Page 65 of Play of Shadows

She held up my hand between hers and pressed it to her chin. ‘Whatever happens out there, whatever price must be paid for what my duke has demanded, I will not see you pay it alone.’

I’d heard any number of tales about the Dashini, how deadly and devious they were, but my grandparents had never mentioned any who tried so hardnotto kill.

‘Why risk your life with mine, my Lady?’ I asked her. ‘We are not lovers and you owe me no debts. I am an actor– not even a particularly good one– and you. . . you’re the legendary Black Amaranth. Half the men in this city would drop instantly to their knees out of adoration or—’

‘Or fear?’ she finished for me.

She smiled at me, and I wished that somehow, in some other life, I might have been given the opportunity to learn all her many expressions.

‘You look at me too deeply, Damelas Chademantaigne.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mea—’

‘Thatis why I’m staying,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘Because even though you distrust me and doubtless despise what I am, you are always courteous. I was told you were a coward who fled from a duel and a liar who insinuated himself into this theatre to hide behind its walls, yet whenever another life is at risk, I’ve watched you place yourself between it and danger. Most of all, though, I want to be here because when I’m with you, I find myself wearying of intrigues and dark deeds, and I am beginning to wonder if Beretto might be right.’

‘Beretto? Right about what?’

She kissed the knuckles of my hand before letting go and turning to leave the rehearsal hall.

‘Perhaps this really is a love story.’

Chapter 31

The Second Act

Never before had the Operato Belleza been so packed. Every seat in the house was occupied, even those the crew had been constructing late into the night. The creaking balcony floor above moaned in complaint as twice as many people as it had been built for jockeyed for the best positions.

At last the stagehands raised the eighteen-foot-long poles to ignite the wicks of the brass lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The lights sparkled off the jewellery in the audience, setting a sky’s worth of stars glittering. There were no paupers or last-minute punters tonight, no cheap seats, no complimentary tickets for friends or family of the crew. If any of Pertine’s nobility were absent, it could only be because they were dead, their rotting remains not yet discovered inside their huge mansions.

The stench of the living was almost as bad tonight: sweat mixed with a hundred different perfumes wafting up to the stage, a fug of florals, citruses and spices mixed with the musks of men and animals. Already sweating in the excessive heat, the audience were unwilling to relinquish their carefully chosen finery, so the odiferous cloud lingered in brocades and furs.

What should have been an energised atmosphere felt almostlifeless: there was no gossiping or chattering, no bouncing of feet on the floor nor wiggling of arses on uncomfortable wooden seats– only five hundred pairs of eyes, staring at the stage, waiting.

They’re like an army of the dead come to judge the living, I thought, as spooked by the unnatural silence as the rest of the crew. The stagehands were gripping the curtain cords so tightly their knuckles were white, their palms so sweaty that the ropes threatened to slip just when the moment came to pull. The cast clutched at their pages, lips repeating the same lines over and over, just in case the scrawled ink letters had somehow changed shape at the last minute. Often they looked pleadingly at me, silently begging me to offer some clue as to what would happen next.

I responded with my best, most reassuring smile, which elicited only expressions of sheer dread from my fellow players.

‘Just follow the scene as it’s written,’ Shoville urged us all, coming over to place one hand on my shoulder and the other on Abastrini’s. ‘We begin on the field at Mount Cruxia, where Prince Pierzi and Archduke Corbier are meeting in secret among the bones of the dead for a final attempt to negotiate a truce between their Houses before blood stains this hallowed ground once more.’

‘We know the damned script, you fool,’ Abastrini said.

Shoville was so distracted and anxious that he barely noted the insult. ‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled, squeezing my shoulder like a man hanging from the edge of a cliff. ‘Get the opening right and then whatever happens next is up to the gods.’

‘I will do my best, Lord Director,’ I promised. ‘You’ve my oath on that.’

Poor Shoville, I thought.All he ever wanted was to bring the Operato Belleza back to its glory days. Now all his labours have been washed away by a tide of events beyond the control ofmere theatre directors.

I needed to do better tonight for Shoville, for all of them. I’d had enough of being swept up in the madness of this Veristor’s curse that had placed everyone– this family I was beginning to feel a part of– in such cruel jeopardy. Archduke Corbier would indeed appear on the stage tonight, but it would be the Corbier thatIchose: one convincing enough to walk the knife’s edge between Duke Monsegino’s obsession with authenticity and Shoville’s placating script; one who artfully weaved between comfortable myth and unpleasant truth. The audience would be a little bored, perhaps, but those threatened by yesterday’s performance would be reassured of their power tonight.

The nightmare would come to an end, at least for now.

‘It’s time.’ Abastrini brushed down Pierzi’s gleaming golden armour. ‘Just do your part,’ he said grimly, ‘and I’ll do mine.’

‘Ready, Veristor?’ Shoville asked.

Not in the slightest,I thought, but he deserved better, so I replied, ‘At your cue and by your command, Lord Director.’

Steeling himself, Shoville tugged at the bottom of his rumpled white shirt to straighten it and gave a curt nod to the crew. The players shuffled into the wings, ready for Pierzi and Corbier’s opening dialogue. I followed the Black Amaranth’s gaze, which was trained on one particular seat in the audience.

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