(Shadowmarch #2) Shadowplay (66 page)

“Oh, you, of course.” Finn made a droll face. “And you are right to warn the boy. Otherwise, tavern gossip all over Syan would whisper that in the play about the death of gods, Pedder Makewell, at the end of the particularly bloody slaughter of his archenemy, was seen to have blood on him! Who would pay to witness such a ludicrous farce?”

“You mock me. Very well.
You
may launder Perin’s fine armor, then.”

“Or better yet, Makewell,” called Nevin Hewney, “we could dress you in a butcher’s smock, which would suit both your swordplay
and
your acting!”

“Quiet!” shouted Teodoros over the bellows of outrage and amusement, “I would like to get on with our notices, please. Also, I have a few changes.

“Feival, in the first act, where Zosim comes to Perin to describe the fortifications of Khors’ castle, instead of ‘Covered in shining crystals of ice,’ could you say, ‘In shining ice crystals covered,’? It suits the foot better. Yes, and lordly Perin, the word is ‘plenilune,’ not ‘pantaloon,’—‘My foeman smite, and cleave the plenilune,’—it means full moon, and, needless to say, gives the speech quite a different import.”

Over laughter, Makewell said with returning good nature, “Plenilune, plenilune—I trow he has invented the word just to trouble me. The fat ink-dauber has choked many an actor in his day.”

“Yes, good, good,” said Teodoros, staring at the rag of paper on which he had scratched his reminders. “All three brothers must turn together toward the Moon Castle when we hear the trumpets, we spoke of that. Certes.” He turned the bit of paper over. “Ah, yes, in the second act, we must see Khors truly grab at Zoria when she flees him. Pilney, you have already seized her and dragged her to your castle. Now you must clutch at her as though you mean to keep her, not as though she has dropped something in the street and you have retrieved it.” As Pilney blushed and mumbled, Teodoros turned to Briony. “And you, young Tim. Do not shake him off when he grabs you, no matter how whey-faced his manhandling. You are a virgin goddess, not a street bravo.”

Now it was her turn to blush. Shaso had taught her too well: when a hand encircled her arm she threw it off without thinking. The first time they played the scene she had pinched Pilney’s wrist hard enough to make him gasp. She suspected it was one of the reasons he had kept his distance.

“And where is Master Birch? Dowan, I know your knees pain you, but when Volios is struck down by Zmeos, the earth shakes—that is what the stories tell. You cannot let yourself down so carefully.”

The giant frowned, but nodded. Briony felt sorry for him. Perhaps she could find some spare cloth and make him thicker pads for his large, bony knees.

Teodoros went on to change much of the blocking at the beginning of the siege to obscure the fact that Feival and Hewney had to scramble out of their Zuriyal and Zmeos costumes and into armor, then appear from the tiring-room to portray the gods and demigods Perin was leading against the moon god’s fortress. He changed a few of Feival’s lines in the fourth act when the youth portrayed Zuriyal, the goddess who was Zoria’s jailer while her brothers Zmeos and Khors fought against Perin and the besiegers.

Teodoros was also making a few changes to shift the balance in Khors’ death scene away from Pilney, who had a tendency to grow quietest when he should be loudest, and to give most of the speech to Hewney (who would “milk it as ’twere a Marrinswalk heifer,” as Teodoros put it) when the tavernkeeper Bedoyas stuck his head out into the alley and inquired whether they were actually going to perform their miserable play, or had they just concocted a complex but novel way to rob him?

“Zosim, Kupilas, and Devona of the Harp, gladden the hearts of those who will watch us,” said Teodoros as he always did, his hands on his chest. “And off we go!”

Things went smoothly enough in the first three acts. The tavern yard was very full but the day was gray and cold, and the torches burning brightly on either side of the stage made it hard for Briony to make out much more of the crowd than dim faces watching from under hoods and hats. From what she could see, they seemed to be a slightly more prosperous group than the company had drawn at other stops, but they were still mostly laboring folk, not lords and ladies. A few companies of youths (prentices of some sort enjoying a drunken afternoon’s roistering) had set themselves up in the front row, where they whistled loudly and shouted rude remarks at Feival, Briony, and anyone else dressed as a woman. The fact that these were holy goddesses they were eyeing so lasciviously did not seem to trouble them much.

