The Gentleman Bastard Series (223 page)

“Poldaris the Just,” muttered Sylvanus.

“Built by Poldaris the Just,” said Moncraine, “as his perpetual legacy to the people of Espara. Big stone amphitheater, about two hundred years old.”

“One hundred and eighty-eight,” said Sylvanus.

“Apologies, Sylvanus, unlike you I wasn’t there. So you see, Giacomo, we can use it, as long as we pay a little fee to the countess’ envoy of ceremonies.”

“If it’s such a fine place, why did Basanti build his own?”

“The Old Pearl is perfectly adequate,” said Moncraine. “Basanti built to flatter his self-regard, not fatten his pocketbook.”

“Because businessmen like to spend lots of money to replace perfectly adequate structures they can use for nearly nothing, right?”

“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”

“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”

“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”

“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”

“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”

Sabetha gave a slight, satisfied nod.

“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”

Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.

“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very
romantic
and
tragic
and the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some deadweight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo, and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”

“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo, and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lèse-majesté as a new hobby.”

“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many
weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”

“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.

“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all
read
, I assume?”

“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”

“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”

“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.

“What the fuck’s the
matter
with you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”

“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,

And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.

What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”

“No,” said Jasmer.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”

“If you say so,” said Galdo.

“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”

“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.

“Give us a Chorus.”

Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and
began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly:

“You see us
wrong
, who see with your eyes,

And hear
nothing true
, though straining your ears.

What
thieves
of
wonder
are these poor senses, whispering—”

“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”

“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.

“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a
man’s
words. Not some dull formula. Put
flesh and blood
behind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”

“Because they can’t fuckin’ read?” said Galdo.

“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are
angry
with your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”

“You see us
wrong
, who see with your
eyes!
” said Galdo. He gestured disdainfully at his own face with his free hand, and took two threatening steps closer to Calo. “And hear us not at all, though straining your
ears!
”

He reached out and snapped a finger against one of Calo’s ears. The long-haired twin recoiled, and Galdo moved aggressively toward him once again.

“What
thieves
of
wonder
are these poor senses,” said Galdo, all but hissing with disdain, “
whispering
: this stage is wood, these men are dust, and dust their deeds and thousand … dust their ducks … aw, shit, lost myself, sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Moncraine. “You had something there, didn’t you?”

“That was fun,” said Galdo. “I think I see what you mean.”

“Words are dead until you give them a
context
,” said Moncraine. “Until you put a character behind them, and give him a reason to speak them in a certain fashion.”

“Can I do it back to him like he’s the stupid one?” said Calo.

“No. I’ve made my point,” said Moncraine. “You Camorri do have a certain poise and inventiveness. I just need to awaken you to its proper employment. Now, what’s our Chorus doing here?”

“He’s pleading,” said Jean.

“
Pleading
. Yes. Exactly. First thing, out comes the Chorus to plead to the crowd. The hot, sweaty, drunk, and skeptical crowd.
Listen up
, you unworthy fucking mongrels! Look, there’s a
play
going on, right in front of you! Shut up and give it the attention it deserves!”

Moncraine changed his voice and poise in an instant. Without so much as a glance at the script, he spoke:

“What
thieves
of
wonder
are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.

For us it is not so
.

See
now
, and conjure with present vigor,

A
happy
empire! Her foes sleep in ruins of cold ambitions,

And take for law the merest whim of all-conquering
Salerius

Second of that name, and most
imperial
to bear it!

His youth spent in dreary march and stern discipline

Wherein he met the proudest neighbors of his empire—

With trampled fields for his court, red swords for ambassadors,

And granted, to each in turn, his attention most humbling.

Now all who would not bow are hewn at the feet to better help them kneel.”

Moncraine cleared his throat. “There. I have had my plea. I have taken command, shut those slack jaws, turned those gimlet eyes to the stage. I am midwife to wonders. With their attention snared, I give them history. We are back in the time of the Therin Throne, of Salerius II. An emperor who went out and kicked some ass. Just as we shall, perhaps excepting Sylvanus.”

Sylvanus rose and tossed his copy of the script aside. Jenora managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Chorus, you call yourself,” he said. “You’ve the presence of a mouse fart in a high wind. Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.”

If Locke had been impressed by the change in Moncraine’s demeanor, he was astounded by the change in Sylvanus. The old man’s perpetually sour, unfocused, liquor-addled disposition vanished, and without warning he was speaking clearly, invitingly, charmingly:

“From war long waged comes peace well lived,

And now, twenty years of blessed interval has set

A final laurel, light upon the brow of bold, deserving Salerius!

Yet heavy sits this peace upon his only son and heir.

Where once the lion roared, now dies the faintest echo of warlike times,

All eyes turn upon the cub, and all men wait

to behold the wrath and majesty

that must spring from such mighty paternity!

Alas, the father, in sparing not the foes of his youth

Has left the son no foe for his inheritance.

Citizens, friends, dutiful and imperial—

Now give us precious indulgence,

see past this fragile artifice!

Let willing hearts rule dullard eyes and ears,

And of this stage you shall make the empire;

From the dust of an undone age hear living words,

on the breath of living men!

Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,

And with us, jointly, devise and receive

the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius.

And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed

Learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made.”

“Well remembered, I’ll give you that,” said Moncraine. “But then, anything more than three lines is well remembered, where you’re concerned.”

“It’s as fresh now as the last time we did it,” said Sylvanus. “Fifteen years ago.”

“That’s you and I that would make a fair Chorus,” sighed Moncraine. “But we need a Salerius, and we need a magician to advise him and do all the threatening parts, or else the plot goes pear-shaped.”

“I’ll be the Chorus!” said Galdo. “I can do this. Wake everyone up at the beginning, then sit back and watch the rest of you in the play. That sounds like a damn good job.”

“The hell you’ll do it,” said Calo. “You and that shaved head, you look like a vulture’s cock. This job calls for some elegance.”

“You see us wrong,” said Galdo, “who are about to get your
fuckin’ ass kicked!
”

“Shut up, idiots.” Moncraine glowered at the twins until they settled down. “It would be to our advantage to leave Sylvanus and myself free for other parts, so yes, one of you may have the Chorus. But you won’t scrap for it in the dirt; you’ll both learn the part and strive to better one another in it. I don’t have to make a final decision for some time.”

“And what does the loser get?” said Calo.

“The loser will understudy the winner, in case the winner should be carried off by wild hounds. And don’t worry; there’ll be other parts to fill.

“Now,” said Moncraine. “Let’s break ourselves up and put Alondo and our other Camorri through some paces, to see where their alleged strengths lie.”

3

THE SUN moved its way and the clouds moved theirs. Before another hour passed the inn-yard was once again in the full light and
heat of day. Moncraine donned a broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise seemed heedless of the temperature. Sylvanus and Jenora clung to the inn walls, while Sabetha and the boys darted in and out of cover as they were required to play scenes.

“Our young prince Aurin lives in his father’s shadow,” said Moncraine.

“He’s probably glad to be out of the gods-damned sun, then!” panted Galdo.

“There’s no glory to be had because Salerius II already went out and had it,” continued Moncraine. “No wars to fight, no lands to claim, and it’s still an emperor or two to go before the Vadrans are going to start kicking things over up north. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Aurin has a best friend named Ferrin. Ferrin’s even hungrier for glory than Aurin is, and he won’t shut up about it. Let’s do … Act one, scene two. Alondo, you do Aurin, and let’s have Jovanno give us a Ferrin.”

Alondo leaned back lazily in a chair. Jean approached him, reading from his copy of the script:

“What’s this, lazy lion cub?