandled is something else.

  He glared, but since I followed him meekly up the stairs, he chose not to press the matter.

  “Master Fisk, if I’d—”

  “Only known,” I recited with him.

  Angry red stained his cheeks. “I’d never have let the three of you in, and that’s a fact. This is a—”

  “Respectable house,” I chimed in again. “I don’t see your problem, Master Potter. Did we slip out on the bill? No, we paid in advance. Have we caused any trouble? No. In fact—”

  “No, and I’m not giving you a chance to cause trouble, either, ’cause—”

  “The question won’t arise,” I told him. “Because we located Mistress Rosamund’s friends, and we’ll be staying with them. I’ve just come back to fetch our things.”

  “That’s good, Master Fisk.” He glared at me. “You do that.” He turned and stalked off.

  Just over twelve hours from one sheriff and deputy to the whole town knowing. And half those hours at night. That was fast for a town this size, even from the sheriff’s department. Maybe the sheriff, or one of his deputies, had made a point of telling Potter since they knew we were staying here. When they came to pick up the horses we’d borrowed, no doubt. We were leaving, anyway, but I must admit I’d have liked a meal.

  As it happened, I got it. As I lashed packs onto Honey’s saddle, Ebb Dorn crept up to me with a worn canvas sack in his hand and such a furtive air about him that I looked over my shoulder before I could stop myself.

  “I feel bad about this, Master Fisk.” He too looked about, but the grooms had been drafted to wait tables and wash up, and we had the stable to ourselves. “Especially for the lady.”

  Trouble pranced up and licked his hand, and he gave the dog’s head an awkward pat.

  I smiled forgivingly—judging by Trouble’s interest, there was something edible in that bag. “It’s not your fault, Master Dorn, so—”

  “But it is my fault. I was the one who heard”—his voice dropped—“about your friend. That he’s . . .”

  “Unredeemed,” I finished calmly. “But we were leaving anyway, so it hardly matters.”

  “Well, that’s good then.” He summoned up a timid smile. “But the least I can do is offer you some sandwiches, to make up for any inconvenience Mistress Rosamund may have suffered.”

  I took the bag, thanked him sincerely, and watched him scurry back to the inn. Tapsters always know everything first.

  I investigated the sack before I mounted Tipple and found it contained not only sandwiches but pickles as well, and enough of both that an inexpensive stop at one of the sausage carts in the market square would let me feed our newfound hosts as well.

  The last thing I did was check the lead rope that secured Trouble’s collar to Chanticleer’s saddle. Michael claims he can control the brute in towns, unless he sees a cat. Or a pigeon, or a rat, or . . . I always double-check the leash.

  Over luncheon, we learned a bit about Master Makejoye’s troupe, both present and absent, including the women who’d remained in camp. We sat on the town hall’s shady steps, for the sun was hot now, the morning’s coolness only a memory. The scaffolding was rising behind us already; the scent of cut wood mingled pleasantly with that of sausage, though the hammering interrupted our conversation.

  The thin man’s name was Falon. He was their juggler and knife thrower, and he played villains, heroes’ best friends, and assorted bit parts. “But it’s villain that suits him best, isn’t it, you rogue?”

  Makejoye’s voice held only friendship, and Falon’s smile was open and easy, but there was something about him that reminded me of . . . me. I resolved not to let him learn where we kept Rosamund’s jewels, which meant finding a new place to hide them from her and Michael as well. Which wasn’t such a bad idea, now that I thought about it.

  Master Edgar Barker and his wife, Edith, trained dogs, and performed with them as clowns. Which I might have guessed, for Trouble was practically sitting in the man’s lap.

  Rosamund sat almost that close to Rudy, w
ho was the troupe’s ropedancer and tumbler, and played—what else?—the hero.

  “The dogs start off the show.” Master Makejoye swallowed a bite of pickle. “I’ve planned it all out. We’ll hire a lad to hold the wagon at the other end of the square, and the Barkers’ll jump out, set up a bit, then whistle and the dogs leap out everywhere. They’re little mites, not like your fine fellow, but they’re smart beasts.”

  “Unlike our fine fellow,” I murmured.

  Master Barker snorted. “You’re plenty smart, aren’t you, boy? You tell him.”

  Trouble gazed at him adoringly and thumped his tail.

