smoke, while Locke and Bert led the column waving red pennants.
Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon, began to shout:
“Invitation! Invitation!
Hear our joyous declamation!
The gods are kind to you today!
Cast off your toil and see a play!”
Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot and proclaimed:
“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company returns in triumph to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN! See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”
So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for those who would strut the stage.
3
A BOLD green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before, how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics, minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of the theater walls.
“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”
Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden cups chained to kegs, the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.
“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices! May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession. “Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with Espara! May the gods—”
Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.
At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by a pair of burly hirelings.
Locke spotted Brego hurrying toward the woman, folded parchment clutched in his hands. Locke suppressed a smile. That would be the sealed orders from “Baron Boulidazi,” the ones diverting Malloria and her weight of precious metal from the countinghouse to the bathhouse.
The company halted at the north side of the Pearl, where Moncraine’s half-dozen hired players lounged under an awning. They leapt up, nearly tripping over one another in their eagerness to be seen offering assistance with the costumes and props. As Jean and Jenora handed things to them, carefully keeping them away from the wagon itself, a woman approached on foot with a pair of guards at her back.
She was young, sharp-eyed and heavy, dressed in a cream jacket and skirts trimmed with silver lace. Sun veils dangled from her four-corn cap, and to Locke she had the air of someone used to crowds parting and doors opening before her. Jasmer and Sylvanus confirmed Locke’s suspicions by climbing hastily from their horses and bowing; in an instant the entire company was doing likewise.
“Master Moncraine,” said the woman. “Do rise. It is agreeable to see you and your company gainfully employed again, if somewhat diminished in number.”
“My lady Ezrintaim. Thank you for your sentiments,” said Jasmer, straightening up but icing his words with a thick coating of deference. “We have every hope that our recent loss of a few supernumerary players will prove a refinement.”
“That remains to be seen. I had expected your patron to precede his company; can you tell me where the Baron Boulidazi might be found?”
“Ah, my lady, as to that, my lord Boulidazi has not confided his present whereabouts to me. I can assure you that he does have every intention of being present, in some capacity, for the afternoon.”
“In
“My lady, if I may … I cannot answer for him. Save to assure you, on my honor, that my lord is laboring, even now, to ensure that today is not merely memorable but, ah, singular.”
“I shall of course be watching attentively from my box,” said the woman. “You will inform your patron that he is expected, following the performance if not before.”
“Of … of course, my lady Ezrintaim.”
Moncraine bowed again, but the woman had already turned and started away. One of her guards snapped a silk parasol open and held it between her and the sun. Moncraine made his obeisance for another half-dozen heartbeats, then rose, stormed over to Locke, and seized him by the collar.
“As you can see,” said Moncraine, speaking directly into Locke’s ear, “Countess Antonia’s envoy of ceremonies now expects a personal appearance from the very, very late Lord Boulidazi once we’ve taken our bows. What do you propose to do, thrust a hand up his ass and work him like a puppet?”
“You will pretend to be Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke.
“
“I’m fucking with you! Why do you keep acting as though it’s your problem? The
“If I end up facing the rope because of this,” said Moncraine, “I’m going to ensure that I bring a merry fellowship along for the drop.”
Moncraine stalked off before Locke could say anything else.
“I keep asking myself,” whispered Sabetha, giving Locke’s arm a squeeze, “
“At the moment it’s an open question,” said Locke.
4
