Page 4 of Play of Shadows

That’s it for me then, I thought helplessly.Just my bad luck that I’ve stumbled into the one theatre in the city where the Directore Principale bothers to show up for rehearsals.

‘Right then,’ said the leader of the Iron Orchids. He nodded to two of his henchmen, who grinned in response and, with entirely too much eagerness, advanced on me.

‘A moment.’

The voice was so soft, so unexpectedly gentle, that it took a moment for me to realise it had come from the burly red-haired man, Beretto. There was an oddly whimsical look in his eye as he stared down at me. ‘Your family name is Chademantaigne? Truly?’

‘What’s a Shad-a-man-tayn?’ asked Teo.

‘A Greatcoat,’ Beretto replied, ‘but not justanyGreatcoat. Our new friend here appears to be a descendant of one of the most celebrated duelling magistrates in history!’

The leader of the bravos took another step, his three-foot-long single-edged sidesword held ready to thrust as his free hand reached for my throat.

I’m not letting them take me,I swore to myself as I prepared for the bite of that blade.If I must die, let it be in a place like this, where grand tales of courage and daring were once told, not some cold and brutal duelling court.

But then a strange kind of miracle happened. It wasn’t the kindlike in heroic sagas, where a magic axe or a great flying eagle appears just when you need it, but far rarer: the actor, Beretto, a stranger with no cause to help an obvious liar who’d snuck inside his home to cheat his way out of a duel, stepped between me and the twelve mercenaries.

Despite their greater numbers, the Iron Orchids hesitated. Their leader, forced to tilt his head back to meet the big man’s gaze, warned him, ‘Best you back off,player.’

‘What in all the Hells are you doing, Beretto?’ the director asked.

‘Forgive me, Lord Director,’ he replied evenly, and his right hand reached surreptitiously to the hilt of a short, curved and very genuine-looking blade sheathed at the back of his belt. ‘Have you forgotten you hired our new colleague. . . um. . .’

‘Damelas,’ I supplied quickly.

‘Really?’ he asked.

I nodded. My given name isn’t of any particular consequence unless you happen to know the history of the Greatcoats. Damelas Chademantaigne, my distant forebear, was reputed to have been the first of the King’s sword-fighting magistrates to take up the long leather duelling coat that became their mantle of office.

‘Right,’ Beretto went on, seamlessly, ‘as I was saying, Lord Director, you hired Damelas here for the role of the herald, remember? We can’t very well put on a historiawithout one– therefore, with much regret, we must invoke the operato’s prerogative to withdraw him from any legal disputes that might interfere with the show.’

The director tilted his head sideways to stare at me. ‘I recall no such thing. When did I—?’

‘Enough!’ interrupted the leader of the Iron Orchids. His underlings were glaring at him dubiously, their expressions suggesting they might be reconsidering his qualifications to bossthem about. ‘No one gives a fuck about some obscure theatrical entitlement, and no one’s going to stand in the way of us retrieving our fugitive. This one’s bound for the Vixen’s den tonight!’

Beretto stepped aside, and I assumed he’d gone as far as he could on my behalf and now I was properly screwed. I panicked, tried to take my first step on what would undoubtedly be a shorter run than the last, only to collapse while choking back a scream of agony courtesy of my now visibly swollen ankle. I was saved a swift and unpleasant face-first encounter with the oak floorboards when Beretto grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me upright.

‘Well,’ he went on as if nothing had happened, ‘I suppose if our esteemed Directore Principale has decided that the ancient privileges of the theatre no longer hold sway in the sacred city of Jereste. . .’

The leader of the bravos gestured for him to move aside, then signalled for two of his fellows to take me away– but Beretto’s words must have contained some ancient magic incantation, and one even more potent than the sort that turns perfectly courageous fugitives into cowering rabbits, for they transformed the unprepossessing director into a raging dragon.

I half expected him to start spitting fire as he commanded the bravos, ‘Step. Back. NOW!’

The trio of Orchids halted their advance, which was apparently not sufficient for the director.

‘Anyone whoisn’tan actor in the Company of the Knights of the Curtain,’ he began, every consonant cutting like a sword’s blade, ‘will answer to me, Hujo Shoville, Directore Principale of the Operato Belleza, the greatest theatre in the greatest city in the world. Make no mistake: before the night is out, I willpersonallysee to it that any such knaves will find themselves on their knees in front of the Duke of Pertine himself. By morning, those whodared test my will shall find themselves exiled for ever to that filthy, barbaric wilderness that is the world outside Jereste’s fair walls– but not before they have been dragged, bound, gagged and tarred through the streets, so that their fellow unwashed denizens may hurl upon them such refuse as shall clothe them on their final journey into the void!’

You had to admire the unwavering determination the leader of the bravos displayed in his zeal to drag me back to the courthouse: even in the face of the little director’s flurry of verbal thrusts, he attempted one last parry. Holding up the metal brooch on his collar, he declared, ‘You can’t threaten us! We’re the Iron Orchids!’

Shoville, who had clearly been a passionate if perhaps melodramatic actor in his own day, grabbed the end of the nearest bravo’s blade and pulled it to his chest. ‘Then strike, you blackguards– put steel to your words and let’s you and I meet the good God Death together!’

Still clutching his iron orchid, their leader stammered, ‘But. . . but. . . you said it yourself: this man isn’t even one of your actors—’

‘I said no such thing!’ Shoville roared imperiously. He let go of the bravo’s sword and clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘Look closely, you near-sighted nincompoops, for before you stands my latest discovery: a veritable star in the making. My newest protégé, Dam. . . Damo. . .’

‘Damelas Chademantaigne,’ Beretto offered.

‘Shut up,’ the director muttered. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ He advanced on the bravos, forcing them to yield the field or murder him in cold blood, and as the last of them backed out of the rehearsal hall, he declared, with furious conviction and improbable certitude, ‘Mark this day, you ignorant poltroons, for I’ll lay odds against every pauper’s penny in your purses that by this time next year, Damelas Chademantaigne will be themost famous actor in the entire duchy!’

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