“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 matterwith 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 thievesof wonderare 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’swords. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and bloodbehind 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 angrywith 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 thievesof wonderare 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 playgoing 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 thievesof wonderare 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 happyempire! 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 imperialto 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 wrathand 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.”