  “Anyway, they’ll do tricks all the way down the square,” Makejoye went on. “While everyone’s looking at them, we’ll slip in, scramble into costume, and open the phosphor lamps. The dogs will run up onstage and through the curtains.” He used a sausage to gesture at an opening in the tangle of scaffolding. “Then Edith and Edgar will climb up, looking for ’em, you see, and open the curtains, and there we are. The play starts off right then.” He took a bite out of his pointer.

  “It sounds well planned,” said Michael politely.

  “Tell me, pup, have you always been mute?” Barker asked Trouble.

  “He was when we met him.” Michael spoke for the dog, amusement dancing in his eyes. “But that was only winter before last.”

  “And you’re four or five, aren’t you?” Barker felt Trouble’s throat with expert fingers. “I’m not finding any tumors, which is good. Speak!”

  I jumped at the sudden command in his voice and was about to offer Trouble’s excuses, for that was something we hadn’t even tried to teach him—unlike come, sit, heel, and stay-out-of-my-bed. But to my astonishment, Trouble lifted his head and made the rasping gasp that is the best bark he can manage.

  “Good boy.” Barker fed him a bit of his sandwich. “My guess is you were born mute, poor pup. But at least they’re taking good care of you, aren’t they now?”

  Trouble rasped again, his tail thumping harder.

  “Thank you,” said Michael—to both of them, as near as I could tell.

  The carpenters finished their work shortly after we finished eating, and Falon and Rudy checked their measurements with a bit of knotted string to be sure the scenery panels would fit before Master Makejoye paid them off.

  The players had walked into town, so we led the horses and walked beside them—except for Rosamund. It was Michael who insisted she ride, but Rudy, being an acrobat, beat him to Rosamund’s side and won the right to lift her into Honey’s saddle.

  Makejoye watched the whole farce with narrowed eyes.

  “You’re thinking of casting her as heroine?” Falon asked softly. “Glory’ll claw her eyes out. And then she’ll go for you. You don’t even know if she can act.”

  “But look at that face,” Makejoye muttered. “I’ll cut the heroine’s dialogue down. And look at that little spotted mare—she’s in costume already! Edgar, could you use that little mare in your dog act?”

  The players’ camp was set in a clearing in a grove of small, shady trees. Bright costumes strewn across the laps of a group of women, seated on a circle of rickety-looking chairs, made a splash of color to one side. The players’ wagons, wooden sided and canvas roofed, were bright with paint and gilding, appearing almost civilized against the darkness of the trees. Not as civilized as a cozy inn, mind, but better than the bedrolls that would be Michael’s and my lot for the duration.

  Rosamund clasped her hands. “ ’Tis charming! Oh, Rudy, this is so pretty!”

  “I hope she thinks so tomorrow morning, when she’s washing in cold stream water,” I murmured.

  “Really? I hope not,” Michael murmured back.

  The sewing women rose to their feet, the oldest catching a green velvet cape the youngest was working on before it fell to the grass. Their own skirts were drabber than the costumes they stitched, and the elder two wore white caps and aprons, as working women will. Another was bareheaded, but the youngest wore a broad-brimmed felt hat with pheasant feathers in the band.

  It was the oldest who folded her arms and scowled, and no one could mistake her authority or her displeasure.

  “Gwen, my dear.” Makejoye strode into the clearing with all the feigned confidence of a man trying to make something supremely foolish sound wise. “We have a new plan!”

  Judging by Gwendolyn Makejoye’s expression as she recognized Rosamund, she didn’t think much of the plan so far. She looked as thin and sour as her husband was thick and juicy, but I had a hunch that being practical for two, perhaps even for eight, might sour anyone. And Makejoye’s explanation, which was in full spate, didn’t appear to change her mind.

  It was easy to guess that the other capped and aproned woman was Edith Barker, for she started fussing over Trouble before she even glanced at the rest of us. “What’s the matter with your voice, poor fellow?”

  It was equally obvious, as she pushed back her hat to watch Rudy help Rosamund down from the saddle, which of the remaining women was Gloria Glorious. She looked like a woman who played heroines, pretty enough, with long blond hair and the slim grace of a tumbler and dancer. But her expression held none of a heroine’s insipid innocence; the fury of a woman scorned is pale compared to the fury of a woman who has suddenly gone from leading lady to heroine’s sister, best friend, and maid.

