Page 25 of Play of Shadows

Not suited to this life. Saints, the girl fears for me when it’s herself she should look out for.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t manage to get you a job, Zina. I’d hoped Shoville might—’

‘He said I’ve no talent.’ She cut me off before I could object. ‘The directorewasn’t cruel about it– and he gave me three tears and half a grin. And he says Tolsi shows promise. He’s lettinghim sleep in the props room at night now, so long as he keeps things clean.’

‘What about you, though? That abandoned old wreck of a tenement where you sleep is far too crowded.’

‘The Orchids cleared us out,’ she said with a nonchalant shrug. ‘Said they were commending it for a neighbourhood refuse.’

‘You mean commandeering. Butrefuse?’

She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose, thinking. ‘Might’a saidrefuge?’

I started to laugh, but the mirth died quickly as my guts clenched. How dare the Iron Orchids take away the place where two score or more of the city’s most impoverished and vulnerable had found sanctuary for themselves? For what? Some stupid command post where they could plot which group of refugees or paupers to attack next?

‘They’re posting this around town,’ Zina said, producing a large, crumpled sheet of paper from the layers of rags she wore.

I took the poster from her, feeling the smooth texture between my thumb and forefinger. This was pure linenstock, finer and more durable than the crumbly pulp used for theatre scripts– and much more expensive. I unfolded it and read the large black-letter words at the top. ‘Juridas Orchida?’ I had to rack my brain to remember the archaic Tristian my grandmother had subjected me to in order to translate.

‘Juridasused to mean “articles of justice”,’ I said aloud, ‘and Orchida—’

‘“The Orchid Laws”,’ Zina said authoritatively. ‘That’s what the men posting these around town are calling them.’

The rest was written in the more conventional modern Tristian most of us spoke. There were seven edicts inscribed in rich black ink. I began reading them aloud to Zina, but the commandments sounded so preposterous it was hard to take them seriously. ‘“Vagrants of low morals are to be banished fromour neighbourhoods”? What’s that even supposed to mean?’

‘Refugees,’ Zina replied. ‘Unwed mothers. Petty criminals.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Beggars.’

I went down the rest of the list, which read like a litany of every bully-boy’s complaints about the world. ‘Usury’ was to be banned, meaning money-lenders could be beaten for charging more interest on loans than ‘good honest folk’ felt they should pay. The selling of ale at higher than the usual price was similarly criminalised– as was the closing of taverns before first light.

‘A bigoted drunkard’s idea of justice,’ I murmured.

‘Look at the last one,’ Zina said.

I followed her finger to the bottom of the page. ‘What is “theatrical blasphemy”?’

‘The Iron Orchid told me it meant, “Such plays, performances, songs or stories which demean the noble history of Pertine or otherwise offend the conscience of right-thinking citizens everywhere”.’

‘Well, here’s what I think of a bunch of drunken thugs who go around. . .’ I was about to rip up the paper when my eyes caught the last line, printed in red ink with thick letters at the very bottom. ‘“Let he who would set himself above these laws be crowned in iron”? What does that mean?’

When Zina didn’t reply, I looked up at her face. She’d gone pale.

‘Zina? What’s wrong?’

‘The Orchids caught a thief last night– a foreigner, they said. They. . . they drove iron spikes into his skull.’ She reached up on tiptoes and tapped my left temple, then the centre of my forehead, then the right. ‘One for each Orchid present, so they’re all part of it. Looked like an iron crown when they were done.’

‘Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears,’ I swore, ‘that’sghastly!’

‘They hung his body from a lantern-post before he was evendead,’ Zina went on. ‘Blood dripped down from his eyes. Like tears, I guess.’

Could there be any sound so chilling as a child speaking dispassionately of torments that would surely haunt the dreams of battle-hardened soldiers? How was any of this even possible? How had unaffiliated bands of thugs become so organised– and yet, at the same time, become even more feral?

You’d think Duke Monsegino could take a break from making my life hellish to deal with the monsters infesting his own capital city.

But that thought sparked a new one twice as terrifying:what if the reason the Iron Orchids are so well funded is because they’re secretly working for the duke, ensuring the common folk are too busy hiding to question why a foreigner sleeps inside the Ducal Palace of Jereste?

A drop of water struck me on the forehead, followed by the swift pitter-patter of rain falling throughout the alley.

‘Where are you staying tonight?’ I asked Zina.

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