Swordpoint (12 page)

'Come on,' said Alec, elbowing his way through the crowd, 'or we'll find ourselves sitting in some dowager's lap.'

The nobles stopped throwing nuts to look at them. A snatch of their conversation carried over: '...can't afford him anyway...." A pair of serving-girls, arm in arm, simpered and turned away.

Richard was beginning to be sorry he'd come. The crowd grew tighter as they reached the entryway. Other peoples' toes and elbows and very breath intruded on him. He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword.

This fascinated a group of small boys, one of whom finally grew bold enough to approach. 'Hey, swordsman!' he shouted hoarsely. 'Could you kill my brother?'

Richard didn't answer; they always asked that. 'Shut up, Harry,' another said. 'Can't you even see that's St Vier?'

'Hey, are you St Vier? Hey, St Vier, could I see your sword?'

'You can see it up your backside,' said Alec, hitting one of them at point-blank range with an almond. Pleased with his aim, he led the way in, and tipped a boy to find them seats.

They got a private box in the upper gallery, directly opposite the stage. Alec was elated. 'I've always wanted one of these. It's pure hell on the benches, with every idiot and his wife trying to sit on your lap.' Richard winced at the thought. They were high above everything here, with a good view of the stage now bathed in sunlight. People were craning up to look at them from all corners of the house.

Alec put his feet up on the barrier and ate some of his raisins. There was a sennet of trumpets from above. 'Now you'll see the nobles' boxes fill,' Alec said. 'They always come in now.'

Set close to the stage, the nobles' boxes, hung with their occupants' arms, were visible from almost all the rest of the audience.

It was the first time in many years that Richard was able to observe them all at leisure. He recognised more than he expected to: handsome men who had stalked him at the parties he used to attend; distinguished noblemen and -women whose money and patronage he'd refused, and others who had reason to be grateful.

He saw Lord Bertram Rossillion with a beautiful dark-haired woman on his arm, remembered him complaining about pressure to marry... poor lady. Alintyre was there, now Lord Hemmyng. He wondered if Hemmyng would recognise the emerald on Alec's hand and smiled, remembering that mad ride through the hills with the coach just ahead of them, Alintyre's lady love being trundled off to her aunt's; and her shrieks of laughter as they'd ridden back with her the way they'd come. He looked harder at the stately lady smiling up at Hemmyng, and recognised with a start the tilt of the nose.__

The man responsible for Alec's rose gold ring was also there, looking young and serene as ever. Of course, it hadn't been so many years ago. He was talking to an elegant redhead.

'Godwin,' said Alec. 'One of those delectable confections you're staring at is a Godwin of Amberleigh, there's the crest.'

'The redhead,' Richard said. 'I've seen him somewhere else before, I can't think where___'

'How do you know it isn't the other one?'

Richard smiled. 'I've seen him before, too; but I remember where.'

Lord Thomas Berowne turned back to his companion. 'And there it is,' he said; 'he did come after all.'

'Why shouldn't he?' Lord Michael answered. 'He's not a coward.'

'No, but he's not flashy either. It's a flashy thing to do.'

'For a swordsman. Is he superstitious?'

'Doesn't matter. Alban was sure he wouldn't come; he owes Lucius 20 royals now.'

'He can afford it,' Michael said absently. His mind wasn't on St Vier: he was wondering what Vincent Applethorpe would say if he knew Michael was attending The Swordsman's Tragedy. 'It's just a fairy tale,' he said aloud. 'No one really believes it.'

'Maybe not,' said Tom; 'but wait for the betting when St Vier's next fight comes up.'-

'He's stolen Halliday's fire, at any rate,' Michael changed the subject. 'They were saying that the Crescent was planning to cancel the performance, close down the theatre.'

'Where have you been, Michael?' Berowne asked in mock surprise. 'They were talking about The King's End, which is a piece of garbage saved only by the presence of one Miss Viola Festin as the king's page. I have already seen it twice, and I can assure you that Lord Halliday was at the last performance. All of it. I came in partway through, when the gentle page -'

'Oh, no,' Michael said. 'It's Horn. In the box across from us.'

'He's probably bet on St Vier. What's the matter?'

'Tell me if he's looking at me.'

