have to lick to get them to slip the chains?”
“Master Calabazi,” said Moncraine, “you know a gentleman never does his own dirty work. I simply made a lot of promises concerning your daughters. Or was it your sons? Gods know I can’t tell them apart.”
“Ha! If you’re a gentleman, I fart incense. But you’re out, and now someone’s conjured a wild fantasy about you playing the Pearl. Is this the show? A little one?”
“It’s not the size, but the employment,” said Moncraine, losing some of his forced good cheer. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Well, you know what me and my lads need.”
“Speak to Jenora; she’s the woman of business.”
“Well, I thought with that fancy new owner you’ve got you might lay a surety—”
“
“It’s just that there’s some, ah, uncertainty, in your situation, and we’d like something firmer than a heartfelt assurance we’ll be working—”
“I was in gaol for two days, you idiot; I didn’t breathe Wraithstone smoke and lose my wits. If you want the work, you can have the usual terms, and if you don’t, I won’t lie awake at night wondering where I’ll get three or four half-wits to shovel shit!”
The two men moved chin to chin and continued arguing in low, impassioned tones. Locke gestured to Alondo, who was lounging nearby, and whispered, “What’s this?”
“It’s the trenchmen, Lucaza.” Alondo yawned. “The countess might be pleased to hand out the Old Pearl for shows, but she doesn’t pay to keep the place clean. We do. That means empty trenches for a few hundred to piss in every night, dammed up and tended by apes like Calabazi.”
“This whole thing is more complicated than I ever imagined.”
“Too true. And Jasmer hates the business side of business, you know? He negotiates like he’s having his balls scraped.”
Across the inn-yard, Jasmer brought the conversation with Calabazi to a halt by raising both palms to the ugly trenchman’s face and turning away.
“Master Moncraine!” shouted yet another newcomer, appearing from the direction of the stables. Moncraine whirled.
“Gods’ peace, you fucking fool, can’t you see I’m work— Oh,
“Ha! I wanted to be in keeping with the spirit of our endeavors!” Boulidazi, once again dressed in a low fashion, wore a dirty broad-brimmed hat that partly concealed his features. “And of course, to intrude as little as possible on your affairs.”
“Of course,” said Moncraine, and Locke was certain he could hear teeth grinding even from across the inn-yard.
“And who’s this? Anyone important?”
“Uh, I’m Paza Calabazi, uh, sir. I handle—”
“No, not important, or you’d know it’s ‘my lord.’ Go be undistinguished somewhere else.”
“Uh … yes, my lord.”
Locke frowned as he watched Calabazi all but scuttle away. His original impression of Boulidazi seemed more naive than ever.
“Now, Moncraine.” The young lord gave the impresario a firm slap on the back. “I know this inn-yard has a certain unrefined charm, but I’ve arranged for better surroundings.”
“The Old Pearl?” Moncraine made a visible effort to swallow his resentment. “Is it ours, my lord?”
“We can rehearse there commencing tomorrow, and we’ll get two days of actual performance. The envoy of ceremonies is a family friend. I’ll even post a man to make sure that you’re not pestered by the Paza Calabazis of the world.”
“That’s … well, I suppose that’s very generous, my lord patron. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s in my own interest, eh? Now, what’s the scene?”
“Uh, there’s no scene, my lord. We, ah, need a break, I think. Arguing with Calabazi—”
“Nonsense. You’re no man to be tamed by a mere argument, Moncraine.” Boulidazi mimed a fist crashing into his own jaw, a gesture that made Moncraine plainly uncomfortable. “What did you last practice?”
“Nothing of real consequence—”
“The scene, gods damn you.”
“Uh, six. Act one, scene six. We were just nailing down … nailing down the situation of the chorus.”
“ ‘Vagabonds of fortune raise a bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight,’ ” said Boulidazi. “I like that one. But that means Amadine’s about to come out for the first time. Surely you won’t stop now.”
“Well, perhaps not—”
“Yes. Perhaps not.” Boulidazi settled into the chair that Moncraine had occasionally rested in while watching the morning’s work. “Mistress Verena, might I beg a few moments of your Queen of Shadows?”
“Why, m’lord Boulidazi, your attention is always very welcome,” said Sabetha with a perfect curtsy. Locke would have sworn he felt the blood congealing in his heart, and he fought to maintain a facade of dopish complacency.
“Thieves in place for scene six,” shouted Moncraine. Bert the Crowd hurried into the middle of the yard, and was met by Calo and Galdo, who were intended to join the spear-carriers for several mob scenes after finishing their orations. Moncraine had promised to hire a bevy of bit players to flesh out the crowds, but didn’t seem to want to start paying them too early in the rehearsal process.
“Well met, my noble peers and bastards! Well met at Barefoot Court!” Chantal advanced from her side of the inn-yard, hips swaying, arms outthrust, playing to the tiny crowd. “What stirs, you ragged suitors, to bring you hence from drink and dice and warm attentions?”
“Allegiance, fair Penthra,” said Bertrand. “Allegiance, fair and fallen lady, for she that claims our deep regard makes those comforts seem cold distractions.”
“Valedon, you ever were a wool-tongued devil, now here’s the air hung with silk. What makes the change?” Chantal touched her husband playfully on the chin.
“My mistress and yours,” said Bertrand. “Her goodness puts a sting to my conscience. I have been remiss in my tributes, and must amend my courtesies.”
“So would we all,” said Calo. “Penthra, let her come forth. She has sheltered us, and kindled loyal fellowship, and even such poor wretches as ourselves must make obedience.”
“We are all wretches at our ragged court, and none therefore a poorer contrast.” Sabetha’s voice was effortlessly regal as she glided into the scene, out of what would eventually be the shadows of the actual stage. Not even the distraction of Boulidazi could truly dampen Locke’s pleasure at watching Sabetha vanish into the role she’d so coveted.
“Grace like fire’s heat, I am made ashamed of my tribute,” said Calo, sinking to his knees. “You are Amadine, called Queen Beneath the Stones, or I was never born. My gift deserves not the name, for such a beauty. It pales, and with it my pride. I beg a second chance, to steal a more worthy courtesy!”
“Indeed, his offering is slight as a passing fancy,” said Bertrand. “Be assured of my love, bright Amadine, and take my tribute first.”
“Unkind Valedon, this is no race with lines to cross before all others. Stand easy. Surely a moment’s wait can little harm your preparations.”
Bertrand bowed and took a step back.
“I am Amadine, called many things,” said Sabetha, gesturing for Calo to rise. “There is no honor more worthy than this, your gift of friendship. I see you are new among us.”
“Many years a thief, mistress, but far too many passed before kind fortune brought me to your company. Oh, let me trade this bauble for something more fitting, or gladly hang for trying.”
“Never speak of such an evil,” said Sabetha. “And never speak of shame, but give what you have.”
Calo pretended to hesitantly pass something over, and Sabetha mimed holding it up between thumb and
