Player's Ruse (7 page)

“Gwen, my dear.” Makejoye strode into the clearing with all the feigned confidence of a man trying to make something supremely foolish sound wise. “We have a new plan!”

Judging by Gwendolyn Makejoye’s expression as she recognized Rosamund, she didn’t think much of the plan so far. She looked as thin and sour as her husband was thick and juicy, but I had a hunch that being practical for two, perhaps even for eight, might sour anyone. And Makejoye’s explanation, which was in full spate, didn’t appear to change her mind.

It was easy to guess that the other capped and aproned woman was Edith Barker, for she started fussing over Trouble before she even glanced at the rest of us. “What’s the matter with your voice, poor fellow?”

It was equally obvious, as she pushed back her hat to watch Rudy help Rosamund down from the saddle, which of the remaining women was Gloria Glorious. She looked like a woman who played heroines, pretty enough, with long blond hair and the slim grace of a tumbler and dancer. But her expression held none of a heroine’s insipid innocence; the fury of a woman scorned is pale compared to the fury of a woman who has suddenly gone from leading lady to heroine’s sister, best friend, and maid.

“Oh, dear.” The voice was deep for a woman’s, almost furry. I turned to glance at the fourth actress, and my glance became a stare. Her hair was a soft shade between brown and amber, and she evidently went without a hat often, for her face, throat, and the rich swell of her breasts were tinted with gold.

She was taller than I, Michael’s height perhaps, and plump in a way that was very pleasing indeed. My eyes traveled down the curves of her body and back up, almost of their own accord. Her arms and hands, emerging from the fall of lace at her elbows, were round, soft, and dainty.

Her face, also round and soft, looked from Rudy and Rosamund to Gloria with a rueful amusement that spoke of intelligence as well as humor. Then she turned and met my eyes. Hers were the same golden brown as her hair, and I suddenly felt my face heat.

She looked even more amused. “Callista Boniface, Master . . . Fisk? Then from what Hector’s saying, you must be Sir Michael. It sounds like you’ll be joining us, for a time at least, and you’re welcome. But for now”—her eyes turned to Gloria—“I’d better go and explain some facts of life to Glory before she demonstrates just what a bad actress she really is. If you’ll excuse me?” She glided off, like a plump cougar, and I swallowed and turned to meet Michael’s eyes.

“My,” he murmured.

“My, indeed,” I replied. “If she has that kind of impact on an audience, it’s a wonder men don’t rush the stage.”

Michael smiled, but his eyes slid to Rosamund. Rudy had taken her to inspect one of the wagons, and she was exclaiming over how delightful it was. Callista had intercepted Gloria and was trying to convince her to retract her claws. Gwendolyn Makejoye’s glare had faded to exasperated resignation. It seemed we were in, and easier than I’d expect—

A chorus of yaps heralded the appearance of a pack of small, muddy dogs. They poured into camp, skidding to a stop as they saw
their
master and mistress fussing over a stranger. There was a second of eerie silence—then they charged.

It was the most honest display of emotion I’d seen yet.

Michael and the Barkers pulled the brawl apart and got the dogs properly introduced before anyone was bitten. Having talked his wife around, Makejoye went to the back of his wagon and pulled out a chest full of what looked to be half-bound books—though their bindings were loosely stitched, they had no covers. I was curious about the wagon, too.

He soon noticed me looking over his shoulder. “I’m just digging out a few scripts to give you three an audition. You know, I charged Lord Fabian for only an eight-player troupe. With three more players, we can raise the price of our next performance.”

“Assuming any of us does well enough that you’ll let us perform.”

The wagon was roomier than I’d have thought, but every inch seemed to be filled with boxes, baskets, and some clever cabinets built into the wagon’s wooden sides. It even had two small windows, though their panes were the old, thick, round ones, filled with bubbles and distortions. What it didn’t have was beds, or any space to put them that I could see.

“Do you sleep in here?” I asked.

“Only in bad weather.” Makejoye flipped pages on one of his scripts. “In the summer we sleep under the wagons for the most part; in winter . . . Ah, here we are. Come along, Master Fisk. The sooner I discover your talents, the longer I’ll have to modify our play to incorporate them.”

If he could get extra pay for extra players, I had no doubt he’d modify them, no matter how bad we were.

