Reign (54 page)

~ * ~

A half hour later a live cast began to assemble on the stage of the Venetian Theatre for the first time in a quarter of a century. Quentin, a navy cashmere sweater tied casually over his shoulders, came down the aisle with Dennis. "Do you want to talk to them first?"

Dennis shook his head. "No. You just go ahead."

"But, Dennis, it's your show, your theatre, you don't want to welcome them?"

"I'd really rather not, Quentin. You just go ahead and do it, all right?"

Gathering everyone to the first few rows of seats, Quentin welcomed them to the theatre, gave them a brief history of the place, omitting the recent tragedies, told them where the rest rooms, coffee pot, and Coke machines were, then had Curt pass out rehearsal schedules.

"The first scene today, as you hopefully remember," Quentin said, smiling, "is two-seven. We'll start right at the end of
Kronstein's
'Take What Is Mine,' and rehearse the segue to the crowd scene. We'll have the scenery coming in the middle of the week. For now, Curt will show you the entrances and exits. Okay, people, let's get to places."

When the chorus went to the stage, the theatre became filled with life, color, sound. Dex
Colangelo's
fingers roamed up and down the keyboard of the freshly tuned Steinway in the orchestra pit. Dancers tugged up legwarmers, stretched in their leotards, singers warbled triads and octaves, Quentin laughed, clapping people on the shoulder, techies scurried as they always scurry, and Dennis thought that maybe everything would be all right now, that the magic of the theatre could banish that other, darker magic. Glorious illusion had returned to the Venetian Theatre's stage to replace the dread reality that had darkened it.

As he sat watching the dancers and singers work, he felt happy again, as though he was back where he belonged, doing what he should have always been doing. It was the theatre, and the long years he had spent in it had done nothing to diminish his affection for it. In that moment, he loved the life as he loved nothing else. Then he thought of the Emperor, and wondered if he was watching, and how he could stand in his evil pride against such an affirmation of joy and life as was on the stage at that moment.

"Take that, you son of a bitch," Dennis whispered, and felt his tiny smile grow larger as the music increased in volume, the harmonies blended, the players moved as one, until he was grinning, unafraid, grinning at the grim face of death he knew was hiding somewhere in the shadows of the theatre.

But the shadows would fade, wouldn't they? With song and dance and laughter, they would fade and be replaced by glorious light. It always happened that way in the books and the movies and the stories, didn't it? Christ, it
had
to happen that way, it just had to.

They worked the number through several times, getting used to the new stage floor, the acoustics and geometry of the space. Curt called a break, and the cast relaxed, got coffee, Cokes, sat on the apron, cooled down in a dozen different ways. At the end of the five, Quentin waved to Dennis. "We'll go on with the scene, yes?"

Dennis nodded and got to his feet. For a moment a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he clutched the arm of the seat, but it passed, and he took a deep breath, walked down the length of the row, and up onto the stage of the Venetian Theatre, where he had first become what he was.

He stepped over to the stage right prop table and strapped on his scabbard, pulling out his saber to examine it. The cutting edges were dull, but still capable of inflicting a wound, and the point, though slightly rounded, could pierce flesh nonetheless. The weapon was just like that of Wallace Drummond, with whom Dennis would fight the climactic duel at the show's end. Quentin, besides being a Tony Award winning choreographer, was also an expert fencer, and had staged duels for half a dozen Broadway shows and many more regional theatre productions. He had choreographed the swordplay for the revival, and had worked for several hours with Dennis and
Drummy
in New York, using wooden canes to block the moves slowly and carefully, safety always being the major factor. He avoided thrusts, except when they were absolutely necessary.

"Slashes," he had told them, "can be avoided or parried even by the beginning swordsman. And if they land there usually isn't much harm done. But a thrust can injure badly. That's why we use them seldom, and why we should know precisely when they're coming."

Dennis slid the saber back into the scabbard, and walked onto the stage, where
Drummy
and Quentin were waiting for him. Dan Marks, the actor playing Kruger,
Kronstein's
henchman, was standing stage right, where Dennis's entrance would occur. Marks, a short, stocky actor, was nervously sliding his own saber in and out of its scabbard. He stopped long enough to smile at Dennis, then fell back into the routine. He looked, Dennis thought, almost scared to be on the stage, and he wondered if Dan was nervous about the scene, or about the stage on which they were playing it.

"All right, gentlemen," Quentin said. "We'll start with Dennis's entrance — quiet please, people! We're rehearsing!" he added for the others, who were making more noise than was usual for breaks. They quieted quickly, however, at Quentin's request. "Let's start with your line, `What in God's name,' all right?"

The three actors got into position. The jovial Drummond put on the dour character of
Kronstein
in an instant, standing stage center and looking upstage and down, as he would be when the set was on stage. Marks, as Kruger, moved right center, facing Dennis, who was standing right, only a yard from the wings.

"We're on stage now," Quentin reminded them, and Dennis felt the words addressed to him in particular. "So let's see some emotion. Please don't mark it, I want it full out, yes? Begin."

The scene was the climactic one in which the Emperor Frederick finds his half-brother
Kronstein
about to impersonate him in front of the populace, and announce his intent to wed Maria of
Borovnia
. Furious, Frederick cuts his way through Kruger to
Kronstein
, who decides his only step is to kill Frederick and take his place permanently.

Dennis shut his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the feelings, the emotions he had counterfeited a thousand times, trying to become the Emperor Frederick once again. He opened his eyes and strode forward.

"'What in God's name are you about!'" he cried. Or tried to cry. What came out, instead of an angry, imperious shout, was a weakly barked series of words that descended in a mealy whine. It was no worse, but certainly no better, than Dennis had done in the New York rehearsals.

