Page 35 of Play of Shadows

Beretto gave me a grin. ‘Might as well be. Come on.’ He ushered me closer to the curtain. ‘Time to take our bows. You and Roslyn gave rather a remarkable performance tonight, my friend.’

I resisted. ‘The rest of the play. . . How did you all perform it without me? How long was I out?’

‘A few minutes, no more,’ Beretto said. ‘Shoville halted theplay. I suspect the audience may be wanting their money back, to say nothing of what Duke Monsegino will do to us when he hears about this.’

‘Quickly now,’ Shoville said, pushing and prodding everyone into positions for the bow. ‘Brave faces, everyone!’

With a nod to the stagehands, the director signalled for the curtain to rise.

The entire audience were on their feet, and though they filled only a third of the house, still every eye was cast upon the stage, searching for the cause of their unrest. When they found me, their clamour died out and a hundred of Jereste’s most illustrious citizens stared at me in mute silence.

Hells. . . did they like it? Hate it? What’s happening?

Shoville shoved me forward. Roslyn was suddenly at my side and the two of us stepped out to the front of the stage. She grabbed my hand, leading me into our bows, once, twice, thrice.

I started to step back but she crushed my fingers to keep me in place. ‘Keep bowing until they fucking applaud,’ she whispered.

As we bowed for the fourth time, I took the opportunity to look behind us. I’d lost track of Lady Shariza. She was now standing a few feet back with the rest of the cast. Her frown was anxious– a state to which she was clearly unaccustomed because her features appeared entirely unfamiliar with how to frame the expression. Her attention was focused on a spot near the back of the auditorium.

She’s waiting for something. A signal. . .

I turned to the silent crowd, seeing nothing unusual, only the usual extravagant clothes and jewellery glinting under the lights in the expensive seats; further back, the dull greys and browns of more drably attired patrons.

That’s where Shariza keeps looking, but for what?

A brief flash of silver—

A blade?No, it had been small and round. A coin, then?

When I looked back at Shariza, her right hand had disappeared behind her back, as if she were about to take a bow with the rest of the cast. But actors traditionally bowed with thelefthand behind and the right forward. That’s when I remembered what she kept sheathed at the back of her belt.

Saint Ebron-who-steals-breath. . . The Black Amaranth has just been ordered to execute me right here in public!

By instinct more than intent, I drew the stage sword from the scabbard at my side. Roslyn gripped my other hand tightly, her angry glare demanding to know what the Hells I was doing. I was wondering the same thing.

A wooden stage sword in the hands of an amateur against the steel blade of a Dashini assassin?

All those hours my grandmother had spent teaching me to fence, hoping I would one day show the courage to fight for myself, insisting I could be a skilled swordsman if only I would try a little harder. . .

I hope you’re watching now, Grandmother.

The audience, anticipating some grand flourish to complete my performance, suddenly broke out of their stunned silence. From the clamour they’d been making earlier, I’d expected outrage, threats, satisfaction demanded, but instead, they were. . .

Saints, they’re clapping!

The applause was thunderous, rich and poor alike roaring their approval of the performance– cheering forme?

‘Brava! Bravasi! Bravalisimo! Ultimi magnificanto!’

Not once in my brief career at the Belleza had I witnessed such unbridled adulation, nor conceived of ever being its cause.

At least I’ll die a star of the stage.

I shook free of Roslyn’s grip and spun to face the Black Amaranth, grim determination rising up in me. Every day of the past year it had felt as if a pack of bloodthirsty hounds were stalking me, held at bay only by sheer luck and the kindness ofa company of actors who’d given me a home. Now the hounds were done waiting, and so was I.

Shariza came forward, right hand still secreted behind her back. In a blink of an eye, that dagger of hers would slide from its scabbard to be sheathed in my heart. I brought my gold-painted wooden blade up high. A diagonal slash was my best hope of forcing her back just long enough for Beretto to realise what was happening and intervene.

There was a momentary break in the applause– almost a hiccough– as the audience noticed the actor playing Corbier was about to attack the poor herald. I couldn’t worry about my reputation for gallantry right now. As Shariza bridged the distance between us, I braced for the sudden sharp pain of a dagger being plunged between my ribs.

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