'He isn't. Poor child, has he been pestering you with his attentions? Or do you owe him money?'

'He makes my skin creep,' Michael explained.

'Oh, yes,' Berowne said 'I know about that.'

'They're all betting on you,' Alec said cheerfully, passing him the raisins. 'I wish we could get a percentage.'

'It comes out of my fees,' Richard answered. 'When does the play start?'

'Soon, soon; when the music stops.'

'What music?'

'There - on stage. You can't hear it, everyone's talking.'

'And looking at us,' Richard said. It was beginning to seem like a bad idea again.

'They're protecting their investments,' Alec said blithely. 'I wonder if they'll send you flowers.'

Richard groaned. 'Flowers. Is Ferris here? What does his crest look like?'

'He's not here. Lord Horn is. No Halliday. No Tremontaine. Nobody serious comes to see us.'

'Look away,' said Lord Thomas, 'he's looking at you.'

'Horn?'

'No, St Vier.'

'He's probably looking at you,' Michael said.

'I'm not blushing, he can't be.' Berowne looked pointedly away. 'Now Horn's looking... not at you, at him.'

'Who's that with him?'

'With Horn?'

'With St Vier. Thomas, turn around and look.'

'I can't. I'm blushing. It's the curse of my complexion.'

'At least you don't freckle. Send him a note - the swordsman, I mean. Ask him to join us.' 'Michael.' Lord Thomas looked at his friend. 'You offend my pride. Everyone is dying to ask him to join them. I refuse to herd with the common throng. I refuse to be the first to capitulate.

And what if he refused?'

'I think', Richard said crossly, 'that I am not going to like this play. I think it's going to be a silly play. I think we should mess everyone's bets up by leaving now.'

'We could do that', Alec said. 'But those people who have begun walking around onstage are in fact the actors. Soon they will begin to speak. If you go now you will be walking out in the middle of the first scene, and everyone will stare at you even more. Sit down, Richard. Here comes the Duke.'

The Duke crossed the stage in great panoply, leaving behind some courtiers who wanted to talk about him. It sounded very much like an actual conversation except that all the words were ordered to fit a spoken rhythm. Like music, fragments were passed from speaker to speaker, while the rhythm stayed the same. Sometimes you lost the feel of the beat, but then a strange twist of words brought it back again. The courtiers liked the Duke. He was a wise man... more fit to act the part of grace than counterfeit a prince's righteous scorn.

His son and heir, however, had never been known to show any sign of grace. No one liked him much; he threw gloomy parties, and wore black in mourning for his mother, who had died giving birth to his only sister, Gratiana.

The courtiers left the stage. Some curtains at the back opened, and there was a girl with long golden hair talking to a parrot in a cage. She called herself... unhappy Gratiana

- and yet most happy In having that which, lacking, many maids

Must lie in torment on their narrow cots

Or venture rites under full-moon-fed skies.

Richard thought it might be a real parrot. She told it:

You and I, bright captives both

Of place and person, circumstance and birth

Must share our burden, you with patient ear

And I with tongue to tell the cause for tears!

But before she could explain herself, her brother Filio came in, made snide remarks about her maiden virtue and the parrot, and turned to the audience to remark:

For none dares share my sorrow or my joy

When I myself can neither either prove.

Richard had been looking forward to seeing the old, virtuous Duke; since he was the person everyone was talking about at the beginning, he'd thought the play would be about him. Instead he died suddenly, offstage, and Filio was named Duke. A stately minister with a long white beard came to tell Gratiana. His name was Yadso, and he suspected foul play. Later he was warned by his barber, who also shaved a close friend of Filio's, that his life was in danger of mortal challenge if he did not flee the country at once. Yadso took his leave of the girl:

Not all that is, is as it seems. In knots

Truth ties up silence; speech undoes us here.

The game's afoot: Now foot we while we may!

Gratiana cried,

Flee! Flee! you just and true

And for your coin take Gratiana's love!

Then, alone, she lamented her treachery to all mankind. Perhaps she was the villain? But no; it turned out she only meant that she had fallen in love with an unsuitable man. The parrot suddenly chose to echo her words: 'Love!' it croaked. 'Flee love!' Everyone took it in their stride, so it must have been part of the play. Maybe it wasn't a real parrot after all; or maybe it was, but someone was behind the scenes doing its voice.

