Текст книги "Point of Dreams"

Автор книги: Melissa Scott

Соавторы: Lisa Barnett
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“Not that Aconin would care,” Eslingen said.

“You sound as though you know him,” Siredy said, and Eslingen shrugged.

“Is there anyone in Astreiant who doesn’t?”

Siredy gave him a speculative look, but the senior chamberlain finally called the last of the noble names, and anything else he would have said was drowned in relieved applause. Gasquine stepped forward again, hands raised, to announce the beginning of the dinner. The nobles were as quick to the table as the actors, Eslingen saw, with amusement, following at the deceptively swift pace he’d learned as a hungry sergeant, and wondered how many of them were as poor as he had been.

He accepted wine from a goggling servant, a boy all of twelve whom he suspected was usually a theatre runner, found a way to snag half a chicken pie from between two landames’ sleeves, and stepped back again to enjoy his booty, trying to lose himself in the shadows between the turning columns. Siredy seemed to be enjoying himself, flirting cheerfully and impartially with a landseur and a landame in shades of peacock blue; beyond him, Aconin seemed lost in conversation with the noble patron. They made an odd pair, Aconin by far the showier, and yet more willing to defer than Eslingen remembered–but then, it was the landseur’s name–and Caiazzo’s coin– that made this particular triumph possible.

He stepped back again as a pair of actors slipped by him, laughing, and stumbled against a rope that stretched taut from a bolt in the floor. He caught himself instantly, not even spilling the wine, glanced up to see the rest of the cable vanish in the shadows of the stagehouse. The lights on the stage didn’t reach to those heights, two stories, perhaps even three, above his head–easily the height of a town clock–and he wondered what the rope controlled. It was as thick as his wrist, and utterly without slack, like the ropes on a sailing ship. He swallowed the last of the pie and reached out to the cable, not quite testing it, and a voice from behind him said, “Don’t touch that.”

Eslingen controlled his start, and turned to see a stocky man frowning at him from the shadows. By the badge at his collar, a white, star‑shaped flower on a blue ground, he belonged to Savatier’s company, but unlike the other actors, he’d done nothing to dress for the occasion, was plainly workaday in a sailor’s knit smock over drab breeches and mended hose.

“Don’t you know anything? Never touch any of the stagehouse ropes, you don’t know what they do. Leave it to us who made them.”

A sceneryman, then, Eslingen thought. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know all the rules yet.”

“No. He’s new to this game, grant him that.”

Eslingen swore under his breath, recognizing the voice, turned again to greet Chresta Aconin with a sweeping bow. “Master Aconin.”

“Lieutenant–vaan Esling?” Aconin lifted an eyebrow in delicate inquiry, and Eslingen suppressed another curse. Aconin had known him when they both carried their mother’s names, knew better than almost anyone else in the world how little he deserved the noble prefix. He could see Siredy coming up behind him, followed by the landseur Aubine, and braced himself for the inevitable exposure. And the worst of it was, he couldn’t blame Duca–even being true, it would sound petty, make thing even worse…

“Late of Coindarel’s Dragons,” Aconin went on, and smiled. “Or so Siredy tells me. The prince‑marshal always did have an eye for service.”

Eslingen drew a careful breath, not quite believing in the reprieve, and thought Aubine blushed.

“You mustn’t touch the ropes,” the sceneryman said obstinately. “That’s a first rule backstage, I don’t care who you are. Don’t touch anything. Especially not in this house.”

“That’s a rule I’ll be careful to obey,” Aubine said with a smile that included all of them. “But please, master–”

“Basa,” Siredy said hastily. “Lial Basa, of Savatier’s Women. My lord.”

Aubine dipped his head. “Master Basa. Why in this theatre in particular?”

The sceneryman hesitated, eyes darting from Aubine to the playwright as though he’d just realized the company he was in. Aubine nodded again, his smile encouraging, unoffensive, and the sceneryman took a breath. “It’s the engines, my lord. They’re bigger than most, and they’re new. For The Drowned Island.”

“Really?”

All of Astreiant knew it, Eslingen thought, but Aubine’s tone was honestly interested.

“What does this rope do, then?”

“Opens the trap, if we’re particularly unlucky,” Aconin murmured, almost in Eslingen’s ear.

Basa heard, and slanted him a glare. “Not the traps, thank you. They’re understage, so there can’t be that error. This is for the clouds–it brings in the big bank of them, that comes in at the end of the play.”

