The Republic of Thieves

“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”

“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”

“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”

“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”

“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”

Sabetha gave a slight, satisfied nod.

“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”

Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.

“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very romantic and tragic and the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some deadweight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo, and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”

“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo, and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lese-majeste as a new hobby.”

“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”

“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.

“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all read, I assume?”

“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”

“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”

“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”

“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read: 

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:
This stage is wood, these men are dust—
And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”
“No,” said Jasmer.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”
“If you say so,” said Galdo.
“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”
“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.
“Give us a Chorus.”

Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly: 

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,
And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.
What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering—”

“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”

“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.

“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a man’s words. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and blood behind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”

“Because they can’t fuckin’ read?” said Galdo.

“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are angry with your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes!” said Galdo. He gestured disdainfully at his own face with his free hand, and took two threatening steps closer to Calo. “And hear us not at all, though straining your ears!”

He reached out and snapped a finger against one of Calo’s ears. The long-haired twin recoiled, and Galdo moved aggressively toward him once again.

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses,” said Galdo, all but hissing with disdain, “whispering: this stage is wood, these men are dust, and dust their deeds and thousand … dust their ducks … aw, shit, lost myself, sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Moncraine. “You had something there, didn’t you?”

“That was fun,” said Galdo. “I think I see what you mean.”

“Words are dead until you give them a context,” said Moncraine. “Until you put a character behind them, and give him a reason to speak them in a certain fashion.”

“Can I do it back to him like he’s the stupid one?” said Calo.

“No. I’ve made my point,” said Moncraine. “You Camorri do have a certain poise and inventiveness. I just need to awaken you to its proper employment. Now, what’s our Chorus doing here?”

“He’s pleading,” said Jean.

“Pleading. Yes. Exactly. First thing, out comes the Chorus to plead to the crowd. The hot, sweaty, drunk, and skeptical crowd. Listen up, you unworthy fucking mongrels! Look, there’s a play going on, right in front of you! Shut up and give it the attention it deserves!”

Moncraine changed his voice and poise in an instant. Without so much as a glance at the script, he