Player's Ruse (8 page)

“We realized that the moment we set eyes on the place,” said Rudy ruefully. “But Hector says the different architecture will look exotic to these folk.”

Once the panels were up, and the props and costume changes laid out in the dark, cramped “wings” of the stage, someone had to stay and watch them, along with the horse and wagon and the magica phosphor mosslamps, whose brightness made night performances possible. In a dry region like this, those lamps, filled with living moss, were probably worth more than the horse. Since they already knew their parts, Rudy and Falon chose to stay, and Michael, Barker, and I walked back to camp.

I found myself unaccountably nervous as the day dragged on—unaccountably, because I’d only a handful of lines, and I’ve run cons where if I blew my role I’d end up indebted—maybe even flogged. All I was in danger of now was looking silly, and after almost two years as Michael’s squire I was accustomed to that.

As I said, the day dragged on, until suddenly it was time to paint our faces and depart and the minutes started hurtling forward.

We rode into town in the Barkers’ fancifully painted wagon, perched on their belongings with the little dogs crouched between us—when they weren’t on our laps. They too seemed . . . not nervous, but quiveringly eager. Their ruffled collars got in our way more than they seemed to bother them.

At least Trouble was tied securely to a tree, “guarding” the picketed horses. He had wanted to accompany us so badly that I triple-checked the knots that held his tether before we left.

The cart lurched onto the cobbles long before I was ready for it, and my stomach lurched, too. Michael was smiling his cursed this-will-be-an-adventure smile, and I swore at him under my breath.

With Rudy gone, he was the one who helped Rosamund down from the cart. Barker stopped several blocks short of the square, so we could sneak in and “mysteriously” appear when the curtains opened. At least, that was Makejoye’s plan. I hoped the exercise would settle Rosamund’s nerves, for she looked absolutely terrified.

I think the brisk walk did us all good. I couldn’t see Rosa’s color under the gaudy paint, but some of the stiffness drained from her posture, and her breathing steadied. As for me, moving cloaked and unobtrusive through a crowd brought back memories older than my con-man days. If not all of them were pleasant, at least the familiarity was soothing. This time I risked nothing.

The crowd gathered in the square was larger than I’d expected, almost filling it. Pie sellers were hawking their wares, their rough voices giving texture to the chatter of the crowd. The lighters were just starting to kindle the torches when the Barkers’ wagon rattled into the square.

Edgar and Edith stood on the driver’s seat and bowed, as one of the two lads we’d hired that afternoon came forward to take the reins. They jumped down, Barker turning a few cartwheels in the process, and began, with comic clumsiness, to unload the small platforms and bright-striped hoops.

I suddenly wondered if Makejoye hadn’t outsmarted himself. The square was packed with people, and how the Barkers would clear a path . . .

I needn’t have worried. At Barker’s shrill whistle the dogs burst from the wagon, and
they
cleared the space before them, herding the crowd aside like so many sheep, yapping at the recalcitrant. When one cocky youth refused to stand aside, instead of nipping, the dog lifted a leg, in a way that made the threat only too plain. The boy leapt back and the crowd roared with delight.

Skirting the mob’s fringes, we might as well have been invisible.

Sunset’s orange glow made the well-worn costumes and props look fresh and bright. The dogs leapt and clowned their way toward the stage. A grubby lad, perhaps eight or nine, sidestepped in search of a better view and ran into my legs. His mouth fell open at the sight of my painted face, and I lifted a finger to my lips and winked.

The wide grin of a child with a secret stretched his cheeks. I pointed to the steps of one of the guild houses—farther off, but high enough to give a good view—and mimed climbing.

He grinned again and took off like an arrow. As I strolled up the stairs to the wings of the stage, only one pair of eyes in all the oblivious crowd was on me. Master Makejoye knew his business, it seemed, and my qualms for the performance began to diminish. Until the Barkers drew the curtains aside and revealed the bright-lit stage, Rosamund, and Gloria.

“My dearest friend,” said Rosamund, in a quivering voice so soft that I could barely hear her, “I . . . I hope . . .”

“Ah, Carolee,” said Gloria in a voice they could hear on the other side of the river. “You shouldn’t fret about your lack of speech. Some men prefer women who are silent and mouselike.”