  “Oh, dear.” The voice was deep for a woman’s, almost furry. I turned to glance at the fourth actress, and my glance became a stare. Her hair was a soft shade between brown and amber, and she evidently went without a hat often, for her face, throat, and the rich swell of her breasts were tinted with gold.

  She was taller than I, Michael’s height perhaps, and plump in a way that was very pleasing indeed. My eyes traveled down the curves of her body and back up, almost of their own accord. Her arms and hands, emerging from the fall of lace at her elbows, were round, soft, and dainty.

  Her face, also round and soft, looked from Rudy and Rosamund to Gloria with a rueful amusement that spoke of intelligence as well as humor. Then she turned and met my eyes. Hers were the same golden brown as her hair, and I suddenly felt my face heat.

  She looked even more amused. “Callista Boniface, Master . . . Fisk? Then from what Hector’s saying, you must be Sir Michael. It sounds like you’ll be joining us, for a time at least, and you’re welcome. But for now”—her eyes turned to Gloria—“I’d better go and explain some facts of life to Glory before she demonstrates just what a bad actress she really is. If you’ll excuse me?” She glided off, like a plump cougar, and I swallowed and turned to meet Michael’s eyes.

  “My,” he murmured.

  “My, indeed,” I replied. “If she has that kind of impact on an audience, it’s a wonder men don’t rush the stage.”

  Michael smiled, but his eyes slid to Rosamund. Rudy had taken her to inspect one of the wagons, and she was exclaiming over how delightful it was. Callista had intercepted Gloria and was trying to convince her to retract her claws. Gwendolyn Makejoye’s glare had faded to exasperated resignation. It seemed we were in, and easier than I’d expect—

  A chorus of yaps heralded the appearance of a pack of small, muddy dogs. They poured into camp, skidding to a stop as they saw their master and mistress fussing over a stranger. There was a second of eerie silence—then they charged.

  It was the most honest display of emotion I’d seen yet.

  Michael and the Barkers pulled the brawl apart and got the dogs properly introduced before anyone was bitten. Having talked his wife around, Makejoye went to the back of his wagon and pulled out a chest full of what looked to be half-bound books—though their bindings were loosely stitched, they had no covers. I was curious about the wagon, too.

  He soon noticed me looking over his shoulder. “I’m just digging out a few scripts to give you three an audition. You know, I charged Lord Fabian for only an eight-player troupe. With three more players, we can raise the price of our next performance.”

  �
��Assuming any of us does well enough that you’ll let us perform.”

  The wagon was roomier than I’d have thought, but every inch seemed to be filled with boxes, baskets, and some clever cabinets built into the wagon’s wooden sides. It even had two small windows, though their panes were the old, thick, round ones, filled with bubbles and distortions. What it didn’t have was beds, or any space to put them that I could see.

  “Do you sleep in here?” I asked.

  “Only in bad weather.” Makejoye flipped pages on one of his scripts. “In the summer we sleep under the wagons for the most part; in winter . . . Ah, here we are. Come along, Master Fisk. The sooner I discover your talents, the longer I’ll have to modify our play to incorporate them.”

  If he could get extra pay for extra players, I had no doubt he’d modify them, no matter how bad we were.

  Makejoye assigned each of us a part and had us read the short scene, and he let us keep the scripts so we didn’t have to memorize the lines. He declared the sunlit center of the small clearing to be the stage, and set the ladies’ sewing chairs in front of it for half the audience. The other half, which included himself, Edgar Barker, and (tactfully) Gloria, stood as far away as they could and still see us through the trees, “Because the fellows in the back need to hear, too, you know.”

  The scene was fairly standard, with two men competing for the attention of a flirtatious girl. I’ve seen such scenes many times, though the dialogue in this one was witty enough to make me snicker as I read it.

  Gwen Makejoye took on the role of stage manager, placing us in the positions she wanted like a housewife arranging furniture. She told us when to move, and where, and then stepped aside to join the rest of our audience and nodded to me to begin.

  I pitched my voice to carry. “How pleasant to find you alone, my dear. Or as near alone as makes no difference. Do you . . .”

  I suppose the audition could be described as a moderate disaster. It was hard to say whether Michael or Rosamund was more wooden, but at least Michael, after a few reminders, started talking for the farther members of the audience. After the fifth call of “louder, my girl” Rosamund’s eyes began to fill, and Mistress Gwendolyn signaled her husband to stop trying.