forefinger.
“A speck of a silver ring,” scoffed Bertrand. “Careworn as a scullion’s hands.”
“I more proudly take a speck from a man with empty pockets,” said Sabetha, “than riches from a man whose purse stays heavy. What good thing might not be coined from this courtesy? It shall become bread and wine, and clothing, and sharp steel. It shall harden the sinews of our fellowship, and for that I hold it dear. You are welcome to our band, brother.”
“Gods willing, I shall never leave it!”
“Gods willing.” Sabetha held out her other hand and Calo kissed it. She turned to Bert. “Now, Valedon, let’s know your heart. Some months you’ve spent among us, yet aloof, a proud and solitary sort.”
“Proud and solitary as yourself, artful Amadine, though I admit my poor fellowship. Here’s the remedy! Oh, how I’ve strained my talents to produce a worthy gift!”
“A bracelet,” said Chantal as her husband pretended to display it with a flourish. “Black sapphires set in gold.”
“As suits a queen of shadows,” said Bertrand. “Pray it please you. I beg you wear it, even once, though you later strike it to a royal ransom of coins.”
“Great weight to grace a single wrist. Our thanks, Valedon; your obscure character is made clear. How did you come by this treasure?”
“Three days and nights of pains,” said Bertrand, “watching a great house, until I saw my chance for the seizing.”
“Will you wear it first, to show me its workings?”
“Why, the clasp is simple, gracious Amadine. Give me your hand, I shall anoint it.”
“I would see this treasure on your wrist, ere it touches mine. Or has your deep regard run shallow?”
“This beauty is not meant for such an unworthy display!”
“Unworthy indeed.” At a gesture from Sabetha, Chantal seized Bertrand and feigned holding a blade to his neck.
“Ladies, please, how have I offended?”
“Your face is a parchment,” said Sabetha, “with treason there written plain. You dread the bauble’s touch, and the venom of its coiled needle!” She mimed snatching the bracelet and unfolding it for all to see. “You think us dullards, that by this infant’s stratagem you might have my life? My spies advised me of your falseness.”
“I swear that when I stole the bracelet, I knew not what lay within!”
“Stole? Should I not know a thief by every scar and callus of the trade? I have them all, Valedon, familiar as children. Your hands are dough and your sinews slack. This bracelet you had as a gift from your masters.”
Calo and Galdo did their best impression of a general outcry in the crowd, and seized Bertrand by the arms.
“I see now my deception was foredoomed,” he whispered. “Clasp the bracelet to my wrist and let justice be done.”
“Hasty dispatch is mercy undeserved. You’ll have your bracelet back, miscarried murderer, after reflection. Bind him! Heat a crucible, and therein cast this scorpion bauble. Past his traitor’s lips, pour the molten slurry of his instrument. Aye, gild his guts with melted treasure, then leave him on the street for his masters to ponder.”
“I beg you—”
The last plea of the unfortunate Valedon was drowned out by the noise of Calo once again throwing up. Bert and Chantal hopped backward, minding their feet, while Galdo put a hand to his mouth and went pale.
“Ha,” shouted Boulidazi. “Ha! I think one of your twins has something to feel guilty about, Moncraine.”
“Very sorry, my lord,” moaned Calo.
“Perhaps you should try living virtuously for a few days, my friends.” Boulidazi rose and stretched. “Well done, despite the sudden ending. Indeed! Especially you ladies. By the gods, I think we’ve got something here. In fact, I’m going to join you at the Pearl for the rest of your rehearsals.”
The sudden pain between Locke’s temples was a match for the expression on Moncraine’s face.
4
“WE’LL FIND our chance to be alone,” Sabetha whispered to him more than once in the days that followed, but such chances seemed to deliberately fling themselves out of the way as the rehearsals wore on.
The Old Pearl was a testament to the generosity of the long-dead count who’d left it to the city. Though hardly a patch on the Eldren notion of longevity, the theater had been built to be taken for granted for centuries. Its walls and raised galleries were white marble, now weathered a mellow gray, and its stage was built from alchemically lacquered hardwood that might last nearly as long.
The circular courtyard was open to the sky, and though awning poles were in place to offer potential shelter from sun and rain, the awnings themselves were absent. According to Jenora, such comforts for the groundling crowd, like sanitary ditches, were one of the “free” theater’s hidden expenses that the countess had no interest in bearing herself.
There was no denying that the place was far more suitable than Mistress Gloriano’s inn-yard. The Pearl had a surplus of dignity to lend, even to their more ragged rehearsals, and what might have seemed silly pantomime twenty feet from a stable was somehow ennobled in the shadow of silent marble galleries.
Still, every new advantage seemed to come with a complication for a sibling. Each day began too early, with hungover company members packing unfinished costumes, props, and sundries into the wagon provided by the Camorri. The walk to the Pearl was two miles, and at the close of each day’s rehearsal they would have to stuff everything back into their wagon and reverse the journey. They were permitted to rehearse at the Pearl, not reside there, and the city watch would turn them out like vagabonds if they showed any sign of spending a night. Precious hours were therefore gnawed away by travel.
Although Locke and Sabetha avoided the worst of the debauches that were a nightly ritual (Mistress Gloriano, for all her loud moralizing, seemed incapable of refusing service to any drunkard who could still manage to roll a coin in her direction), there was little freedom or leisure to be found at the inn. For one thing, there was the simple press of time, and sleep was a precious commodity after long rehearsals and tedious trudging. For another, there was Boulidazi.
True to his word, the young baron became a company fixture, “disguised” in common clothing, and while Locke went to bed each night more exhausted than he’d been since his months as a farmer, Boulidazi seemed to have the stamina of ten mules. Word got around, somehow, that the Moncraine Company had come back to life with a slumming lord at the heart of its court, so opportunists, curiosity-seekers, and unemployed actors joined the taproom mess every evening, driving Moncraine to distraction.
Boulidazi, however, was never distracted. His eyes were fixed on Sabetha.
5
“CALAMAXES, OLD counsel,” said Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, squatting on a folding stool in character as His Paramount Majesty Salerius II, Emperor of All Therins. “Not a bright day passes but you find some cloud to throw before Our sun.”
“Majesty.” Jasmer sketched a bow, expressing more tolerance than awe. “It is of sons I wish to speak. Princely Aurin has reached a hungry age, and wants employment.”
“Employment? He’s heir to Our throne, that’s his trade.”
“He wants distinction, Majesty. A blade unblooded and waiting to be drawn, is Aurin.”
“You take liberties, spell-sayer. Say you that birth to the blood royal sufficeth not to mark his merit?”
“Your pardon, Sovereign. By my soul, Aurin is worthy heir to worthy line. I say only that he longs to match attainment to inheritance, as the father did, and stir this stately court with new triumph.”
“He,” mused Sylvanus, “and dear ambitious Ferrin.”