Falon, who stood behind me, choked, for that line was emphatically not in the script. But if Rosamund didn’t pull herself together, a mute heroine might—

“My speech is fine,” said Rosamund—and if you couldn’t have heard her across the river, at least the back of the crowd stood a fighting chance. Real indignation made her tone almost natural. “As you well know, Elaine. Just because I don’t chatter all the time like . . . like a bold woman, it doesn’t mean I have no speech.”

Makejoye, on the other side of the stage, hissed softly; Gloria and Rosamund got the hint and the play went forward as written. By the midpoint break my nerves had vanished into a sweaty, panicked exaltation. My only costume change for the second half consisted of putting on a different doublet, so I was able to watch Makejoye work the crowd.

He’d taken his viol up onstage and commanded their attention with a melody that set feet tapping throughout the audience—children and young couples danced wherever they could find the space. When he finished, there was a moment of absolute silence, then kind of a roaring whisper as the whole audience took a breath at once, followed by exclamations of awe and shouted demands for another tune.

“In good time, my friends, in good time. For it strikes me that while you’ve seen something of all of us, we barely know any of you, and that doesn’t seem fair.” The viol mourned, and almost broke my heart.

“You, sir, yes, you in the front, come up here and talk to me.” He had to take the man’s hand to lead him up to the stage—a laborer of some sort by his clothes, come in from the countryside for the performance. His tanned, lined face was wary as he gazed at the gaudy actor.

“So, sir, are you enjoying the play? More interesting than the milk pails, I trust?”

“Here!” The man looked as if he’d swallowed an egg whole. “What do you know about milk pails?”

“You’re a dairyman, are you not?”

“How’d you know that!” His astonishment was so sincere even I knew he wasn’t a shill, and the audience murmured their appreciation.

“Why, because of the way your girl was clinging to you,” Makejoye answered smoothly. “No one”—his voice dropped to a whisper that carried farther than most men’s shouts—“handles women like a dairyman, as all the girls know.” The viol mooed.

The flattered, red-faced farmer shook the actor’s hand and returned to his embarrassed wife.

Then Makejoye challenged the crowd to send him people whose professions he might not guess, “No, not you, sir, there’s far to many potters in this town for that to be a puzzle. Someone harder, if you please.”

All herb-mixers carry the faint scent of their wares, though the crowd apparently didn’t know it, for they were astonished. The clerk he no doubt told by the faded ink stains on his cuffs, though even Makejoye guessed wrong as to who he clerked for, to the audience’s delight.

They’d have forgiven him for murder at that point. The jokes were flying thick and fast, each topping the next—they laughed till they were clutching their ribs with tears on their faces.

“A jester,” Michael whispered, a note of awe in his voice. I felt the same, for jesters are almost as outdated and mythical as knights errant.

“And a good one,” I whispered back. A man of many talents, Master Makejoye. What in the world was he doing scrounging for contracts in obscure towns?

I got an inkling of the answer later on, as I listened to young Lord Gaspar lament how he was forced to a path not of his choice by the foolish conventions of another time. It hadn’t sounded quite so . . . radical when I read it in the script. In a time when barons all through the realm were struggling to keep their people from running to the towns, some of the young lord’s romantic problems seemed to have political overtones. Of course this was a town, but still . . .

“Isn’t this a bit . . . unwise?” I asked Gloria, who happened to be on my side of the stage at the moment.

She grimaced. She really was pretty, though not as spectacularly lovely as Rosamund. “If you think that’s bad, you should . . . ah, think again, Master Fisk. It’s nothing but a young man whining about wanting to marry against his family’s will.”

“Of course,” I replied. But I frowned as I said it. Players often have different versions of the same script—the story the local baron might see would be subtly different from the version that played when all the audience was villagers and common folk. Even if someone objected, the worst it was likely to bring them was a pointed request to leave, and perhaps a few bruises. A flogging was rare. But if Makejoye had political leanings, maybe it was good he wasn’t playing in Crown City.

It was almost time for Gloria to go on and give Gaspar his lover’s desperate plea for rescue.

“Shouldn’t you cut Rosa a little slack for the rest of the night?” I asked softly. “If you step on any more of her lines, Makejoye will demote you from best friend to scullery maid.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “But as Callista pointed out, she probably won’t be with us very long. Besides, I’ve almost dragged a real performance out of the wench.”