Makejoye assigned each of us a part and had us read the short scene, and he let us keep the scripts so we didn’t have to memorize the lines. He declared the sunlit center of the small clearing to be the stage, and set the ladies’ sewing chairs in front of it for half the audience. The other half, which included himself, Edgar Barker, and (tactfully) Gloria, stood as far away as they could and still see us through the trees, “Because the fellows in the back need to hear, too, you know.”

The scene was fairly standard, with two men competing for the attention of a flirtatious girl. I’ve seen such scenes many times, though the dialogue in this one was witty enough to make me snicker as I read it.

Gwen Makejoye took on the role of stage manager, placing us in the positions she wanted like a housewife arranging furniture. She told us when to move, and where, and then stepped aside to join the rest of our audience and nodded to me to begin.

I pitched my voice to carry. “How pleasant to find you alone, my dear. Or as near alone as makes no difference. Do you . . .”

I suppose the audition could be described as a moderate disaster. It was hard to say whether Michael or Rosamund was more wooden, but at least Michael, after a few reminders, started talking for the farther members of the audience. After the fifth call of “louder, my girl” Rosamund’s eyes began to fill, and Mistress Gwendolyn signaled her husband to stop trying.

I played my part as if it was a con—or not quite, for the better part of pulling off a con is to sound natural. I tried to con them into believing I was an actor, and I must not have lost my touch, for after we’d finished, Makejoye gave me a speculative glance. “Have you done this before, Master Fisk?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, you’ll do. There’s room in the script for the hero to have a best friend—not so many soliloquies that way—and in the end he could bring the sheriff’s men to the rescue . . . or . . . No, that’ll work. As for you, my dear . . .” He threw a fatherly arm around Rosamund’s shoulders. “No, don’t cry, you looked lovely, and I’ll show you a trick or two that’ll have your voice traveling all the way to Huckerston! We’ve all day tomorrow to work together, you and Rudy and I.”

Rosamund straightened her shoulders and blinked her eyes dry. “I’ll work hard, Master Makejoye. I’ll do anything to stay here.”

“That’s a good lass. And as for you, Sir—”

“Just Michael, please.” His voice was full of resignation. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Makejoye laughed. “So you did. And you’re right, it’s crowds for you, lad. Or at least . . . Can you fence?”

Falon brought out the stage swords, which looked real but to my considerable relief had edges blunter than a butter knife’s. They stood me up against Michael, despite my protests, and told me to try, so I lifted the awkward thing and blocked Michael’s first, lazy-looking slash.

His sword whipped around mine, knocking it out of my hand with a force that made my wrist tingle. I made a great show of shaking my fingers and the others laughed. Michael went, good-naturedly, to fetch my sword.

Then they matched Rudy against Michael, saying he was the best swordsman among them. Rosamund clapped her hands in excitement, and both fencers looked at her and assumed identical, fatuous smiles.

Rudy took up a stance that looked better than Michael’s to my untrained eye, and Michael’s first blow was faster than the one he’d aimed at me. The resounding clang as Rudy parried made me glad the swords’ edges were dull.

Rudy had obviously picked up a bit of training somewhere, but noblemen’s sons are taught the sword in earnest. Rudy lasted all of twenty seconds before his sword followed mine into the bushes, and I thought he suppressed a wince as he tried to work the numbness out of his hand.

“Not bad,” Makejoye commented. “In a choreographed fight, you’d do well together. I wonder if I could work in a brigand to attack the heroine’s coach.

Then young Lord Gaspar could . . .”

Makejoye spent the rest of the day revising his scripts and I helped recopy them—not a massive task, since he rewrote only the pages he made changes on and then bound them in with the others, using an awl to pierce the paper.

It was a rather silly story, about a heroic young lord (whose name, by pure coincidence, bore some resemblance to that of the man who was paying for the piece) who falls in love with a beautiful peasant girl and is forbidden by his horrified parents to wed her. After many silly plots to separate them, which now included a brigand’s attack . . .

“Let me guess—the girl is revealed to be noble, rich, and Gifted, and was being raised by the poor farmer for some tremendously silly reason?”

