Vincalis the Agitator

by Holly Lisle

  “You would put on a play by one of the known Masters?”

  “I might. If it were written in the style of Vincalis.”

  “Ah. They’d just love that, wouldn’t they? To be the acknowledged Masters of their field, and to be commissioned to write something in the style of a complete upstart.”

  Wraith smiled thinly and held his hands out, palms up. “People don’t come to Vincalis’s play to sleep, Master Birch. You’ve been to as many of the Masters’ plays as I have, I’ll wager. I’m sure you recall the delicate undercurrent of snores that filled the theaters that held them?”

  Master Birch sighed. “I’ll see what I can do to get a suitable play to you, if one is not forthcoming from Vincalis himself.”

  “And what of the take from the house?” Wraith asked. “If you are commissioning the project, how much of the sales from the door do you wish to claim?” He knew that the city could claim any amount and he would not dare to refuse, but he did not want to let Master Birch know that. He wanted to appear to be considering it, and to do that, he had to mention the money. No theater owner would fail to question who got to keep what percentage of the gate.

  Master Birch smiled. “The Dragon Council and the Landimyn want to give this play to the city of Oel Artis as our gift. This is a … a goodwill gesture. An anonymous goodwill gesture. The Empire has profited greatly thanks to Greyvmian and his mapping discoveries; we trade and own across Matrin’s continents. This is …” Master Birch laughed gently. “This is a way for old men with much to be thankful for to give something back. So ten percent of gross.”

  Wraith hid his smile at Master Birch’s definition of a gift. Ten percent of gross was, in fact, a dreadfully steep cut. He would have to pay his actors, his overhead on the theater, his costuming and staging expenses out of what was left, and after that, he might find that he would be in a money-losing position.

  But he knew business. One did not grow up around the Artis table without hearing about deals and watching deals made—and though he knew he could not refuse and he could not set his terms, still he would play the game as if he believed he could.

  “Master Birch,” he said. “A cut of gross that vast would leave the theater a money-losing venture—and I am not an old man with vast fortunes to tend. I am a young man still bent on making his fortune. If this theater does not pay everyone else and still pay me well, I’ll have to join the dilettante philosophers in the great houses above, and dicker day in and day out about whether or not man’s place is in nature or nature’s place is in man. A tedious future, I swear, and one I hope to escape.” He smiled and said, “But I have my profits and losses for this first week written down if you would like to see them. And I think you would be well pleased with your return on investment at, say, ten percent of net.”

  Now Master Birch laughed. He leaned forward, eager, for this was a game he had played all his life. He would not spoil the fun by telling Wraith that he was not truly playing—that Wraith would take what Master Birch told him to take. Wraith maintained Master Birch’s fiction, and Master Birch maintained Wraith’s. “Let me see the numbers.”

  Wraith brought them out, and for a while they went over rows of figures and dickered consequences, and Birch raised all sorts of hell about the amount of money Wraith had spent on costumes when a single wizard could have spelled the whole thing for much cheaper.

  “But, Master, the reason this play touched you as it did is because there was no trickery to it. It was exactly as you saw it. And I think there is an integrity in that gut-level reality which makes the use of magic a liability, not an asset.”

  “Ten percent of net won’t even get us to the door,” Birch said. “But …” He leaned his head close to his handboard and engaged in furious scribbling with his stylus, doing figures and checking results at a speed that suggested long practice. “But in the name of those who sent me, I can accept twenty-three percent of net. And do remember, we’ll be financing your expenses—even the costs of your extravagant costuming—so you’ll not be hurt by your overhead.”

  Wraith drew out paper and a pen and did his own figuring. When he looked up, he was smiling. “Then that will be fine. So, assuming that I can even reach Vincalis, or that you can present a suitable alternative, when should I start? When do you want to have this play ready?”

  And Birch named a date that Wraith could not hope to make.

  “Two months?” he gasped. “Vincalis has not written it yet. Once it is written, I will have to find actors, and rehearse them, get the costumers to make costumes, design the stage sets and the lighting and perhaps a musical score and …”

  “The date, I’m afraid, is quite rigid. Greyvmian’s birthday falls when it falls. We would have come to you sooner, but since we found you on your first night and have only been discussing this among ourselves for a week, I do not see how we could have discovered you any quicker than we did. The play must open on the eighth of Nottrosy, and be ready for a one-year run from that date.”

  A strangled, inarticulate cry of disbelief erupted from Wraith.

  Birch studied him nervously, then bent over his handboard and, after another round of scribbling, said, “We’re prepared to offer you a significant sum to drop everything you’re doing right now so that you can begin work the instant your current play is done.”

  “But A Man of Dreams is sold for another week. And I have no doubt I could sell seats for it for at least another year.”

  “The city wants a play about Greyvmian the Ponderer, and wants it from you, and is willing to compensate you quite handsomely in order to get it.”

  “I’ll have to remove A Man of Dreams entirely so that we can use the space to begin work on the next one.” And that, of course, was what Birch and his anonymous backers wanted. He saw it in the man’s eyes— the sly, subtle satisfaction of a man who played one game to get an unrelated result, and who pulled it off.