Eslingen frowned for an instant, then remembered. It had been a small effect, almost lost in the more elaborate sinking of the island itself. “When the island sinks,” he said aloud, “and the waves come in. How is that done?”

Basa gave him a look that was balanced perfectly between approval and suspicion. “You must be new to the Masters, then.”

“I am.”

“And utterly changed,” Aconin said, and laughed.

“Do you think so?” Eslingen asked. He was beginning to lose his patience with the playwright, dangerous though that might be.

“Changed enough,” Aconin answered, still smiling. “The brave soldier, and now–a player, one of the Masters of Defense. Gods, it’s been more years than I care to recall since I saw you last. Since before you left Esling, I think.”

“I can recall how many,” Eslingen said mildly, and the playwright lifted his hand. It was elaborately painted, Eslingen saw without surprise, a bouquet of black and gold flowers running up from his wrist to twine around each finger.

“Please don’t. That literal habit of yours is one thing that hasn’t changed.”

“Master Basa,” Aubine said, and Aconin’s mouth closed over whatever else he had been going to say. The landseur smiled again, looking almost embarrassed. “The lieutenant asked a good question, and one I’m curious about. How is it done? Have you worked on it?”

Basa shook his head. “Not on the Island, no, I’m with Savatier, and that’s Gasquine’s piece. But I know how it’s done.”

“Tell us, please.” Aubine folded his hands into the sleeves of his coat like a schoolboy, an unexpectedly charming gesture, and Eslingen felt himself warming to the man.

Basa glanced from one to the other. “I can show you, if you’d like. The machinery.”

“Not me,” Aconin said. “I know how it’s done.”

“No one asked you, Chresta,” Aubine said. His tone was more indulgent than anything, but Aconin bowed.

“Then I’ll leave you to it, my lord.”

Aubine turned back to the sceneryman, still smiling, and Eslingen wondered for an instant just how well Aconin knew him. But then, Aconin had written the play that Aubine sponsored; that was enough of a connection.

“I would like to see,” Aubine said, and glanced at the others. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d like to see myself,” Eslingen said with perfect truth, and Basa blinked as though the interest startled him.

“You’ll miss the food.”

Most of it was gone already, Eslingen saw, glancing over his shoulder to see a few actors still clustered around the last, least‑favored dishes.

Aubine looked instantly contrite. “And I daresay you haven’t had the chance to eat yourself, Master Basa. If you’d permit me to buy you dinner–”

“That’s not necessary,” Basa said gruffly, and Aubine held out his hand, something clasped in it.

“At least let me pay you for this treat.”

“If you insist, my lord,” Basa said, and over his shoulder Eslingen saw Siredy struggling to hide a grin. “If you’d like, then–this way.”

“Will you come, Siredy?” Eslingen asked, and the other master nodded.

“Absolutely. I like to know what’s under my feet.”

“And very wise, too,” Aubine murmured.

Basa sketched a kind of bow. “If you’ll come with me?”

He led the way to a narrow stairhead, banded with iron, where a stairs so steep as to be little more than a ladder dropped into darkness. Eslingen eyed it warily, and the sceneryman slid down it like a sailor, his feet barely touching the side rails, to reappear a moment later with a mage‑fire lantern.

“As few lamps as possible backstage,” Siredy said. “That’s another rule of most houses.”

Between the painted canvases and the stacked furniture that served to dress the sets, the risk of fire had to be enormous. “I’ll bear that very much in mind,” Eslingen said, and followed the others down the narrow ladder.

The space under the stage was dark and low, so that a tall man had to stoop beneath the cross beams. It smelled of oil, too, and tar, and polished metal, and Eslingen blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the lantern light. Something bulked large behind Basa’s shoulders, a dark shape that caught the light in places, and there were more ropes and strangely shaped pieces of wood and metal hanging between the beams. Basa lifted his lantern, did something to the aperture, and the light faded and spread in the same moment. The thing behind him resolved into a massive windlass, with six poles projecting from it like the spokes of a wheel, and for an instant Eslingen had a mad vision of tiny ponies, specially theatre‑bred, brought down to turn them. But that would be the scenerymen’s job, of course, and that windlass would drive the brass‑toothed gears that rose from it, and those gears, it seemed, turned an enormous shaft that ran off into the darkness toward the back of the stage.

