“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?

The sands of the morning are half run from the glass!

There’s nothing in your bed ’tis worth such fascination.

The sun rules the sky, your father his kingdom,

And you rule a chamber ten paces by ten!”

Alondo laughed, and answered:

“Why be an emperor’s son, if I must rise

as though to reap the fields?

What profit, then, in my paternity?

What man lives, who, more than I,

has rightful claim to leisure?”

“He that has givenyou leisure,” said Jean. “Having carved it like rare meat from the bones of his enemies.”

“Enough,” said Moncraine. “Less reciting, Jovanno. Less formula.”

“Uh, sure,” said Jean, obviously feeling out of his depth. “Whatever you say.”

“Alondo, take over Ferrin. Lucaza, let’s have you see what you can make of Aurin.”

Locke had to admit to himself that Jean was the least comfortable of the five of them with what was going on. Although he was always eager to play a role in any crooked scheme that required it of him, he tended to stay within narrower bounds than Locke or Sabetha or even the Sanzas. Jean was a consummate “straight man”—the angry bodyguard, the dutiful clerk, the respectable servant. He was a solid wall for victims of their games to bounce off of, but not the sort to jump back and forth rapidly between roles.

Locke set these thoughts aside, and tried to imagine himself as Aurin. He recalled his own lack of sweet humor each time he was yanked from sleep early, most frequently because of some Sanza mischief. The memory served him well, and he spoke:

“Would you instruct me in the love of my own father?

You push presumption to its limits, Ferrin.

Had I wished to wake to scorn and remonstration,

I would have married by now.”

Alondo assumed a more energetic persona, more confident and forceful in speech:

“Fairly spoken, O prince, O majesty! I cry mercy.

I did not come to rudely trample dozy dreams,

Nor correct you in honoring our lord, your father.

Your perfect love for him is reckoned of a measure

With your devotion to warm, soft beds

And therefore lies beyond all question.”

“Were you notthe great friend of my youth,” said Locke, deciding a laugh would be a good thing to add,

“But the unresting spirit of some foe

Slain in Father’s wars,

You could scarce do me more vexation, Ferrin.

Thou art likea marriage,

Lacking only the pretty face and pleasant couplings—

You do so busy my mornings with rebukes

I half-forget which of us is royal.”

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Good enough. Friendly banter, hiding something. Ferrin sees his ticket to glory lazing around, accomplishing nothing. These two need each other, and they resent it while trying to hide it behind their good cheer.”

“Moncraine, for the love of all the gods, there’ll be no play to see and no parts to act if you explain everything at the first chance,” said Sylvanus.

“I don’t mind,” said Alondo.

“Nor I,” said Locke. “I think it’s helping. Me, at least.”

“Moncraine would teach you to how to play every part as Moncraine,” chuckled Sylvanus. “Don’t forget that.”

“Not an actor that lives wouldn’t make love to the sound of his own voice,” said Moncraine, “if only he could. You’re no exception, Andrassus. Now, let’s find some swords. Ferrin talks Aurin into practicing in the gardens, and that’s where the plot winds them in its coils.”

Hours passed in sweat and toil. Back and forth in the sun they pretended to fight, with notched wooden blades musty from storage. Locke and Jean and Alondo rotated roles, and Moncraine even swapped in the Sanzas for variety, until it became a sort of whirling pantomime brawl. Stab, parry, recover, deliver lines. Parry, dodge, deliver lines, parry, deliver lines …

Sylvanus procured a bottle of wine and ended his personal drought. He shouted encouragement at the duelists all afternoon, but didn’t move once from his chosen spot in the shade, near Sabetha and Jenora. As the sun drew down toward the west, Moncraine finally called a halt.

“There we are, boys, that’s enough for a mild beginning.”

“Mild?” wheezed Alondo. He’d kept his composure for a respectable length of time, but wilted with the rest of them as the muttering and swordplay had drawn on.

“Aye, mild. You’re out of condition, Alondo. You young pups have all the leaping about to do, and nearly all the speaking. If the audience sees you sucking air like a fish on the bottom of a boat—”

“They’ll throw things, right,” said Alondo. “I’ve been pelted with vegetables before.”

“Not in mycompany you haven’t,” growled Moncraine. “Right, all of you, sit down before you throw up.”

The admonition came too late for Calo, already wobbling from his hangover. He noisily lost whatever remained in his stomach in a far corner of the inn-yard.

“Music to my ears,” said Moncraine. “See, Andrassus? So long as I can inspire that sort of reaction in our bold young lads, I believe I may claim not to have lost my touch.”

“What do you suppose for us, then?” said Sylvanus.

“The audience might notice, were the emperor of the Therin Throne such a fine rich lovely shade of brown as myself, that his son ought not be a plain pink Therin,” said Moncraine. “And the part of the magician requires more moving about, so I’ll take it. That leaves you to sit the throne.”

“I shall be imperial,” sighed Sylvanus.

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Now, I need an ale before I’m baked like a pie.”

“Emperor, eh?” said Locke, sinking down against the wall next to Sylvanus. “Why so glum? Sounds like a good part.”