  At that moment Wraith determined that the play they commissioned would be as thought-provoking as A Man of Dreams, but that it would keep its message more deeply hidden within layers of humor, within quick dialogue and clever action. They would have their funny play, and it would be everything they asked for and everything they dreaded all in one fine sweep.

  Young men could play games as well as old men.

  The starsetters came out early that night, to put finishing touches on the staryard that would grace the ceremony in which Velyn would exchange vows with Luercas. She’d spent some time with him at last, and found beneath his attractive face and handsome body a cold and ambitious man. He spoke with enthusiasm of his determination to hold the Chair of the Council of Dragons in Oel Artis, of his plans to create a union of cities that would bring the governments of each giant city-state under the governance of one central Council, and of his desire to one day become the head of that Council—the single man who would rule the whole of civilized Matrin, and much of the wilds that surrounded it. He told her these things because he wanted her to realize that she was getting a man who was already someone of importance, but who would someday be of even greater importance. He told her these things because he wanted to … to control her, she thought. Not because he wanted to share his hopes or dreams with her, not because he wanted to talk with her about something that he loved—but because if she knew his importance, she would have a better and clearer understanding of her place.

  She thought of Wraith, and for a moment she had to fight back tears. When he told her of his plans for the future, he had been sharing his dreams and his passion with her, and he had wanted to include her in those dreams.

  She took a deep breath. Wraith was an idealist. A fool. A child who did not belong in the life he was living, and who would sooner or later misstep, and be found out, and take down not only himself but everyone around him. She was better off without Wraith.

  She watched the starsetters lighting the stars all across the yard—the great sweeps of a nebula spinning beneath the house itself, the arms spiraling out, a
nd comets and shooting stars and glorious arches and sprays of light spun out above, so that the guests would dance on air, with stars beneath their feet and stars over their heads. She wished she could appreciate the beautiful effect. She wished …

  But she did not wish for anything save that she get through this night and its attendant challenges without embarrassing herself. She had kept most of her sexual conquests well away from home and from the Aboves, but a few still hung on in the house, and any of them might come out and join in the crowd of well-wishers and make sure that they said something to Luercas in front of her that would cause her embarrassment.

  Her father had often told her, “Live your life so that you can tell the worst thing you’ve ever done in front of the people you respect the most, and still hold your head up after.”

  Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t liked her father, so she’d spent a great deal of time and effort living her life in a way that would cause him as much humiliation as possible. Now, however, she discovered that he was old and truly didn’t care anymore, but she still had to live with everything she had ever done—both the things that people knew about and the things that they didn’t but that she had to dread them finding out about. Her father’s advice suddenly made a great deal of sense, but she’d come to that realization far too late to do anything but wish she’d liked him more when she was younger.

  Her mother came out onto the balcony and stood beside her. “They’ll be ready for you in a few moments, you know.”

  “I know. I was just watching the starsetters. Don’t you wish sometimes that you could do that?”

  “It’s common labor,” her mother said, and shrugged. “They make a pittance for their work, and can only enter the Aboves with passes. If they lived a thousand years they could never hope to live here.”

  “I just thought what they were doing was lovely.”

  “Of course it’s lovely,” her mother said. “Elsewise we would not have hired them. Come in and change—I have your outfit ready for you.”

  “What do you think of Luercas?” Velyn asked her.

  Her mother shrugged. “He came highly recommended. Beyond that—he’s rising through the Dragons quickly, his family has a great deal of money, and he’s presentable. What else do you want?”

  “A friend? A companion?”

  “Why? We were careful to negotiate your vows so that you will be able to pursue as many ‘friends’ and ‘companions’ as you choose, after the two of you produce two healthy children.”

  “I love feeling like a breeder,” Velyn muttered.

  Her mother glanced sidelong at her and said, “And if I had not been willing to feel like a breeder, you would not exist, and you would not be heir to a sizable estate. If you don’t have children, you cannot pass on the estate within the family. Lineage matters.”

  Velyn had to wonder why. At that moment, so much of everything her family believed in and stood for seemed pointless. Her parents had given birth to her and her brother because they needed to designate two heirs in order to make certain investments and to own certain pieces of property; those who could not guarantee continuity could not be entrusted with great treasures, since without continuity those treasures could fall into unworthy hands.

  She had been born for financial purposes, and her own children would be born for the same financial purposes. She had no real desire to try out motherhood. She’d thought about it, but had discovered too late—that is, once she’d signed all the papers with Luercas—that she’d only thought about it when she was with Wraith. Now, facing a future in which she would give birth to two children and the father would be Luercas, she found herself facing the miserable truth that she did not want what was coming.

  She tugged off her clothing, and put on the soft black robe that her mother handed her. She wrapped the silver, gemstone-beaded girdle over it, and her mother cinched the girdle tight. Her mother unwrapped the crown of stars, a tiny magic-spelled clip that pinned into her hair and created dancing pinpoints of colored light all around her head and shoulders.