Briony herself was doing better than she had feared she would. It was not as hard to remember the lines as she once had thought—simply speaking them over and over, day after day, made them as familiar as the names of people she saw often, and the lattice of other player’s parts helped to hold her together during the few times her memory slipped. And the story itself was exciting—you could see it in the crowd’s reaction, their groans of worry and cheers of pleasure as the action turned first this way, then that. When Perin led his forces against Khors’ great castle—the wagon serving not just as a dressing-room, but as the moon siege itself, with Pilney standing atop it shouting defiance—the audience whooped, and a few seemed as though they were considering climbing onto the stage and joining in the assault. When Perin’s son Volios was killed by Khors, and Dowan Birch toppled as heavily as the tree for which he was named, blood running down his belly from between his clasped hands, Briony thought she actually heard a few sobs.

It was in the fourth act, as the virgin goddess stole away from the distracted Zuriyal and escaped the castle, only to become lost in a whirling snowstorm (with fluttering rags on sticks and the moan of the wind-wheel standing in for Nature) that things suddenly went wrong. One moment Briony was speaking her lines,

“The snow! It bites like Zmeos’ cruel bees,
And shrinks to pebbled hide my uncloaked skin!
I shall don these clothes the serving boy left.
They shame my maidenhood, source of my woes,
But will keep me quick when cold would kill me…”

The next instant she found herself staring into a diminishing tunnel of light, the torches and the overcast sky all swirling together as the blackness rushed in from the sides. She swayed, then managed to get her feet under her, and although the world still sparkled queerly, as though fireflies surrounded her, she managed to finish her speech.

“…But warmer though I be, still lost am I,
And without food, then—cold or warm,—will die.”

A few moments later, when she should have gently sunk to her knees, she found herself instead doing what Finn had asked of Dowan Birch, crashing to the stage with a thump. Again the world darkened. She could hear nothing, not even the spinning, burlap-covered drum that made the noise of wind, could feel nothing but an overwhelming sensation of being close to Barrick—an awareness more alive than any mere scent or sound, a sense of actually being
inside
her brother’s frightened, confused thoughts.

Out of the darkness crept a terrible shape, a starvation-thin shadow with a gray, corpselike face. At first, in her frightened bafflement, she thought that it was death itself coming for her. Then she realized she must be seeing something through her twin brother’s eyes—an emotionless mask with glowing moonstone gaze, gliding nearer and nearer. It was not Death, but she knew it was something just as final and much less merciful.

She tried to scream her brother’s name, but as in a hundred nightmares she could not make any real sound. The ghastly gray face came closer, so terrifying that the blackness collapsed on her again.

“Zoria!”
said a loud voice in her ear. “Here she lies, my virtuous cousin! Are you dead, sweet daughter of the Skyfather? Who has done this terrible thing to you?”

It was Feival, she realized, standing over her and improvising lines, trying to give her time to get up. She opened her eyes to see the young player’s concerned features. What had happened to her? That deathly, nightmare face…!

“Can you walk, Cousin?” Feival asked, trying to get an arm beneath her so he could lift her. “Shall I help you?” With his mouth close to her ear, he whispered,
“What are you playing at, girl?”

She shook off his hand and clambered unsteadily to her feet. She could feel the tension that had fallen over the company and audience alike; the latter were not certain yet that something was wrong, but they were beginning to suspect. She couldn’t think about Barrick. Not right now. This was like her life back at home, something she knew: she must put on her mask.

“Well, noble…” She swayed, took an uneven breath. “Well, noble cousin, kind Zosim,” she began again. “I can walk now that…that you are here to guide me out from these unfriendly winds.”

She could hear Finn Teodoros sigh with relief at the back of the stage, half a dozen yards away.

The last few bystanders were milling about in the tavern yard, finishing their food and drink. A handful of drunken prentices talked in overloud voices about which goddess they would rather kiss. Estir and Pedder Makewell had gone inside with Bedoyas the tavern keeper to sort out the afternoon’s take, while Teodoros, Hewney, and the rest celebrated the success of the afternoon’s production with a few pitchers of ale. Briony still felt shaky. She sat by herself on the edge of the stage, holding a mug without drinking and staring at her shoes. What had happened to her? It had been like nothing she had ever felt before—not even like seeing Barrick in the mirror that time, but like
being
Barrick. And who or what was that ghastly gray…
thing?

