Page 73 of Play of Shadows

Monsegino turned back to the stage and this time focused his gaze on Shoville. ‘My Lord Director, can I assume that at the next performance– shall we say. . . hmm, what? Two days hence?– we shall at last witness the climax? For I’m sure we are all looking forward to your own special staging of the Battle of Mount Cruxia.’

That set off renewed roars of agreement from the audience.

‘Who doesn’t love a good bloodbath?’ asked one old codger whose gilded coat hung loosely on his crooked frame.

The younger noblemen on either side cheered raucously.

Shoville glanced helplessly at me, then bowed to the duke. ‘Why, of course, your Grace– all goes according to our script.’ He wagged a finger daringly. ‘No hints, though. You’ll all have tocome back the night after tomorrow to witness the finalé of. . .The Last Days of the Red-Eyed Raven!’

‘Damn,’ Beretto muttered behind us. ‘Good title.’

A slight woman in the audience called out, ‘But there was no performance on the schedule for the day after tomorrow! We’ve had no chance to buy tickets! I wish to purchase mine now– and for my sister and her husband.’

‘No doubt so she can lord it over them,’ Beretto quietly speculated.

‘My good lords and daminas, gentlemen and ladies,’ Shoville called out, no longer able to hide his despair, ‘you see we can fit no more seats in this theatre. We cannot sell you more than one ticket apiece.’

‘Why not?’ a stately, middle-aged man in expensive finery asked, pushing past his fellows to saunter down the one remaining aisle towards the stage. ‘If a ticket is worth more to me than another, well then, let silver be the measure of our desire.’ He doled several coins from his purse into his palm and tossed them onto the stage with a supercilious smile. ‘Orgold.’

Before Shoville could speak, the entire audience started rushing the stage, shoving each other in their efforts to offer up their money first. Among the coins clattering everywhere were jewels, hastily pulled from ears or necks or fingers.

‘Saint Ebron-who-steals-breath,’ Shoville muttered, and gestured to the ushers to start writing out tickets while we kept the loot from rolling off the stage.

‘Have any of you ever even seen that much money in one place?’ Teo asked, wide-eyed and breathless, as we watched the mayhem.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Rhyleis holding the guitar Shoville had reluctantly provided. Unlike everyone else, she appeared neither troubled by recent events, nor greedily excited by the largesse being showered onto the stage.

‘I was wondering, Master Veristor, if you might provide some insight into the next scenes so that I can compose something suitable for the musicians to play during the climax.’

‘How like the Bardatti,’ Shariza observed, her words thick with derision– and yet I could have sworn a trace of anxiety lay beneath. ‘To thinkanyonewill care what the musicians are playing when the mob comes with torches and ropes.’

Rhyleis grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. ‘Ah, the Pink Pansy– or is it the Beige Tulip? Shouldn’t you be off stabbing someone in the back?’

‘Oh, this is wonderful stuff,’ Beretto interrupted. ‘Let me fetch paper and quill so I can get some of this down: a Bardatti and a Dashini begin as mortal enemies, sworn to each other’s destruction, only to discover they’re long-lost sisters at the end. A comedy, I think. . .’

The wordless stand-off was broken by Shariza, who nonchalantly dropped her hand to the hilt of her rapier and announced, ‘I must away. The duke will have orders for me– and no doubt for all of you.’

‘Run along then, dear,’ Rhyleis said sweetly. ‘Wouldn’t want your master to have to whistle for you twice, would we?’

Shariza ignored the slight, but after she left, I took Rhyleis aside. ‘You realise if sheisa Dashini, she can kill you a hundred different ways before you even notice death has come for you?’

Rhyleis snorted. ‘A Dashini getting the better of a Bardatti? Are you too trying your hand at comedy, Damelas Chademantaigne? Because you’re not very good at it.’ She plucked a few notes on her guitar. ‘I could play a melody that would make the Black Amaranth forget her own name, or whistle a tune that would have her sinking to her knees, pissing her trousers, while weeping with such sorrow as to make the most hardened killer worthy of pity.’

Even an amateur actor recognises braggadocio when he sees it.For all her boasting, Rhyleis was almost certainly full of shit.

Beretto, however, was utterly captivated. ‘I must say, brother,’ he declared, beaming at me, ‘out of this entire collection of impressively homicidal damsels you’ve been courting, I find this foul-mouthed one the most enchanting of all.’

Rhyleis stepped up to the big man, holding her guitar as if about to club him with it, for all she was dwarfed by his size. ‘Refer to me as part of anyone’scollectionagain, you bumbling melodramatist– you incoherent chewer of scenery– and you will discover that those other women are no more dangerous than a stubbed toe compared to whatI’lldo to you.’

Beretto’s smile disappeared. His shoulders squared, fists clenched. He gazed down at this slip of a woman who’d just threatened him.

Despite his gentle nature, Beretto wasn’t one to take such direct challenges lightly. More importantly, I’d never seen him tolerate anyone, regardless of their beauty, accusing him of being melodramatic.

Suddenly he winked at Rhyleis, then turned to me. ‘Oh, I do adore this one, brother. May I keep her?’

Rhyleis groaned before turning to one of the stagehands. ‘You– Grigo? Strange name. You should choose another. In the meantime, guard this instrument with your life. It’s a sacred artefact more valuable than this theatre– more than this whole city, in fact.’ She tossed her guitar negligently through the air and turned her back on poor Grigo, who looked like he was about to have a heart attack as he scrambled to catch it with his one remaining hand before it could hit the floor.

‘That’s the same crap guitar Shoville’s had gathering dust backstage for ten years,’ Beretto observed as Grigo cradled it, sweating.

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