Player's Ruse Page 7

  I played my part as if it was a con—or not quite, for the better part of pulling off a con is to sound natural. I tried to con them into believing I was an actor, and I must not have lost my touch, for after we’d finished, Makejoye gave me a speculative glance. “Have you done this before, Master Fisk?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, you’ll do. There’s room in the script for the hero to have a best friend—not so many soliloquies that way—and in the end he could bring the sheriff’s men to the rescue . . . or . . . No, that’ll work. As for you, my dear . . .” He threw a fatherly arm around Rosamund’s shoulders. “No, don’t cry, you looked lovely, and I’ll show you a trick or two that’ll have your voice traveling all the way to Huckerston! We’ve all day tomorrow to work together, you and Rudy and I.”

  Rosamund straightened her shoulders and blinked her eyes dry. “I’ll work hard, Master Makejoye. I’ll do anything to stay here.”

  “That’s a good lass. And as for you, Sir—”

  “Just Michael, please.” His voice was full of resignation. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Makejoye laughed. “So you did. And you’re right, it’s crowds for you, lad. Or at least . . . Can you fence?”

  Falon brought out the stage swords, which looked real but to my considerable relief had edges blunter than a butter knife’s. They stood me up against Michael, despite my protests, and told me to try, so I lifted the awkward thing and blocked Michael’s first, lazy-looking slash.

  His sword whipped around mine, knocking it out of my hand with a force that made my wrist tingle. I made a great show of shaking my fingers and the others laughed. Michael went, good-naturedly, to fetch my sword.

  Then they matched Rudy against Michael, saying he was the best swordsman among them. Rosamund clapped her hands in excitement, and both fencers looked at her and assumed identical, fatuous smiles.

  Rudy took up a stance that looked better than Michael’s to my untrained eye, and Michael’s first blow was faster than the one he’d aimed at me. The resounding clang as Rudy parried made me glad the swords’ edges were dull.

  Rudy had obviously picked up a bit of training somewhere, but noblemen’s sons are taught the sword in earnest. Rudy lasted all of twenty seconds before his sword followed mine into the bushes, and I thought he suppressed a wince as he tried to work the numbness out of his hand.

  “Not bad,” Makejoye commented. “In a choreographed fight, you’d do well together. I wonder if I could work in a brigand to attack the heroine’s coach.

  Then young Lord Gaspar could . . .”

  Makejoye spent the rest of the day revising his scripts and I helped recopy them—not a massive task, since he rewrote only the pages he made changes on and then bound them in with the others, using an awl to pierce the paper.

  It was a rather silly story, about a heroic young lord (whose name, by pure coincidence, bore some resemblance to that of the man who was paying for the piece) who falls in love with a beautiful peasant girl and is forbidden by his horrified parents to wed her. After many silly plots to separate them, which now included a brigand’s attack . . .

  “Let me guess—the girl is revealed to be noble, rich, and Gifted, and was being raised by the poor farmer for some tremendously silly reason?”

  w

  “Don’t be so cynical, Master Fisk.” Makejoye wagged an ink-stained finger. “If it was a tragedy, no one would watch. Her father was accused of conspiring to overthrow the High Liege and died in a flooding river trying to escape, so all his property was forfeit. Evidence turns up to prove he was innocent and it’s really me—that is, the girl’s villainous uncle—who was guilty. The father usually dies at sea fighting pirates, but with what’s going on around here . . .” He shook his head sadly.

  The copying got me out of helping with dinner preparation, and Edith Barker was an even better camp cook than Michael. I was amused to see Rosamund don an apron and chop vegetables, which she’d never done for Michael and me. She really was trying. It made me nervous for the meal.

  But dinner, a leg of roast pig cooked up with vegetables, and soft fluffy biscuits, was as good as any inn might serve.

  And the entertainment was better, for afterward Master Makejoye went into his wagon and came out with a viol case, which I hadn’t noticed that morning.

  Michael stiffened as Makejoye pulled the instrument free, and I looked at him curiously. The sun had set as we finished eating, and not having cooked, I knew I’d be called on to help wash the dishes as soon as the water heated. I was pleased at the prospect of some music to lighten the chore.

  The viol looked perfectly ordinary, with lamp and firelight glowing on its varnished curves. Of course Michael’s sight wasn’t the same as mine, but surely a fiddle couldn’t be—

  Then Makejoye tucked it between his knees and drew the bow across the strings. The soft, pure notes may have started in my ears, but they didn’t stop there—they vibrated in my throat, my belly, my bones. I hardly recognized the melody, though it was a country ballad I’d often heard. I’d just never lived it before.

  Gwendolyn Makejoye raised her voice, giving words to the viol’s speechless wail. I’d have thought a human voice, even one as clear and sweet as hers, would have been lost in the intensity of the viol’s sound, but somehow it took her voice with it, giving it the same penetrating impact. Between the two . . .

  I was trembling when the music finished, and my throat was tight. Rosamund had tears on her face, and Michael had to swallow twice before he could speak.

  “How did you come by such a thing? A magica viol . . . I can’t imagine the sacrifice that must have paid for it.”

  “It was enough, I suppose,” said Makejoye softly. The others were going about their chores, far less shaken than the three of us. Exposure, no doubt, lessening the shock. But the echoes of the music touched all their faces. Even Gloria looked content.

  “My grandfather was a fiddle maker,” Makejoye went on. “My father played well enough, but he hadn’t the knack with wood that Granda had. At the end of his life Granda’s hands began to stiffen, and he realized he’d be making only one more viol. So he went to a Savant to get the wood, and he paid for it with just one finger—this one.” He lifted his left forefinger and wiggled it. “He could never play again. He never played the instrument he made, but my da played it for him, before he died, and I play it for his memory. Neither of our girls cares much for music—and how that happened, between Gwen and me . . . but there, sometimes these things skip a generation. I’ve a young grandson who’s showing talent, so I don’t think Granda would feel his sacrifice was wasted.”

  “What in the world,” I demanded, “are you doing on the road? You could play that for the High Liege’s court—in the great theaters in Crown City or Tallowsport—and charge any fee you’d care to name!”

  “So I will,” said Makejoye. “When I’m ready to retire. But there’s other crafts than music, and folk other than lords who care for such things. The deaf can hear this fiddle, can you imagine? It terrifies them at first, but then . . . Surely music, of all the arts, is made to share.”

  And share he did, all through the mellow evening. I suppose I washed the dishes, though I have no memory of it. The music still hummed in my bones as I drifted off to sleep. My last thought was to hope Makejoye hid the thing well. All Rosamund’s jewels weren’t worth half its price—though it might be hard to fence.

  * * *

  The next day Master Makejoye made good his promise to work with Rosamund—at first just with her, then in rehearsals that included all of us.

  It wasn’t a problem for me—despite Makejoye’s praise of my delivery, my lines were few. Michael played a peasant, whose only dialogue was a constant repetition of “I dunno,” and a brigand who spoke no lines at all. And Rosamund did make progress. By the day’s end, you could hear her voice on the far side of the clearing almost half the time.

  Skinday morning Makejoye stayed in camp with the wo
men “to put just a bit more polish on your splendid performance, lass.” The rest of us drove the prop wagon into town and nailed painted panels onto the scaffolding, transforming it into the semblance of two plaster-and-beam buildings with a forest between them. It looked out of place in this town of brick on brick.

  “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 fac
es.

  “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.”