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Eslingen laughed appreciatively, but his eyes strayed to the duelists again. Still all there, though for once the two landames weren’t standing arm in arm, and he hoped nothing had happened to damp their friendship. They had defied the looks and whispers, and Aconin’s acid tongue, to maintain their affair openly; it would be a shame if the family enmities won after all. “Do you want to herd them on, or shall I?” he asked, and Siredy lifted his eyebrows.
“I’ll send them on, if you’ll get them off again.”
Eslingen nodded, knowing he’d been given the easier job, and grateful for it, and turned away, heading deeper into the backstage area so that he could cross the stage behind the massive backpiece. He had seen it from the pit for the first time just the day before, and it had taken his breath away: a mountain landscape, hills rising steeply to either side to frame the narrow valley. In the first act, and in the third, it was the Pass of Jetieve, in the second and fifth, the view from de Galhac’s fortress, and in the rest, all the mountains that bordered the palatinate; the versatiles were painted to change and complete each different setting. They were almost ready for the performance, everything in place except the final blessings of the chamberlains and their magists, and Eslingen paused at the center of the backpiece, peering out through the single narrow slit in the stiff canvas. Only the amateurs used it, or so he’d been told, but he’d also seen more than one of the professionals pausing to glance through the tiny gap. The only difference was that they didn’t use their hands to widen it, and risk spoiling the illusion.
Through the slit, he could see the actors standing in a semicircle around bes’Hallen, who stood stage center, draped in a floor‑length veil that gleamed like gold in the warm light of the practicals. Between their bodies, posed in stiff formality, he could see the empty benches of the pit, and the dark shadows of the galleries–except, he realized, the pit wasn’t entirely empty. Gasquine was sitting on one of the center benches, perhaps eight or ten rows back, her head and shoulders just visible as she watched intently. The chief sceneryman sat with her, and a tall woman in a long black gown who had to be one of the chamberlains. By rights, Eslingen thought, Aconin should be with them, but the playwright was still missing–not at the theatre, and not, according to Rathe, at his lodgings, or anywhere else he had been known to frequent. The gossips whispered that maybe he had caused the deaths, that at the least he was likely to be the person who’d put Forveijl up to trying the trick with the flowers, and quite possibly the one who killed Forveijl for it afterward, though there was a minority opinion that insisted that Rathe himself had done it. No one had said that to his face, of course, and Eslingen could guess that there were probably a few people who thought he could have done it–defending his lover–but that was easy to ignore. But Aconin wasn’t responsible, he thought, and turned away from the backpiece, crossing to the far side of the stage. It was more crowded there, and he had to press himself against the brick wall to avoid a pair of scenerymen hauling what looked like a roll of canvas. Another scenepiece, he guessed, or a carpet for one of the soueraine’s entrances. It wasn’t like Aconin to set someone up like that–or at least it wasn’t like him not to hang around to enjoy his victim’s disgrace. Eslingen made a face, remembering a childhood beating for stealing fruit from a neighbor’s garden. Aconin had put him up to it, and had enjoyed the outcome, the shouts and the pursuit and Eslingen’s wails, almost as much as he would have enjoyed the stolen plums. He’d gotten his own back, of course, and Aconin had learned better than to try that again, but the playwright had never been able to resist that kind of manipulation. And that, he thought, is why I’m so sure he isn’t behind any of this. If he was, he’d still be at the theatre, too secure in his own cleverness to think of ru
He took his place in the wings, resting his halberd on the toe of his shoe to keep from making unwanted noise on the hollow stage, listening with half an ear to the end of the council scene. Ramani’s long speech was coming up, and then the council exited, and the battle–his responsibility–would begin. He could see Siredy waiting opposite, the duelists ready behind him, lined up two by two for the fighting entrance, and took a deep breath, willing everything to go right. The chorus had worked hard, and so had the masters; Tyrseis permitting, all would go well. This was stage fright, the demon that even the professionals propitiated as much as possible, and he looked back to the pit and galleries, trying to imagine them filled with faces. The thought was dizzying–a thousand faces, more, all watching his handiwork–and he took another breath, grateful that he had no onstage part in this particular performance. That might come, but, mercifully, not yet.
He made a face, angry at his own fears, looked over his shoulder to see the great wave still looming over his shoulder. It was too large to move, would probably stay there until some other play needed the mechanism for a similar effect, or so the scenerymen had said, and he wondered how long that would be. Probably long enough that de Raзan’s death would have been long forgotten–already most of the actors and chorus talked about the dead watchman, and Forveijl, less about the landseur. But they all had to be co
Onstage, Ramani had finished her speech–Hyver was good, he thought, not for the first time, might be better than bes’Hallen someday–and stalked off, followed more slowly by the council. Above him, he heard the soft rumble of well‑greased pulleys, and the light brightened, yellow‑lensed practicals lowered to give the illusion of bright daylight. Across the stage, Siredy touched his leader’s shoulder–Simar, the landseur with the flowers, had proved to be far more sensible than his posies would suggest–and the pairs began to work their way onto the stage, swords clashing in steady rhythm. Eslingen released breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the second pair found their way past the first, took their place upstage and to the left. So far, he thought, so far, so good–except that Txi and de Va