“This is the main engine,” Basa said, and in the close space his voice was hushed, unresonant. But of course sound would be damped down here, Eslingen realized, to keep the noise of the machinery from spoiling the play. “It turns the versatiles–it’ll do anything else you want, too, but that’s what it’s set for now.” He pointed. “See there? Those are the cables that take the power off, and bring them around.”

“There must be a stop,” Aubine said, peering up into the darkness, and the sceneryman nodded.

“You have to release the lock first, of course, before you start to turn, and then it locks again at the next scene.”

They were talking about the triangular columns, Eslingen realized, and filed the word in his memory. Versatiles… well, they were certainly that. “How many men does it take to move it?” he asked, and was startled again by the deadness of the sound.

“There’s eight men working on The Drowned Island,” Basa answered, “but you can work an ordinary play with three or four.”

He lifted the lantern again, beckoning them with the light, and they followed him past the windlass into an area crowded with square‑shapes. Eslingen blinked, confused, then recognized the towers of the bannerdames’ island. Up close, the colors were cruder than he remembered, the shapes overstated–but they were meant to be seen from the pit, from the balconies, not from close up. Beyond them, he could see more massive gears, ready to lift the island up, and drag it down again, and Basa glanced at him.

“Now that takes all eight on the windlass, bringing it down slow and safe–and putting it up at the start of the play, too.”

Eslingen nodded, tracing the pattern of ropes and levers that was quickly lost in the shadows.

“How long does it take to switch machines?” Siredy asked, and Eslingen blinked, realizing what he was seeing. The windlass could drive either machine; it was the way the ropes were attached that decided where the power went.

“Less than ten minutes,” Basa answered, and Eslingen could hear the pride in his voice–justifiable pride, too, if Siredy’s expression was any indication. “Now, up here is the other engine.”

He led the way past a cat’s cradle of ropes, sliding down through slits in the stage overhead to wind around an array of cleats and pins. Everything was as neatly coiled as on a sailing ship, and Eslingen wondered if all the scenerymen had been sailors.

“That’s for the midstage,” Basa said, over his shoulder, and Siredy spoke at Eslingen’s ear.

“That’s where most effects are staged.”

Eslingen jumped in spite of himself, glanced up again to see the pattern of light obscured as someone passed along the line of ropes. He’d been standing there himself, he realized, when he’d first tripped over the cable.

“This is where the waves are done,” Basa said. The light from the lantern strengthened and focused again as he adjusted the shutters, and Eslingen found himself looking at a second, smaller windlass, with a second set of gears and thick leather bands to transfer the motion to another web of ropes. There seemed to be even more of them than he’d seen before, stretching to dozens of oddly shaped pieces of wood that hung from between the beams–the waves, Eslingen realized suddenly, strips of wood carved and painted to look like breaking waves, and the other strips were the white‑painted boards of the breaking ice.

“We pull the stage floor up,” Basa said. “You can see the channels, above there. The ice goes up for most of the play, and then, when the ice breaks, they turn down and the waves come up. Some of them are on rockers, and some of them are on spinners, and– well, it’s a hell of an effect.”

“Indeed it is,” Aubine said. Eslingen nodded, but couldn’t help looking up at the stage. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the faint lines of light where the boards could be slipped aside, and he wondered just how strong the supports were. Basa laughed as if he’d read the thought.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lieutenant, they’ll hold you. You and your regiment, come to that, unless and until someone releases them.”

It was, he supposed, reassuring. Siredy’s suppressed grin didn’t help, either. “The big waves at the end,” he said aloud. “They’re not here.”

“They’re in the wings, just back of the trap.” Basa grinned. “Now if you want something to worry about, Lieutenant, that would be it. They’re counterweighted, with a rope release–so don’t go pulling anything you don’t recognize.”

“I don’t intend to,” Eslingen said, more sharply than he’d meant, and Aubine frowned.

“I hope someone has made that announcement to the chorus.”

“Tyrseis,” Siredy said, not quite under his breath.

“We’d better see that someone does,” Eslingen said, and the other master nodded.

“That would be all we need, to drop those on a handful of landames–begging your pardon, my lord.”

“I take your point,” Aubine agreed. “Master Basa, I thank you for this tour of your domain. I won’t think of any play quite the same way again.”

Basa ducked his head, looking at once embarrassed and pleased. “If you’ll come with me, my lord, I’ll show you another way back.”

They came out from under the stage on the opposite side of the stagehouse, behind the wings where the noble chorus had stood. Most of them had moved on, were still clustering around the almost emptied tables, and Siredy touched Eslingen’s shoulder.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a quick word with Mathiee.”

