Page 6 of Play of Shadows

‘Twelve,’ Zina corrected angrily, pressing her attack with even greater gusto.

‘Ha! You’re a liar!’ chortled Vadris the drug-pedlar. The young man’s heavy jowls quivered with satisfaction as he arranged dozens of tiny glass vials on the faux velvet interior of the wooden box strapped against his ample belly. ‘Guess you’re nobetter an actor than that floppy-haired bit-player over there is a duellist!’

So much for my efforts to share a little bit of the magic of the theatre with those never allowed inside its walls because they couldn’t afford a ticket. Having Vadris there only increased my frustration: the drug-pedlar was a tick in fancy clothes who feasted on the blood of his hosts and left nothing but a nasty itch in return. He pretended to share the camaraderie of the alley-rats, yet never failed to belittle and demean them at every opportunity. There were rumours that he was expanding his business from hawking vials of pleasure-peppers and dreamweed to offering rent-boys and girls to his favourite customers.

‘Could pass for twelve with the right make-up, though,’ he murmured, eyeing Zina as she continued to harry me mercilessly with her rapier. ‘Maybe even thirteen.’

Bile rose in my throat and with it, a reckless fury that threatened to wipe away twelve months of sincere efforts on my part to avoid provoking anyone to stick a blade in my back.

‘Keep ogling the girl like that, Vadris, and I’ll blacken your eyes for you!’

‘Aha!’ Zina cheered, her freckled, mud-specked face beaming with victorious mischief. ‘That’s not the line! Now who’s forgetting to stay in character,Prince Pierzi?’

‘Best you not threaten me or my business, oh “Knight of the Curtain”,’ Vadris warned me. He rubbed his knuckles on the grey metal brooch newly adorning the lapel of his garish blue brocade coat. ‘Joined up with the Iron Orchids, I ’ave. We ain’t afraid to fight for the workin’ man’s right to earn his living.’

Iron Stink-Blooms is more like it, I thought, but managed to keep from saying it out loud. The city was getting crueller by the day. In the poorer districts, there were beatings and even murders every night, and now these damned Iron Orchids werecropping up like weeds on every street corner.Who in the Hells gave them the right to enforce their so-called ‘citizen justice’ on those barely surviving at the margins?

Grey Mags snorted. ‘More like fightin’ for his right to get drunk and parade through the streets demanding the duke open more alehouses.’ She looked up from her knitting. ‘Who recruited a lazy lump like you, anyway?’

Vadris looked oddly discomfited by the question. He tried to recover his composure with a smarmy smile, bringing his thumb to his lips in an odd gesture. ‘Shhh. . .’ he whispered loudly. ‘Can’t go revealin’ the secrets of the Orchids to a bunch of alley-rats now, can I?’

‘Ha!’ Mags barked, spotting the drug-pedlar’s unease. ‘You see that? Vadris don’t even know who recruited him! Probably some ’weed addict tricked him into giving up a free vial!’

Their laughter enraged the drug-pedlar, who drew himself to his full– if not very impressive– stature and warned, ‘Just you wait and see!’ Jabbing a stubby finger at each of them in turn, he declared, ‘Times are changin’ in Jereste. You mark my words: the Iron Orchids don’t take no shite from the Violet Duke with his so-called reforms, so you can bet we won’t take any from a bunch of worthless alley-rats!’ He turned his glare on me, his mouth widening in a toothy grin. ‘You think me mates ’ave forgotten about the ’alf-an-ale player who scurried away from a lawful duel? Them “theatrical prerogatives” you hide be’ind? Well, just you remember: they only protect you from the Vixen so long as you’re officially part of the operato’s company– so guess what ’appens when your contract runs out. . .Rabbit?’

My mouth turned dry as dust, but I didn’t even get the chance to fumble for a retort because suddenly Zina struck my rapier with such force that it flew from my hand and went clattering on the cobblestones behind me. The worn heel of my right boot slipped and I fell backwards, landing unheroically on my arse.That’s when I felt the stinging wound on my forearm where Zina’s tip had pierced my skin– and worse, the sleeve of the billowing Lord’s shirt I’d borrowed from the costume room without permission. The bright bloom of blood on the white silk filled me with horror, though not nearly as much as the squeal of rusty hinges behind me.

‘What in the name of the good Gods Love and Craft is going on out here?’ boomed the irate voice from the open stage door.

I looked up at my employer– quite possibly soon to be myformeremployer– looming over me.

‘Now, who’s this paunchy blatherer supposed to be?’ asked Grey Mags, slapping her knitting needles onto the cobblestones in frustration. ‘There’re too many characters in this play, if you ask me!’

‘I, madam, am Hujo Shoville, Directore Principale of the Operato Belleza, home to the Knights of the Curtain and the stage upon which the greatest plays in all of history have seen their finest performances—’

‘What, that shithole?’ the old man next to Mags asked, pointing to the rear of the theatre.

Truth be told, the Operato Bellezahadseen better days. The Lords of Laughter in their littleteatrodown the street now drew bigger crowds than the Knights of the Curtain. Even the Grim Jesters were outselling us of late.

I rose to my feet, hastily hiding my bleeding arm behind my back. ‘Forgive me, Lord Director, we were just—’

‘Is that one ofmyprops being swung about willy-nilly by that tangle-haired imp?’ Shoville demanded. He reached over to retrieve the rapier, but Zina showed him the sharp end.

‘Away, thou villainous valet,’ she said, giving the blade a flourish.

Shoville frowned. ‘Valet?’

‘Varlet,’ I explained. ‘Sir, if you’ll allow me to. . . You see, wewere– that is to say,Iwas– simply promoting tonight’s play, as you so often tell us is expected of your actors.’

‘By giving away my props so they can be sold for liquor and pleasure-peppers?’

‘Don’t drink liquor, don’t use no drugs,’ Zina said, keeping the point at Shoville’s belly. ‘Don’t take no shite from pompous arseholes, neither.’

Saint Ebron-who-steals-breath, I swore silently,I know you’re supposed to be dead yourself now, but if you could see your way to killing me before this gets any worse, I’ll be eternally in your debt. . .

‘You. Damelas’– the director turned away from the girl– ‘will retrieve my props, make damned sure you polish and straighten the blades, and. . .’ He paused and leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. ‘Whyare you hiding your arm behind your back?’

He didn’t wait for an explanation but grabbed me by the wrist and spun me around. ‘Blood!’ he declared, his strident denunciation echoing across the alley as though this were the play’s climax. ‘You shall have this resewn and cleaned to perfection by a proper seamstress – and from your own wages, mind!’

---