Page 103 of Play of Shadows

‘He. . . I-I saw Hujo r-run back into the b-building– I th-thought he’d lost his m-mind, but he was g-going for the girl. I told him. . . I told h-him he was mad, it was t-too late to save her, but he wouldn’t listen. Heneverfucking listened. Something fell on me– a beam, I think– and I couldn’t get up, but Shoville. . . The damn thing was on fire, but he got it off me anyway– his hands must’ve been burned through to the bone. I tried to pull him out with me, but he– he p-pushed me away. He swore the smoke wouldn’t be so bad in the basement, so the girl would surely be alive. Clever bastard, Shoville, he always was. He soaked one of the old curtains with the bucket for cleaning the stage– he g-got her out of there, but then. . . then he. . .’ His words trailed off and he hung his head, still weeping.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, knowing it wasn’t and it wouldn’t ever be again. ‘Just. . . . just breathe, Ellias.’

Around us people were shouting orders, organising the soldiers, residents and onlookers alike into a bucket brigade to douse the flames, but Abastrini was determined to finish his confession.

‘One of the Orchids had taken refuge down there when the fire got bad. He followed Shoville up, tried to grab the curtain from him. Saint Zaghev knows, we could all have survived if he’d just. . .’

He broke down again, but after a moment, he snarled, ‘That bastard Orchid stabbed Hujo in the back.’

He struggled to his feet, awkwardly grabbing at Beretto’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘Are there any of those fuckers left?’he demanded. ‘Someone get me a damned sword—’

‘It’s done,’ I told him, rising to press a hand against Abastrini’s broad chest. ‘Vengeance doesn’t. . . We can’t bring back the dead, not with blades any more than with tears.’

Abastrini’s rage sagged and crumbled, leaving behind only misery. ‘The last thing I said to Hujo. . .’ His words were almost a plea. ‘I swore that I would see him voted out as Directore Principale– even though he and I started the company together, even though he always tried to make things right with me. I called him craven to his face a hundred times and every time he’d bow and scrape and try to calm me down. I thought him a coward, but he. . .’ Abastrini stared at me pitifully, desperate for some sort of reassurance. ‘He was so very brave, wasn’t he?’

‘Brave as any knight,’ I agreed. ‘A true Knight of the Curtain.’

A cheer rose up from the soldiers– not for my declaration, but for the fire they’d finally got under control. No doubt they would return to the palace and tell anyone who’d listen how they’d heroically saved the lives of a group of poor, pathetic players caught up in a battle they could never have won. Their recounting would never mention how Beretto, armed only with a blunt, rusty axe, had taken down a half a dozen armoured bully-boys, nor would anyone hear of the crew who’d made battering rams of a stage set and smashed through the barricaded doors meant to ensure the entire company burned to death. And no one would ever know that an unassuming, middle-aged, pot-bellied director named Hujo Shoville had rallied a ragtag company of players to charge dozens of armoured warriors, then walked calmly back into the conflagration to rescue a street girl he’d known less than a week.

The soldiers began to sing out of tune, a song about honour and glory, and I found I despised them almost as much as the men who’d destroyed the Operato Belleza and stolen the dreams of everyone who’d ever stood upon its stage.

Violet Dukes and Iron Orchids. May they all be wedded in the fires of the seven Hells.

‘Damelas,’ Lady Ajelaine called to me softly, ‘you must come to me.’

Not, not Ajelaine, you idiot. Shariza. What’s wrong with you?

I turned and saw the Black Amaranth was standing not two feet away, studying me even as she held a hand out to me. I supposed my anger must be written as plainly on my face as the Belleza’s sorrow was now for ever inscribed upon the scarred remains of her once mighty walls.

Whatever emotions Shariza was feeling were impossible to discern. No doubt spies learned early on to mask such things. Still, I thought I sensed concern, perhaps even affection between us, and so I steeled myself to hear her tell me how sorry she was for the losses we had suffered this night.

‘We have to go,’ she said.

‘Go? Go where?’

She looked away for the briefest instant– just long enough for me to see right through her.

‘Duke Monsegino,’ I said. ‘He dispatched you here to retrieve me, didn’t he?’

‘As soon as word came of the attack, he allowed me to bring his guardsmen. In return, yes, he commanded that I bring you back with me.’

The smile that came over me was bitter, but genuine. I felt almost grateful now, for I had been certain I would never be able to convey the full depths of my displeasure to Monsegino and all the other dukes of this world.

I turned and began walking down the alley.

‘Damelas?’ she called out to me.

I turned back briefly and gave her a terse bow of farewell. ‘Tell his Grace I decline his invitation.’

Chapter 50

The Summons

I had no destination in mind, only a determination that, for once, I would defy the natural order of the universe that said men like Monsegino and Corbier set the course of history, and the rest of us had no choice but to play the parts assigned to us.

Player.Such an odd word, really, implying not simply a participant in a game, but one who made choices and had a stake in winning, who set out a strategy and followed it, clasping hands together excitedly to see if, in the end, they would triumph. But an actor does notplaythe game; our destiny is already determined by lines writ on paper, our final words chosen by others long before we’re given the chance to utter them.

We’re not players at all, I thought bitterly.We’re just pieces for others to move as they will.

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