Eslingen nodded, the image that Basa had raised all too clear in his mind, and Aubine smiled understandingly at him.

“A wise precaution, I think. Tell me, Lieutenant, what’s your family?”

From one noble to another, it was an innocuous question, but from a noble to a commoner with pretensions, it was definitely to be avoided. “No one you’d know, I think, my lord. We’re from Esling.” Eslingen smiled, letting his eyes sweep beyond the older man. “And if you’ll forgive me, I think Siredy needs me.”

He made his bow without waiting for an answer and swept away into the crowd, not pausing until he’d put a knot of half a dozen landames between himself and Aubine, then looked around for Siredy. The other master waved to him, and Eslingen moved quickly to join him, newly aware of the boards beneath his feet.

“Mathiee says they’ve been warned, and she’ll warn them again when the rehearsals start. We don’t need that kind of accident.”

“Gods, no,” Eslingen agreed. There was enough that could go wrong without inviting that trouble.

It was well past midnight by the time Eslingen, weary and yet still keenly awake, returned to Rathe’s lodgings, but Rathe was up, sitting at the table, his hands fisted in his hair, staring at some papers and his tablets. He looked up sharply as the latch lifted, but relaxed and smiled when Eslingen entered, quickly shutting the door behind him against the cold.

“You’re working late,” Eslingen observed, holding his hands out over the stove, banked for the night, but still radiating a welcome heat. There were the remains of what looked to have been a home‑cooked dinner pushed to one side, and Eslingen restrained a sigh of regret. The evening had been far more fraught than he had expected it to be, and meeting Aconin had been a nasty surprise–or not a surprise, he corrected himself; he knew he would have to encounter him sometime, but balancing Aconin’s malice and Aubine’s curiosity had been exhausting.

“Yeah, well, the masque makes work for all of us,” Rathe said, but pushed his tablets and some papers aside. “There’s wine, and yes, I would welcome a cup right now. How did it go at the theatre?”

Eslingen groaned as he sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “Fascinating, as you can imagine,” he drawled, drawing a quick grin from Rathe. “We were introduced to every blessed member of the chorus, I swear, by name and quarterings…”

“Seriously?” Rathe asked quickly, and Eslingen stopped in the act of setting the boots neatly by the foot of the bed, looked at him, curious.

“Well, no, it wasn’t that bad, but from what Siredy tells me, your friend Leussi would never have done it that way, Seidos’s Horse, it must have taken close to an hour.”

“And hungry actors waiting to get to the food,” Rathe interjected.

“I was impressed by their ladyships’ ability to secure as much food as possible without seeming to do so.”

“You never went hungry?”

“I may be an officer and a gentleman, Nico, but I started in the ranks, and I can assure you, no landame or castellan can match me for seizing the main chance. I had half a pie, thank you, and what I imagine was some decent wine.”

He brought the wine jug and two cups to the table, set them down before pulling out the chair opposite Rathe. “And some very interesting gossip,” he added, and Rathe groaned.

“As if I don’t get enough of that from Gavi, now you’re going to be regaling me.”

“Well, I thought it was interesting,” Eslingen said mildly. “Seems our patron once contracted a mesalliance that was rather brutally put an end to by his grandmother, who sounds like something to frighten the children with. And the points wrote it off as a tavern brawl?”

Rathe bit back his annoyance, had to appreciate the way Eslingen delicately cast doubt on the story, but it rang faint bells in his mind. “When was this?” he asked, and Eslingen shrugged.

“Oh, before your time, I would imagine, from what Siredy says. Twenty years ago, almost.”

“And the points’ authority wasn’t as recognized as it is these days. Astree knows, that’s still little enough when a noble’s involved.” He was frowning, trying to recall the matter, which would have happened in the early days of his apprenticeship, but shook his head, gave it up. “Sad, though. One deserves at least that much consolation,” he murmured, thinking of Holles. “And he’s not at all nonplused by Aconin?”

“Doesn’t seem to be, in fact, though he twitted me about my sudden accession of rank with the new name, Chresta seemed a lot more deferential than I’d ever seen him…” Eslingen trailed off as Rathe’s head lifted sharply.

“You know Aconin?”