“Don’t be so cynical, Master Fisk.” Makejoye wagged an ink-stained finger. “If it was a tragedy, no one would watch. Her father was accused of conspiring to overthrow the High Liege and died in a flooding river trying to escape, so all his property was forfeit. Evidence turns up to prove he was innocent and it’s really me—that is, the girl’s villainous uncle—who was guilty. The father usually dies at sea fighting pirates, but with what’s going on around here . . .” He shook his head sadly.

The copying got me out of helping with dinner preparation, and Edith Barker was an even better camp cook than Michael. I was amused to see Rosamund don an apron and chop vegetables, which she’d never done for Michael and me. She really was trying. It made me nervous for the meal.

But dinner, a leg of roast pig cooked up with vegetables, and soft fluffy biscuits, was as good as any inn might serve.

And the entertainment was better, for afterward Master Makejoye went into his wagon and came out with a viol case, which I hadn’t noticed that morning.

Michael stiffened as Makejoye pulled the instrument free, and I looked at him curiously. The sun had set as we finished eating, and not having cooked, I knew I’d be called on to help wash the dishes as soon as the water heated. I was pleased at the prospect of some music to lighten the chore.

The viol looked perfectly ordinary, with lamp and firelight glowing on its varnished curves. Of course Michael’s sight wasn’t the same as mine, but surely a fiddle couldn’t be—

Then Makejoye tucked it between his knees and drew the bow across the strings. The soft, pure notes may have started in my ears, but they didn’t stop there—they vibrated in my throat, my belly, my bones. I hardly recognized the melody, though it was a country ballad I’d often heard. I’d just never lived it before.

Gwendolyn Makejoye raised her voice, giving words to the viol’s speechless wail. I’d have thought a human voice, even one as clear and sweet as hers, would have been lost in the intensity of the viol’s sound, but somehow it took her voice with it, giving it the same penetrating impact. Between the two . . .

I was trembling when the music finished, and my throat was tight. Rosamund had tears on her face, and Michael had to swallow twice before he could speak.

“How did you come by such a thing? A magica viol . . . I can’t imagine the sacrifice that must have paid for it.”

“It was enough, I suppose,” said Makejoye softly. The others were going about their chores, far less shaken than the three of us. Exposure, no doubt, lessening the shock. But the echoes of the music touched all their faces. Even Gloria looked content.

“My grandfather was a fiddle maker,” Makejoye went on. “My father played well enough, but he hadn’t the knack with wood that Granda had. At the end of his life Granda’s hands began to stiffen, and he realized he’d be making only one more viol. So he went to a Savant to get the wood, and he paid for it with just one finger—this one.” He lifted his left forefinger and wiggled it. “He could never play again. He never played the instrument he made, but my da played it for him, before he died, and I play it for his memory. Neither of our girls cares much for music—and how that happened, between Gwen and me . . . but there, sometimes these things skip a generation. I’ve a young grandson who’s showing talent, so I don’t think Granda would feel his sacrifice was wasted.”

“What in the world,” I demanded, “are you doing on the road? You could play that for the High Liege’s court—in the great theaters in Crown City or Tallowsport—and charge any fee you’d care to name!”

“So I will,” said Makejoye. “When I’m ready to retire. But there’s other crafts than music, and folk other than lords who care for such things. The deaf can hear this fiddle, can you imagine? It terrifies them at first, but then . . . Surely music, of all the arts, is made to share.”

And share he did, all through the mellow evening. I suppose I washed the dishes, though I have no memory of it. The music still hummed in my bones as I drifted off to sleep. My last thought was to hope Makejoye hid the thing well. All Rosamund’s jewels weren’t worth half its price—though it might be hard to fence.

*   *   *

The next day Master Makejoye made good his promise to work with Rosamund—at first just with her, then in rehearsals that included all of us.

It wasn’t a problem for me—despite Makejoye’s praise of my delivery, my lines were few. Michael played a peasant, whose only dialogue was a constant repetition of “I dunno,” and a brigand who spoke no lines at all. And Rosamund did make progress. By the day’s end, you could hear her voice on the far side of the clearing almost half the time.

Skinday morning Makejoye stayed in camp with the women “to put just a bit more polish on your splendid performance, lass.” The rest of us drove the prop wagon into town and nailed painted panels onto the scaffolding, transforming it into the semblance of two plaster-and-beam buildings with a forest between them. It looked out of place in this town of brick on brick.