Page 13 of Play of Shadows

‘I can’t leave,’ I admitted at last.

Beretto mistook the confession for resolve and grinned as he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I knew it! You’re an actor through and through. The siren song of this sacred place has shackled your soul to its—’

‘I mean, I can’t leave the city, Beretto. Ever.’

His expression became dubious. ‘If you’re about to claim there’s a witch’s curse on you. . .’

‘The duelling writ I signed against the Vixen? It’s aduella honoria elegis. Should I flee the jurisdiction without facing her, my second will be legally compelled to take my place in the circle.’

‘Who in the world was foolish enough to agree to be your second? No offence, my friend, but you’re not exactly the Saint of Swords and the Vixen’s never lost a duel. Maybe if your grandmother Virany were still alive– the King’s Parry was a legend in the duelling circle. But other than her, who would dare?. . . Oh Hells, man!’

I nodded miserably. ‘My grandfather declared himself my second before I could stop him.’

‘That’s why you never invite him to our performances? Why you keep refusing to introduce me to him?’

‘The further away he stays from me, the safer he’ll be.’

Beretto’s obsession with the lives of the king’s travelling magistrates was no secret, and he took umbrage at my insinuation. ‘Well. . . I mean, the King’s Courtesy might not have been quite the duellist that your grandmother was, but he was still a Greatcoat.’

‘Beretto, the man’s nearly seventy years old! Paedar Chademantaigne hasn’t fought a duel in more than a decade. Hishands shake. The Vixen wants to lure him into the circle; that’s how I got into this mess in the first place. I got word from a court clerk that she was about to issue a formal challenge against him and the only way to stop her was to provoke her into challenging me instead.’

Beretto picked a long, tattered leather coat from the rack and held it up. ‘Why would the finest fencer in the city ruin her reputation by skewering a retired Greatcoat years past his prime?’

‘I don’t know!’ I shouted, unable to contain a year’s worth of shame and frustration any longer. ‘She hates my family, or she hates the Greatcoats, or maybe Ferica di Traizo is a deranged lunatic who picks out her victims at random—’

‘What about a formal apology to her Ladyship?’ Beretto proposed, hanging the leather coat back on its rack. ‘Tradition dictates the plaintiff in an affair of honour call off the duel when restitution is giv—’

‘You think I haven’t tried? I’ve sent a dozen letters– I’ve offered a thousand promises to prostrate myself before the entire city and praise her name to the gods. Not once have her underlings replied other than to smear the word “rabbit” on the back of the stage door in what I’m fairly certain were the ashes of those same entreaties! I’m fucked, Beretto! Absolutely, gods-damned fu—’

Beretto cut me off with a raised forefinger at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

‘That’ll be Shoville,’ he warned. ‘Listen, if he yells at you, it’s a good sign, so just keep your mouth shut.’

‘Right,’ I said, smoothing my shirt and straightening my back, though I had no idea what good it would do me.

‘If he starts pummelling you, that’s even better,’ Beretto went on. ‘Directors hate looking like vindictive pricks, so he wouldn’t push you out of the door covered in bruises in case that makesthe rest of the cast sympathetic to your plight.’

‘What if he’s nice to me?’ I asked, though such an outcome was supremely unlikely at this point.

Beretto let out a long, slow whoosh of air. ‘If he’s nice to you, brother, then you really are fucked.’

A knock at the door, then the creak of the hinges as it swung open. Shoville’s expression betrayed neither anger, nor violence, nor kindness. He looked terrified. ‘Damelas, I’m sorry, but you have to come with me.’

Beretto stepped in to intervene on my behalf. ‘My Lord Director. . .’

I’d never heard him address Shoville by that lofty title.

‘Most esteemed and cherished Directore,’ he added, pouring even more honey on his words, ‘there’s something you must know about Damelas before you fire him. He wasn’t himself, you see. He fell victim to’– in drunken moments, Beretto fancies himself a playwright. Alas, he’s not all that good at it– ‘a spell, my Lord!’ he declared, becoming increasingly animated as he embellished his tale. ‘A hideous, pustule-faced witch—No– no! A warlock! Yes, that’s it– a warlock! Bloody Hells, that’s good.’

My slightly inebriated defender began gesticulating wildly, nearly knocking over a rack of animal costumes as he stabbed a finger at the rear wall. ‘Saw the vile necromancer myself, out in the alley– strange sigils he drew, a circle made of blood poured from the slit throat of a dying cat! “Damelas Chademantaigne,” I heard him intone, his voice colder than a corpse’s heart. “I curse thee with this most foul spe—”’

‘What on earth are you babbling about?’ Shoville asked, looking at Beretto as if he hadn’t heard a word the actor had said. Our usually jovial director was looking so pale, hands trembling at his sides, that I worried he might be having a heart attack. ‘My Lord Director, are you—’

‘You must come with me, Damelas,’ he repeated. A look ofterrible sympathy came to his features. ‘There are soldiers waiting in the lobby. The duke’s personal guards have come to arrest you.’

Chapter 7

The Carriage Ride

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