That was true; sheer self-defense had forced Rosamund to fight for the chance to say her lines, to command the audience’s attention. So far, she’d muffed only half of them.

Gloria’s cue came, and she rushed out onto the stage, her sweaty costume looking rich and real in the clear lamplight.

Soon it was over. We straightened from our final bow, and I realized I’d never been so exhausted in my life.

Makejoye stepped forward one last time. “You’ve been a splendid audience,” he told them. “And I hope you’ve enjoyed our performance as much as we’ve enjoyed pleasing you. If you wish to leave a small token of your gratitude, the lads holding the horses at either wagon will be happy to accept it on our troupe’s behalf. Now we bid you good night.”

Michael looked startled. “I thought Lord Fabian was paying them.”

I grinned at him. “What’s the difference between a traveling player and a bandit?”

Michael sighed. “I don’t know. What?”

“The player expects you to clap when he’s finished.”

Mistress Barker, who stood between us, snorted. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense,” said Makejoye, joining us. “A few fracts won’t hurt them and might do us a deal of good.”

“Can I ask you something?” I’d been wondering all night. “How did you guess the dairyman? I figured out the others, but he looked like he’d bathed.”

“He had.” Makejoye grinned. “When most folk ask, I tell ’em it’s a trade secret, but since you’re one of us . . . It was the softness of his hands. Dairymen rub grease on their cows’ udders to keep them from chapping, and their hands are as soft as a fine lady’s. But I believe I see opportunity approaching. Master Potter, what did you think of our performance?”

“Councilman for the Potters’ and Brickers’ Guild,” Falon murmured, as Makejoye went to greet a thin, plainly dressed man. “Lord Fabian’s rival for control of the town. With any luck he’ll feel obliged to hire us for a different performance, and pay even more to score off his lordship.”

If the guilds managed to organize sufficiently to get the town charter transferred from Lord Fabian to them, Lord Fabian would lose his cut of the town’s taxes, and the guilds, whose taxes would then go straight to the High Liege, would pay far less. Hiring players to put on a few shows was a cheap price for both parties to pay in that kind of struggle. If Makejoye was clever, he could make a lot of money here. If he wasn’t careful, he might get caught up in a fight too big for any player to deal with—but all that was tomorrow’s problem.

The audience was leaving. With them gone, the cool breeze could reach the stage, and I was grateful for it. Edgar Barker was taking the tired dogs back to camp. Edith watered and closed up the phosphor mosslamps, preparing to go with him. The rest of us still had work to do.

We changed out of our costumes, men on one side of the stage, women on the other. Then the ladies packed up costumes and props, while Rudy brought out hammers and crowbars for the rest of us to take the scenery off the scaffolding. He was showing Michael and me how to pull the nails without leaving dents in the panels when we discovered that one member of the audience hadn’t left.

“You!” Rosamund’s voice was full of loathing—I wished she’d project that much emotion on the stage. “What are you doing here, you horrid little man?”

“Now, Mistress Rosamund.” Quidge was a lump of darkness in the shadow of the steps. “You know perfectly well what I’m doing, and no wrong to you intended. Couldn’t we discuss this?”

“No,” said Rosamund, though it sounded like a reasonable request to me. “Of course I know what you want; I meant, how did you find me? Not that it will do you any good this time, either!”

Quidge looked mournful, but there was a glint in his eyes I didn’t care for. I joined the others, who were converging at that side of the stage.

Rudy threw a manly arm around Rosamund’s shoulders, and Michael, preempted from that, hovered protectively beside her. Even Makejoye paused in his negotiations with Master Potter.

“You think you’re safe here, don’t you, girl, with your new friends. You trust ’em?”

“Of course I do.” Rosamund put her arm around Rudy’s waist. “Oh, Rudy, this is Master Quidge, the bounty hunter my uncle sent after me. Master Quidge, this is Rudy Foster, my betrothed.”

I heard a choking sound beside me and glanced at Callista. She’d played the heroine’s spiteful stepsister and somehow managed to suppress her remarkable allure. If she hadn’t, the audience would never have believed she had reason to be jealous of any woman. She was rumpled, sweat stained, and tired, as we all were, but the lamps tinted her smooth skin to honey. Amusement glinted in her eyes as they met mine.