  Her mother stood back and studied her for a moment, and then she smiled. An actual, genuine smile—and Velyn thought she could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had seen a real, human smile on her mother’s face. “You look very pretty,” she said. “And your father and I are both quite … pleased … yes … pleased with you. You’ve grown up a bit.”

  Velyn managed a smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. She knew in her gut that in going through with this, she was making a mistake; she didn’t know how that mistake was going to manifest itself, but she didn’t doubt for an instant that it would. But her parents were pleased with her. She could not remember the last time she had heard that.

  Someone tapped on the door. “Everyone is ready,” the muffled voice on the other side said.

  Her mother drew herself erect and said, “Well, then. Shall we go out?”

  Velyn couldn’t back out. The contracts were binding—if she went into breach, she and her parents would be liable for vast sums called restitutionals, punitive fees that the reneging party paid. Luercas and his parents would walk away with property, money, and an increase in their societal rank that would come at the expense of her family, which would suffer a compensatory fall in rank. She would take her vows, then, and she would have the two children required of her.

  She lifted her chin and nodded. “Let’s do this thing,” she said.

  The two of them went out the door side by side and down a long and gleaming corridor. They met Luercas and his father at the back of the Treaties Hall, and the four of them walked up the center aisle between the two long banks of feast tables together. When they came at last to the patriarchs of the Artis and tal Jernas families, who sat side by side in the center of the head table, Velyn’s mother and Luercas’s father stepped aside.

  Velyn and Luercas walked the last three steps together, but they did not touch, they did not look at each other, they did not even truly acknowledge each other’s presence.

  Wraith would have held her hand. Would have smiled at her, whispered something to her to ease the tension in the room, would have, perhaps, commented on the ludicrous clothing that most of those present to witness the final act of the nutevaz wore, and in doing so he would have made her laugh.

  She did not think that Luercas would ever try to make her laugh; she doubted that he much valued laughter.

  The two patriarchs rose and spread the presentation copies of the vows before the two of them on the table. This step was really just for show—the real copies had already been signed and sealed and filed. Velyn held her ground; she would get through this.

  The tal Jernas patriarch spoke first. “Today the contract you two have sworn and attested to becomes binding—you have both vowed that from this day forward, for a period of one hundred years, you will share common property, common space, and the rights and duties of common life as stolti within the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim. You further agree to fulfill your familial obligations to present to the stolti for confirmation two infant heirs in good health, of sound minds and bodies, on the first day of their fifth year….”

  He droned on. Then the Artis patriarch took over, going over the details of their contract, making what was private public so that it could be more easily enforced.

  Velyn started feeling sick. She looked around at the people seated at the banquet table, at the witnesses who had come to give the vows social binding. And Wraith was at one of the far tables, sitting passively, his face a blank mask, watching her.

  No. She had thought that she would not have to see him again outside of polite trips to his theater. She had never thought that he would exercise his right to come to her vows ceremony. She had been sure, in fact, that he would stay away—that if he had heard of it at all, he would be so hurt, so crushed, so devastated by what he had thrown away that he would not be able to bear his grief. She’d harbored fantasies that he would be so wounded by her quick recovery and by the brilliant
contract she’d taken that he would come to her, begging to be let back into her life on whatever terms she was willing to offer.

  That face staring at her without emotion was not the face of a man who had come to beg.

  She turned back to the patriarchs, back to her decision, back to the cold, self-absorbed Luercas, and the tears began to slide down her cheeks. She didn’t move to wipe them away; she kept her back to all the people who had come to bear witness to her stupidity. She would not let them see her behaving in this fashion. She stood a little straighter, and breathed as steadily as she could, and pulled her shoulders back. She held her birthright as stolta. She belonged in this house. She belonged in the Aboves. She was not—would never be—some parentless Warrens rat, some young opportunist who’d found shelter and safe haven among generous and unsuspecting people, and had then gone on to take advantage of them for years. She ought to turn around, point to him, and say, “He’s really from the Warrens. He doesn’t belong here.”

  Except, of course, if she said that, it would mean that she knew. It would mean that she had kept this information from people who would have wanted it—and that would put her just one step above Wraith. She wouldn’t be taking vows anymore—but she wouldn’t be living in the Aboves, either. At barest minimum, she could look toward being banished to one of the outlands and living on a remittance. At worst, she could find herself working the mines, stripped of her birthright, no longer a stolta. The stolti covered for each other—but they did not stand for betrayals within their own ranks.

  She said nothing. Sooner or later the truth about Wraith would find its way to the right ears; when it did, she would pretend to have been just as taken in by him as everyone else.

  Wraith watched her take her vows, and felt the last shreds of hope that he had clung to shrivel and blacken within him. He’d known when she told him that she would never take vows with him that he had to let her go—but some part of him kept hoping that she would come to him, that she would tell him she’d made a mistake, and that she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life, and that if it wasn’t safe for the two of them to take vows in a grand public ceremony in Oel Artis, that they could travel to someplace where no one checked papers very carefully, and where they could promise themselves to each other with only paid witnesses.