After Philmon and Amelia left, Fontagu looked out from the side of the stage once more. There was Florian, and Janus, and several other important people and their servants, already stuffing their faces.

‘Strength, Fontagu,’ he whispered. ‘Time to do something noble.’

‘These are good seats, aren’t they?’ Philmon said. He looked down on the cheap-ticket holders, standing in a crush in the main part of the theatre.

‘There had to be some advantage to being friends with Fontagu,’ Amelia said bitterly. She glanced across at an empty chair. ‘Tab should have been there, though.’

‘I know. But you need to focus on what you’re going to say to Florian in front of all these people. Are you still going to do it?’

Amelia felt the anger still burning in her chest. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Definitely.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ Philmon said as Fontagu emerged from the side of the stage and walked to the centre. ‘He looks nervous.’

‘He should be.’

The noise from the audience settled as Fontagu stood there, waiting. When there was complete silence, he raised his chin, extended one of his arms, and bowed low towards the royal box. ‘My lord,’ he said.

Florian nodded once and stuffed a bunch of grapes into his mouth.

Fontagu straightened and faced the audience. ‘Dear friends, I am Fontagu Wizroth the Third, and tonight I have the very great honour of directing and performing my own modern adaptation of the greatest of all Quentaran classics, The Gimlet Eye. This performance was commissioned as a birthday gift from the city of Quentaris to its leader, Florian the Great, Supreme Emperor of Quentaris. As befits the occasion, later in the performance there will be a surprise guest appearance, which I feel sure you will enjoy.’

Fontagu hesitated, then cleared his throat. ‘Before we begin, I wish to dedicate tonight’s performance to a wonderful and most esteemed person, the like of whom I have ever known, and may never know again.’

Amelia glanced in Florian’s direction. The horrid little oaf was smiling smugly around at the crowd.

Fontagu went on: ‘The performance you are about to see will be in the honour of my very dear friend, Tab Vidler, who yesterday disappeared without trace, in most suspicious circumstances. We hope for her safe return, but are prepared for the very worst.’ He turned towards the royal box, and the no-longer-smiling Florian. ‘My lord, we give you, in three acts… The Gimlet Eye.’

‘Go Fontagu!’ Amelia muttered.

‘Brave or stupid?’ Philmon said.

‘Quite a bit of both.’

It came as something of a surprise to Amelia to see how good Fontagu actually was. The other performers ranged between fairly good and outstanding, but Fontagu’s class was clearly evident. Whenever the crippled carpenter Robar came onstage, it was plain to see that the actor playing him was truly in his element. His voice was strong and emotive, his lines delivered with perfect timing and enunciation, and Amelia found herself looking forward to his every reappearance.

Philmon seemed to be finding the performance just as engaging, for at some time in the second act, just as the villagers were preparing to go out hunting for the monster, Amelia stole a glance at him, and saw that his eyes were wide. He was sitting slightly forward, and his lap was empty.

‘Philmon! Where’s Fargus?’ she whispered.

‘What? Oh! Oh no!’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know!’ Philmon said, looking under his chair and around the stall. ‘I’ll have to go and look for him!’

‘Wait,’ said Amelia. ‘Let me try something.’ Then she closed her eyes.

‘What are you doing?’

She didn’t answer him. She was too busy trying to use her fledgling skill to find the mind of Fargus.

Shutting away the strange garbled noise of the hundreds of minds in the playhouse, she went looking for a little, doggy mind. It took some doing, but eventually she found Fargus. At least, she was pretty sure it was him, sniffing around at the base of a chest. Off to one side she saw some backstage props that she recognised from the play, and a short distance away she could hear Fontagu delivering some of Robar’s lines.

She suddenly felt a pain in her backside, and a voice she didn’t recognise said, ‘Out of the way, mutt – I’m in a hurry.’

Fargus whimpered and looked up. Through his eyes, Amelia was shocked to see a stocky, red-headed man limping across to a large table strewn with props. He was carrying something in his hand, but with his back turned to Fargus, it was impossible for Amelia to know what it was.

Then he was turning around, and Amelia saw what it was he was holding. It was a sword.

She left Fargus’ mind with a start. She was breathing hard as she said, ‘He’s backstage.’

‘I’d better go and get him,’ Philmon replied. ‘We can’t have a dog running across -’

‘Not the dog,’ Amelia said. ‘The man. The red-headed man with the little knife. And a sword. Rendana is backstage. I can even smell the tigerplums.’

Philmon frowned at her. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m sure he’s up to no good.’

‘He’s not backstage any more,’ Philmon said, nodding towards the royal box. Amelia looked, and saw Rendana standing at the back of the stall. He caught Janus’ eye, and nodded.

‘Something’s not right,’ Philmon said. ‘I’m going back there.’

Amelia stood up. ‘Then I’m coming with you.’

As they reached the backstage area, they almost ran headlong into Fontagu, who had just come behind the curtain at the end of a scene. ‘What are you two doing here?’ he asked crossly. ‘Florian will be here for his cameo in a moment, and then I’m back on. It’s a very quick turnaround for the next scene.’

‘Fontagu, something’s wrong,’ Philmon said.

‘I know, I know, that idiot murdering the part of Darmas Girth has just botched his last line, I swear it.’

‘Actually, it’s not that -’ Amelia began to say, but she stopped as Florian and a couple of his courtiers arrived.

‘Wizroth! Explain yourself!’ Florian blustered, standing up close to Fontagu. ‘What do you mean to do, dedicating this play to that Vidler child? It’s Our birthday. Ours!’

‘Steady, Amelia,’ Philmon said under his breath, as she stiffened.

‘I… I meant no disrespect, my lord,’ Fontagu stammered.

‘You might have thought it was noble and brave, but We thought it was rather foolish, in the scheme of things,’ Florian said. ‘But we can talk about your so-called future later. For now, We need Our costume.’

‘Over here, my lord,’ Fontagu said, taking a cloak from a hanger nearby. ‘It should fit… We thought it would be quicker and easier if your costume just slipped over your very fine, very elegant clothes, which do befit your greatness and your -’

‘Oh, do shut up, Wizroth,’ Florian said, slipping the cloak on. ‘Now, where’s Our sword?’

‘Here, my lord.’ Fontagu handed him a wooden sword, painted to look silver.

Fontagu swung it about as if he was preparing for a real duel. ‘Yes, this will do nicely,’ he said, and Amelia had to bite her tongue again. Florian had never been much good with weapons when he was the spoilt nephew to the Archon, and now as a spoilt Emperor he was probably just as useless. ‘And Actor, remember to let me look good before you kill me.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Fontagu replied.

‘Now, when is Our cue?’ Florian looked around smugly, making sure that everyone had noticed his use of a real acting word. ‘I believe We go on from stage left, is that right?’

‘Stage left is right. I mean… stage left is correct, my lord,’ Fontagu said, picking up his stage sword from the props table. He attached it to his belt, momentarily confused by the buckle. But then it was on, and he gave his head a little mind-clearing shake and looked at Florian, who suddenly appeared to be struggling not to vomit. ‘Ready?’