She felt bile climb into her throat. What could she do about it, in any case? Nothing! She didn’t even know where he was. It was like a curse—she could do nothing to help her own brother! Nothing, nothing, nothing…

“Well, my lady, I see you took my advice after all.”

For an instant she only stared—the voice was familiar, but although she knew the dark-skinned face, she could not at first recall…

“Dawet!” She slid off the stage, almost spilling her ale. For a moment it was such a surprise to see someone she knew that she nearly threw her arms around him. Then she remembered that they had met because Dawet dan-Faar had come as an envoy from Ludis, to negotiate on behalf of her father’s kidnapper.

He smiled, perhaps at her visible confusion. “So you remember me. Then you may also remember that I suggested you see something of the world, my lady. I did not think you would take my advice quite so much to heart. You have become a stage-player now?”

She suddenly realized others were watching, not all of them from her troupe. “Quiet,” she whispered. “I am not supposed to be a girl, let alone a princess.”

“Passing as a boy?” he murmured. “Oh, I hardly think anyone would believe that. But what
are
you doing here in such unlikely guise and company?”

She stared at him, suddenly mistrustful. “I will ask the same of you. Why are you not in Hierosol? Have you left Ludis Drakava’s service?”

He shook his head. “No, my lady, although many wiser than me have already done so…” He looked up and past her, his eyes narrowing. “But what is this?”

The tavern keeper Bedoyas and both Makewells were coming across the tavern yard toward the company, but it was their escort—a dozen guardsmen wearing the crests of city reeves—that had caught Dawet’s eye. For a moment Briony only stared, then realized that she of all of them had the most to lose if captured or arrested for some reason. She eyed the nearest ways out of the yard but it was hopeless: the guards had already surrounded them.

A heavy-faced soldier wearing an officer’s sash across his tunic stepped forward. “You of the players’ company known as Makewell’s Men, you are remanded in arrest to His Majesty the king’s custody.” The captain saw Dawet and scowled. “Ah. You, too, fellow. I was told to look for a southern darkling, and here you are.”

“You would be wise to watch your tongue, sir,” said Dawet with smooth venom, but he made no move to resist.

“Arrested?” Finn Teodoros’ voice had an anxious squeak to it. “Under what charge?”

“Spying, as you well know,” said the captain. “Now you will be introduced to His Majesty’s hospitality, which I think will be a little less to your liking than that of Master Bedoyas. And entertain no thoughts of daring escape, you players—this is no play. I have half a pentecount more of soldiers waiting outside.”

“Spying?” Briony turned to Dawet. “What are they talking about?” she whispered.

“Say
nothing,
” he told her under his breath. “No matter what happens or what they tell you. They will try to trick you.”

She put her head down and let herself be herded with the others. Estir Makewell and young Pilney were both weeping. Others might have been, but it was hard to tell, because rain had started to fall.

“I’m afraid I cannot go with you,” Dawet said loudly.

Briony turned, thinking he spoke to her. He had drawn himself back against a wall of the courtyard, a knife suddenly twinkling in his gloved fingers. “What are you doing?” she demanded, but Dawet did not even look at her.

“Enough of your nonsense, black,” said the captain. “Were you Hiliometes himself you could not overcome so many.”

“I swear on the fiery head of Zosim Salamandros that you have the wrong man,” said Dawet. One of the guards stepped toward him, but the Tuani man had the blade up and cocked for throwing so quickly the soldier froze as if snake-addled.

The captain sighed. “Swear by the Salamander, do you?” He stared at Dawet dan-Faar like a householder trying to decide whether to buy a lump of expensive meat that was only going in the stew, anyway. “You two, you heard him,” he said, gesturing to a pair of guards standing nearby, short spears at the ready. “Deal with him. I have better things to do than waste any more time here.”

The two heavily-armored men lunged forward and Briony let out a muffled shriek of alarm. Dawet, handicapped by the much shorter reach of his dagger, feinted as if to throw it, then turned, leaped, and scrambled over the courtyard wall. The two guards hesitated only a moment, then hurried out through the yard’s back entrance. A few other soldiers moved as if to follow, but the captain waved them back.