“Gods, I didn’t mention it? No, I don’t suppose I did, it’s nothing really to brag about,” Eslingen said uncomfortably, stopping in the act of unwinding his stock, wondering at the sudden harsh note in Rathe’s voice. “My past comes back to haunt me. I knew him many years ago. We grew up on the same street in Esling, and from what I saw and heard tonight, he hasn’t changed much. A quick wit and a nasty one, that was Chresta. Kept him in one piece when we were children, and the two of us motherless children. He found his way out, I found mine.”

“You have my sympathies,” Rathe murmured. There was something, some note in his voice that made Eslingen glance quickly at him, but Rathe was reaching for his tablets, closing them and neatly piling the papers, securing them with a lead weight. Was this just the general dislike many in the city seemed to have for Aconin, or something more? A deep yawn startled him, and he decided it could wait for another day to query Rathe about it.

4

« ^ »

It was another cold morning, and cloudy, and Eslingen lay for a few minutes in the empty bed struggling to think just where he was before he remembered. He was still unused to being here, and he wasn’t sure that either one of them liked this unexpected intimacy. Perverse, really, considering that he, at least, had been thinking in terms of lemanry–but not like this. Not because he’d lost his job and had no other place to stay.

He stretched, glad he’d been able to afford the baths the night before, assessing the protests from muscles he hadn’t used in months. They’d gotten a thorough workout with the rest of the masters the day before, earning him the dour approval of Soumet. He stretched farther, experimentally. Not too bad, considering he hadn’t had any reason to put in more than cursory practice, but he’d still have to warm up carefully before he went about leading any drills or teaching any lessons. And that meant getting an early start, or what passed for an early start among the actors. He suppressed a groan, and levered himself out of bed.

Rathe had left the teapot half full, still swaddled in a knitted cozy, and the end of a loaf of bread on the table beside it. That was welcoming enough, but the bags still standing in the corner of the main room were less so. Eslingen made a face as he carved himself a slice of the bread, but tidied them back into the corner once he’d found the day’s clean linen. At least no one would expect him to wear a good shirt to a rehearsal–or at least he hoped they wouldn’t expect it. Rathe had only a small shaving mirror, and Eslingen had to stoop and bend to fasten his stock by its reflection. He had had himself shaved at the baths, thank Seidos, and as he pulled his hair back into a loose queue he felt almost human. All things considered, though, it would probably be a good idea if he started looking for a place of his own. He and Rathe could sort things out between them once this latest crisis was over. He found the breadbox after a brief search, tidied the last of the loaf into it and poured the dregs of the tea into the slop bucket, and let himself out into the chill courtyard.

There had been frost the night before, and the morning light had done nothing yet to melt it except in the most exposed areas. The cobbles were still slick with it, and Eslingen picked his way carefully along the narrow street, grateful to finally reach the wider road that led toward the theatres. The doubled sunlight, the winter‑sun setting, the day‑sun well up, did little to dissipate the chill, and Eslingen hunched his shoulders under his coat, wishing he’d had the sense to bring his cloak. But the chill wouldn’t last, he told himself, knowing it was fashion speaking rather than common sense, and quickened his pace as much as he dared.

Point of Dreams was just waking, though the nearest clock had already struck half‑past nine, and the only people on the street were a few pairs of still‑sleepy‑looking apprentices, taking down shop shutters in preparation for the day’s business. Not for the first time, Eslingen wondered how Rathe was adjusting to the change from Point of Hopes, where the day started before the first sunrise, but then put the thought aside. He had work to do, and mooning over Rathe wasn’t going to put him in the right frame of mind to handle a full chorus of semitrained and bloody‑minded nobles. At least the morning’s work was just with the other Masters of Defense, trying to make sense of the script’s set pieces. There were–he narrowed his eyes against the day‑sun, counting–three staged battles, plus a victory drill, an armed wedding procession, and two separate sword dances, and, of course, the half‑dozen duels. The last weren’t his responsibility, but he’d be expected to contribute to the drill pieces, and it would be nice to show he was useful early on.

The Tyrseia loomed ahead, the dark slates of its half roof gleaming wetly in the doubled sunlight, and he slowed his pace, trying to remember where Duca had told him to enter the theatre. The main doors were closed and barred–it was not a day for The Drowned Island, or they would never have had the use of the stagehouse– and the few low windows were heavily shuttered, and he hesitated for a second, debating whether to turn left or right around the building’s solid curve.

“Philip!”

Eslingen turned, recognizing the voice with relief, and Verre Siredy lifted a hand in greeting.

“I’m glad I caught you up, I couldn’t remember if Master Duca had told you where to go.”