"'About,'" Marks went on, snarling the line, "`to announce your future, your majesty.'

"'You've returned too early, Frederick,' " said Drummond as
Kronstein
. "'And you've gone too far,
Kronstein
,'" said Dennis flatly. "`Get away from that balcony.'"

"'Stop him, Kruger. Don't harm him, but stop him.'"

Marks drew his saber and advanced on Dennis
en
garde
. Dennis fumbled with his blade, unsheathed it, and tried to go into the quick flurry of moves that would end with his slapping his blade under Marks's upstage arm to simulate a fatal thrust.

But his movements were sluggish, and he dropped the sword to his side in frustration even before Quentin was able to stop the scene. "Okay, Dennis, you remember the moves?"

Dennis nodded. "I'm sorry. Not loosened up yet.”

“Let's start from the same place then."

They did. Dennis gave his lines with no more life than before, the sabers were drawn, the movements barely gotten through. Dennis's final thrust was more like a caress, but Marks dropped his saber, grabbed his chest as though a cannonball had passed through it, and fell to the floor, expiring without another line.

"'That was uncalled for . . . your
majesty
,'" said Drummond. "'He would not have killed you, you know. Those were not the orders I gave.'"

"'I'm giving the orders,
Kronstein
. Move away from that balcony. Now.'“

“'You shall not let me make my announcement?'"

"'If you were to make it looking like that, I should be the one bound to it. And I shall not wed Maria. I'll wed no one.'"

Drummond cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. "'And let the line die out, eh? You're so grieved over the loss of your peasant girl?'" He spat the final words.

Dennis tried to act stunned, but failed miserably. "'What do you know about her?'"

"'I know she had a cherry mark upon her breast. But perhaps you never found that out. You always were such a gentleman, Frederick.' "

"'You bastard . . .'"

"'Precisely. A
royal
bastard, I believe, is the term.'"

"
'You
killed her.'"

"`No. I intended only to . . . dishonor her. Originally Kruger was to have the pleasure. But when we had her there in the cabin, she was such a handsome wench that I decided to take her first. She tried to run away, but fell. Struck her head. A pity. She would have been quite a little piece. Perhaps I could have sired another royal bastard. Wouldn't that have been amusing, Frederick?'"

Dennis stood, trying to let the rage build up inside him, but the well was empty. He looked around quickly, trying to refocus his thoughts, and saw John Steinberg and Ann sitting in the first row. He lost the line. "Line," Dennis said, calling for it.

"'I shall not have you . . .'" Curt read from the prompt book

"'I shall not have you executed,'" Dennis repeated.

"'Oh,
thank
you, majesty.'"

"'I shall kill you myself.'"

"'That seems to gel precisely with my plans, Frederick. Only I plan to kill you. No one save your mother can tell the difference between us now, and old ladies die every day. I can become used to being addressed as Frederick . . . or as your majesty. In fact, I think I'll enjoy it.'" Drummond drew his saber. "'Pray to your god, Frederick. From this day on, I am God in
Waldmont
.'"

"'Add blasphemy to your list,
Kronstein
, along with murder and treason and whatever else you've committed. I'll execute you for all of them.'"

The duel began. Dex
Colangelo
pounced on the Steinway's keys, crashed out the opening minor chords of the scored battle, then darted into interweaving staccato runs intended to mimic the rattle of sabers onstage.

But the action between the two men could not hope to equal the dexterity of the musical accompaniment. Though Wallace Drummond tried his best to bring buoyant life to the carefully choreographed lunges, cuts, and parries, he had to carry Dennis Hamilton to do it. The piano played on, but the movement on stage slowed, as if the men were dueling in a thick swamp of dream, slowed, and then stopped, with Drummond's saber still
en
garde
in arrested action, but with the point of Dennis's drooping to the wooden floor like an exhausted and storm-bent reed.

"Dex . . ." Quentin said softly. "Dex," he said louder, to be heard over the music that now accompanied only a tableau. Dex looked up, stopped playing, and sat back, his shoulders slumping. "What's wrong?" asked Quentin. "Did you forget the moves?"

Dennis shook his head.

"Do you not
like
the moves?"

"They're fine," Dennis said softly.

"Then," Quentin said, his voice rising, "why the fuck don't you
do
the goddamned moves!"

Dennis jerked his head toward the director, as if awakening from a long dream. "Is this the best we can expect?" Quentin's voice was tight, fighting for control. Dennis looked at him, then at Ann's face, filled with pity, and Steinberg's, frowning with concern.

"Can you do
better
?"

He turned, saw Terri Deems standing in the wings holding a costume, saw the cast watching, the dancers' taut bodies coiled with apprehension.

"Can you?" Quentin pressed. "Because if you can't, there is no way that this show can ever go on in eleven days.
Eleven fucking days!
"

"Quentin," Steinberg said quietly, "let's call a break —"

"It's not
time
for a break, John! Are you directing this show or am I?" He swung back to Dennis. "So what's it going to be, your majesty? Are you going to give me something or are you going to be a zombie up there? I want to know, and I want to know
now
!"

Dennis looked into Quentin's red face, looked at John, at Ann, at Drummond and Marks, at all of them waiting for him to speak.

"Don't you shout at me . . ."

Dennis's words were soft, but filled with angry intensity, and now they increased in volume and in furor. "Don't you ever,
ever
raise your voice to me again . . . you . . .
scheiskopf
!
” He saw Quentin's lips quiver, and something very much like joy surged through him. The saber tingled in his hand, and he raised it, swung it so that it sliced the air with a satisfying hiss. It finally felt at home in his hand, light, agile, ready.

"Let's do the scene," he said. "From the same place." He grinned at Marks and Drummond, a grin so wide it felt wolfish. "And we'll
do
it this time.
Full out
."