The new Duke kept pestering his sister. Finally he dragged out of her the fact that she was in love with a swordsman. He turned again to the audience and vented his rage in terms uncomplimentary to the profession. Richard caught Alec sneaking looks at him, and grinned. But to his sister, Filio was all sugary sympathy. Virtue, he said, like wine, was no less potent for being poured into unlikely vessels; wine could be drunk as easily from a skull as from a cup of gold. 'Oh, dear,' Richard muttered. He could see it coming already. Alec shushed him. But Gratiana was comforted, and promised to send her lover to meet her brother. As soon as she left, Filio stomped and shouted and wrung the parrot's neck. So it was either well trained, or a fake one after all. The Duke left the stage to try and find a cat to blame it on.

Richard didn't even bother to criticise the swordsman. Maybe, when the play had been written, swordsmen were like that. Of course, in a world where everyone talked in what Alec said was poetry, why should he expect a swordsman to be any different? Duke Filio greeted his prospective brother-in-law warmly. They drank wine out of twin skulls. The swordsman made a weak joke about it, and then toasted the downfall of all the Duke's house's enemies. It turned out Filio had a job for the swordsman to do: an enemy had besmirched the honour of the house, and only blood would wash it clean. Obviously flattered at the Duke's attentions, the swordsman agreed.

There followed a scene in a madhouse, with much singing and dancing. What it was doing there Richard never did find out; but when it was over the inner curtain was pulled back to reveal an enormous staircase that cleft the centre of the stage from top to bottom. The swordsman appeared at the bottom, announced to everyone that it was midnight, and that, after he'd got the Duke's little commission out of the way, he trusted to lie in his lover's arms as promised. Richard enjoyed his description of love; it was the most accurate part of the play so far, with its images of hot and cold, pleasure and pain. But at the same time, it made him uncomfortable to hear someone talking about it in front of a great crowd of strangers - even though it was only a play.

At the top of the stairs, a cloaked figure appeared. As the bells began to toll 12, the figure started down the stairs in a pretty flourish of yards of cloak. The swordsman drew his steel, and ran his victim through, crying,

'So perish all Filio's enemies!'

'For shame,' said Gratiana, falling forward into his arms;

'to love my brother more than you love me!'

She was a long time dying, while each of the lovers explained the Duke's trick to the other, and promised eternal fidelity. Richard endured it with patience. Finally, the swordsman carried his dead love off the stage, her cloak trailing behind them. The stage was bare. Then people started clapping. Alec was still staring at the empty stage. His eyes were bright with the same elation he'd had the night of the fireworks. 'That was excellent!' he said. 'That was perfect.' Richard decided not to argue; but Alec correctly interpreted the look on his face, and made a face of his own. 'Let me guess. The technique was bad. You would have killed her so she didn't have time for that speech at the end.'

Richard scowled a smile. 'It wasn't realistic,' he said at last. 'No, not the speech, the way it happened. First of all, he was an idiot to take a contract on an unknown mark, especially from that brother, who he didn't trust in the first place.'

'But he needed the Duke's support, that's the point!' 'Yes, but remember when Filio says...." To Alec's surprise, his illiterate friend quoted the passage back to him accurately. 'That's when he should have realised that he had no intention of letting them get away with it.'

'Well...' said Alec, at a loss. "Well, we see that, but he isn't supposed to.'

"Then he's supposed to be a stupid man, and I don't see why we should care what happens to him. The brother's the smart one, really.'

'Then you can cheer for the brother,' Alec said sourly. 'But I warn you, he gets killed in the end. Everyone does, in fact.'

Richard looked down at the audience, who were milling around buying food, drink and trying to look into their box. 'If they want to see people killed, why don't they go to a swordfight?' 'Because your speeches are too short,' Alec snapped. 'Also,' he reflected more leniently, 'you're always doing it for money. In the play it's for love, or treachery. Makes it more interesting.'

'He should never have bargained with the brother. He lost the moment he let him see his weakness.'

'And we could all have gone home early.'

There was a scratch at the door of their box. Richard whirled, hand on his hilt. Alec unlocked the door, and accepted the first messenger's offering.