“Neither could I,” Eslingen answered, with perfect truth, and Siredy grinned, showing good teeth. He was not, Eslingen thought again, a particularly handsome man, but there was something very engaging about him all the same. Eslingen had been aware, at the previous day’s drills, of the other’s interest. Amusing, flattering, certainly, but not a game he wanted to play at the moment.

“We go in by the players’ door,” Siredy said. “Below the middle stairs.”

Eslingen let him lead the way, idly admiring the cut of the other man’s coat, a dark red wool with huge jet buttons. It had to have been expensive, but then, in the queen’s capital, it was possible to find good clothes barely worn once and then discarded. His own best linen had come from there, and he was seized by a sudden panicked thought: what if one of the noble landseurs recognized his discard? But that was foolish, no one who could afford to get rid of clothing barely worn knew their wardrobe that well–and in any case, his coat and vest were new, the fruits of his time with Caiazzo.

There was a watchman at the door, an older man, his mouth drawn down in permanent disapproval, and behind him the languid de Vicheau rolled his eyes in irritation.

“Is this the lot of you?” the watchman demanded, and de Vicheau shook his head, glancing over his shoulder into the shadows of the theatre.

“No–Master Duca and Sergeant Rieux aren’t here.”

“Then you’ll have to wait here,” the watchman said, and stood aside to let them into a narrow tunnel that ran under the lowest tier of galleries. “Hey, you, Mersine! You wait at the head of the ramp, and don’t let any of them past you.”

“All right.” The voice was very young, and came from just below Eslingen’s elbow. He repressed a start, and a skinny girl in a patched skirt and bodice pushed past him, to take up her place at the head of the ramp. He blinked, not quite able to repress a smile at the thought of that urchin holding in check the Masters of Defense, and de Vicheau rolled his eyes again.

“Master Watchman,” he began, and the watchman held up both hands.

“Not my policy, master, there’s nothing I can do. It’s because of the machinery, nobody’s supposed to be allowed onstage until there’s a sceneryman to make sure all’s well. And besides, Mistress Gasquine pays me well to make sure no strangers wander loose in her theatre.”

“It’s not her theatre,” de Vicheau muttered, not quite under his breath.

“We’re working with Mistress Gasquine on the masque,” another man said with ponderous dignity. Eslingen jumped again–he hadn’t seen the big man there in the shadows, or the round‑faced girl beside him–and the master went on as though he hadn’t noticed. “If that’s her policy, I trust she’s hired a sceneryman, then? Because we have the chorus here at half past noon, expecting to rehearse.”

The watchman seemed to realize for the first time that he might be outside his authority, and his voice quavered. “It’s the Tyrseia’s policy, masters, but if you have to, I know someone you can send to–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gerrat Duca said from the doorway, and at his side, Sergeant Rieux held out a slip of paper. “This is Gasquine’s warrant, and the merchant‑venturers’, for us to use the stage.”

“You understand, master,” the watchman said, “I have to do as I’m told, it’s not my right to say who can do what where, I just do what they tell me–”

He pushed past them all as he spoke, moving up the long passage, and the masters closed rank behind him. The girl Mersine bounced once, anticipating something, and then the mage‑lights fired, filling the space with blue‑toned light. Eslingen caught his breath, startled by the sheer size of the theatre. He had never been on the floor of the pit before, hadn’t realized how the galleries loomed over it, three tiers high, each tier painted and gilded as brightly as the outside of the theatre, the colors gleaming in the mage‑light that streamed from hundreds of fixed‑fire globes. Compared to that, the stage itself seemed bare, pale wood only a few shades darker than the canvas that provided a temporary roof. The day‑sun hadn’t quite reached it, and the canvas hung slack and dark over the benches that filled the pit. More mage‑lights glowed above the stage itself, casting unexpected shadows on the towering scenery–the riverside set for The Drowned Island–and Eslingen remembered that they had not been lit during the performance. There was something on the stage, though, a shape like a bundle of rags, and at his side de Vicheau gave a long sigh.

Eslingen echoed him, thinking of delay, looking for the weapons that weren’t there, but then the true nature of the shape registered on him, long and low and dark, with one pale shape trailing away from it: not rags at all, but a man sprawled across the polished boards, one hand outstretched as though he was reaching for something.

“Sweet Tyrseis, has it started already?” That was Siredy, already striding forward, but Duca caught his shoulder.

“Wait.” He looked at the watchman. “This isn’t our sceneryman, I trust?”