Page 12 of Play of Shadows

‘Beretto, what the Hells did Ido?’

Shaking his head, his shaggy red beard trembling, he began to laugh. ‘Brother, you strode right out onto the stage, picked up the sword and said– with what I should note was your most convincing performance to date– “Foul deceiver! You have lied to your people, murdered your enemy’s lover, butchered his children, and now you would slay their father with that same poisoned blade. You called for a herald, you dog? Here stands your messenger! I will travel these lands and see to it that the entire world learns the truth: that you who would make yourself sovereign are naught but the vilest malefactor in all of history!”’

‘That’s not. . .’ I stammered. ‘I. . . I would never have said that!’

But in the deepest corner of my thoughts, I discovered an itch of recognition. I had no memory of uttering those treasonous words, but somehow, the lines sparked an eerie sense of déjà vu in me. This hadn’t been some petty trick played on me– Shoville would as soon burn down the theatre himself as allow the Operato Belleza to be desecrated with such a prank.

What if Beretto’s right, and I’m so sick of hiding from the Vixen that I just unconsciously sabotaged the theatre company that’s keeping me from her clutches?

The historias– the sacred plays– were meant to bind together the people of this city and inspire them with the greatness of their shared past– and I had just committed the unpardonable sin of ruining both the play and the reputation of the Knights of the Curtain.

As the disgruntled audience sullenly made for the exits, I noticed one figure just standing there. She was dressed in flowing burgundy skirts under a tight-fitting black frock coat, her head covered by a scarlet winter cowl at odds with the warm autumn night. Even with her face hidden, my eyes, trained as they were by my duellist grandmother to recognise such things, noted the graceful, feral way she moved.

Lady Ferica di Traizo paused to blow me a kiss– no farewell, but a promise that we would soon see each other again.

Chapter 6

The Costume Closet

I crouched on the floor, knees pressed to my chest, buried behind the mass of costumes hanging from the racks at the far end of the long closet. I used to come here a lot in the months following my provisional acceptance into the Knights of the Curtain, marvelling at the assortment of court gowns, uniforms, suits of tin armour and any number of glittering gossamer shrouds for those playing ghosts and spirits.

After those first perilous nights on stage, stumbling my way through the trifling parts Shoville nervously entrusted to me, I’d discovered a hunger that brought me back over and over to this odd little sanctuary. I’d spend hours rifling through the costumes, imagining myself in the starring roles: the great princes and valiant warriors – even the nefarious tyrants doomed by the gods, who, when played by the right actor, could be imbued with sympathy and even grace. Tonight, however, it was concealment I sought under the ill-fitting tunics beneath a painted sign that readPages & Heralds.

‘Just how long do you suppose you can hide from the Vixen inside a costume closet?’ Beretto asked, pushing aside hangers and holding out a clay flagon. He swished it at me. ‘Come out of there, brother. Let’s get bloody drunk.’

Reflex rather than thirst had me reaching for the flagon, but Beretto abruptly pulled it away. ‘Actually, probably best to keep your wits about you. You might need to flee the city now that you’ve ruined its most beloved historia and practically guaranteed that the Knights of the Curtain will lose our licence for the Operato Belleza to our competitors. Not sure if it’ll go to the Lords of Laughter or the Grim Jesters or even– saints forfend– those artless arse-lickers, the Red Masques.’

I buried my face in my hands. ‘I’ve doomed us all, haven’t I?’

Beretto took a swig from the flagon. ‘Oh, it’s not so bad, really. What theatre company needs a home when there are lovely cold streets out there filled with muggers, murderers and those thespian-loving Iron Orchids just itching to applaud our performances with their fists?’

‘You really believe the duke would be so petty as to take the Belleza away from the Knights of the Curtain just because one incompetent bit-player screwed up his lines?’

‘Well, this Monsegino fellow is new to his throne and I haven’t made his personal acquaintance. . .’ Beretto reached over to the next rack, labelledKings & Nobles, lifted a hanger bearing a set of ducal robes and dangled it beneath his bearded chin. ‘But you did just imply his progenitor was guilty of infanticide in front of a goodly number of the city’s nobility. We were performing a historia, so, legally speaking, you accusing Prince Pierzi of murder constitutes bearing false witness. One would imagine that comes with some sort of fine, at the very least.’

A fine. Prison sentence. Possibly my tongue extracted from my mouth with iron tongs.

‘By the bloody red fingernails of Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears,’ I swore piteously. ‘What do I do now, Beretto?’

He drained the flagon, wiped a sleeve across his mouth and indulged in a lengthy series of burps before suggesting, ‘Youcould go with the fever thing. It does get hot under those lanterns. Actors have been known to—’

‘No one’s going to believe it’s because I had a fever.’ I started banging my forehead against my knees. ‘Saint Dheneph-who-tricks-the-gods, how could I have uttered such nonsense? I don’t remember any of it—’

‘I suppose you could plead insanity,’ Beretto suggested, ‘although I don’t suppose that will save your career. Or your life, come to that. Insanariums tend to be rather unpleasant places, or so I’ve heard. I’d stick with syphilis.’

‘I doubt syphilis is a compelling legal defence against charges of treasonous slander.’ I forced myself to my feet and pushed my shoulders back, trying my best to emulate those brave heroes who always met their fates head-on. ‘At least if the duke has me imprisoned for the next twenty years, I won’t have to face the Vixen in the duelling court.’

‘Unless he decides to forego a trial and send the Black Amaranth after you.’ Beretto stared inside the empty wine flagon as if the answer lay hidden there. ‘Funny name for an assassin. Amaranths are such pretty flowers. The petals look like little daggers.’

‘Beretto, amaranth petals are notoriously poisonous.’

‘Still pretty.’ He turned back to me. ‘Anyway, you could just run, couldn’t you? Wasn’t that your plan when you first came to the Belleza? Lay low long enough for the Iron Orchids to give up on their hunt so that you could flee the city?’

‘It’s not that simple. . .’

‘Sure it is.’ He made a show of pumping his arms. ‘You move your arms and legs like this, see? Works best if you do it very fast.’ He stopped to wag an accusatory finger at me. ‘Unless there’s some other reason you didn’t run when you had the chance?’

I held my tongue. The duelling writ was still sealed and thefewer people who knew its contents, the better. But Beretto had proven to be a far better friend this past year than I deserved. Keeping silent now would feel like a betrayal.

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