Page 30 of Play of Shadows

Just before he reached the imaginary children, his hands reaching out to snap invisible necks, he turned back to the rest of us and, near collapsing in despair, finished with one final, tragic word. ‘Waning.’

I stood there, dumbfounded by this daring interpretation of the jumble of words Corbier was to utter in the third act – a line I hadn’t been able to find any usable meaning in until this very moment. The rest of the cast stared likewise atAbastrini, awestruck not only by his performance, but by the way his actor’s heart refused to yield to the hopelessness of the company’s dire circumstances.

‘I am an actor,’ he said simply. ‘I do not care how poor or grand the lines on the page. I will give them life and meaning through my art, which is more sacred than words. I do not care how many people sit in the theatre. Through my art, which is more sacred than fame or money, I will turn them into hawkers who will run shouting to their friends of what they missed tonight, and tomorrow, I promise you, this house will be full.’ He began walking, briefly taking each person’s hands in his before moving onto the next. ‘I do not care if my part be large or small, for when I tread these boards, however briefly, I know only that the gods will look upon this vessel of their holy art. . .’ He finally came to me and, taking my hand in his, squeezed it. ‘And they will smile.’

But the smile Abastrini gave me– the one only Beretto and I could fully see– was as artful as any part of his performance, for it was a smile that said,This is what atrueactor can do. What you yourself will never achieve. And should you happen to die on stage tonight by some accident, no one will blame me, because what they will remember most is the grace and honour I showed you before the performance began.

‘Knights of the Curtain!’ Teo roared, beaming with youthful pride.

Ornella, forty years his senior, slender as a beanstalk, had a warrior’s smile on her lips when she pumped her small fist in the air. ‘Knights of the Curtain!’

‘Knights of the Curtain!’ the others cheered, thumping each other on the back, cast and crew alike– all save one figure who I noticed standing alone at the far side of the stage.

The Black Amaranth leaned casually against a pillar, dressed in the herald’s uniform of brown leather riding trousers beneath a blue and black coat with a silver sash across the chest. She’dadded one small detail to the costume: a long curved knife in a red lacquer scabbard that I’d never seen in the props room. When she caught me staring, she winked at me.

Beretto observed the eerie exchange and whispered, ‘My brother, this is one night you’d best remember your lines.’

Easy to say, I thought, still watching Lady Shariza.But which lines are the ones she wants to hear, and which are the ones that will get me killed?

Chapter 14

High Art

Shoville, visibly heartened by Abastrini’s speech, made a point of hugging each and every member of the cast and crew, no matter how menial their role, offering his own words of encouragement and support. I’d managed to evade his burst of enthusiasm by taking my place in the wings, peeking past the angled black curtain at the audience and wondering if the Vixen was out there patiently awaiting the failure of this new play. There was no sign of Lady Ferica di Traizo tonight, though, only the faces of surly nobles staring up at the stage in gloomy, irritated silence.

Beretto’s heavy hand clapped me on the back. ‘Don’t let their sour faces trouble you, brother. Behind those squinting eyes and tight-lipped scowls, they’re all bursting with anticipation to witness your performance.’

‘Really?’

‘That, or they’re curious to see what happens when an unknown actor takes to the stage and commits treason by portraying the duchy’s most notorious usurper and child-killer as a hero.’

‘Your inspirational speeches are really coming along,’ I said, turning to pat him absently on the shoulder.

Beretto, now garbed as Pierzi’s principal lieutenant, rubbed his leather-gloved hands together excitedly. ‘Ah, Damelas, thisis what the theatre is meant to be: controversies! Intrigues! Black, bloody feuds that spread from the stage to the streets and beyond!’

‘You realise that sounds horrendous, don’t you?’

‘Theatre is life, Damelas – not the dull, plodding day-to-day, but those moments that rile up a man’s soul and make him demand justice from a world that has forgotten the very meaning of the word!’

A pair of stagehands pushed past us with the golden wooden horse upon which Abastrini would later ‘ride’ onto the stage.

‘You’re the one who should’ve been a Greatcoat, not me,’ I said, watching as the great steed creaked and swayed to a stop.

‘I tried,’ Beretto replied. ‘Spent every silver grin I could scrape together and travelled all the way to Castle Aramor to beg an audience with the king. Twice.’

‘What happened?’

‘He told me not to return a third time unless I’d got it through my thick skull that justice was more than just a rousing song; that a magistrate needs a greater purpose for rendering verdicts than enjoying the sound of his own voice.’

‘That was. . . that was terribly cruel of him.’

‘Ah, well. We can’t all be descended from legendary Greatcoats, you know?’

I hated it when Beretto brought up my ancestry. It felt like a rebuke, like the way my grandmother used to stare at me sometimes when she returned home from her judicial circuits, wondering if in her absence her grandson had finally proved himself worthy of his lineage.

The scent of too much perfume heralded Roslyn as she glided towards us. She looked stunning tonight in the Pertine-blue velvet gown, fitted at the waist and hips, with the long blonde Lady Ajelaine wig, for once perfectly coiffed, and the special maschiera-paints applied to her face more generously thanusual.

Indigo-shadowed eyes turned to Beretto. ‘Darling,’ Roslyn said in a soft, sultry voice, ‘kindly fuck off.’

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