The Master of Heathcrest Hall (11 page)

The master illusionist of the Theater of the Moon was a frail man with a powdered face, dressed in a ruffled coat of black velvet, but he might have been a general on the battlefield for the way the illusionists responded to this order. The players sprang into motion, hurrying across the stage to take up their positions. Not wanting to be last, Eldyn hastily set the broadsheet down and found his mark.

“And begin!” Master Tallyroth called out.

At once, the stage was transformed into a cloudscape beneath a brilliant blue sky. With a thought, Eldyn shaped the dusty light into the pearlescent form of a winged horse, galloping among the clouds. This time the horse was not riderless, for Riethe was here to complete the phantasm. He made a gesture with his fingers, and suddenly a maiden rode upon the back of the horse. She was clad in a flowing gold gown with a laurel wreath upon her brow and a blazing torch in her hand.

The clouds parted, and the maiden swooped down on the winged horse. Below her, rows of stiff figures marched across the stage. They were conjured only as faceless, shadowy outlines—for artistic effect, and also because it would have been too difficult to conjure them all in detail. Moving among the soldiers were several illusionists, clad in black themselves in order to blend in. They carried banners on poles: green hawks fluttering against a white background.

As the maiden raised her torch, beams of gold light radiated from it toward the army below. Each time one of the gold rays struck a shadowy figure, it raised its arms as if in agony, then vanished. In moments the army was destroyed, and the banners clattered to the stage. The horse and the golden maiden flew back up, disappearing into the clouds.

That was Eldyn’s cue. He ceased the illusion of the horse, as it was now out of sight, then conjured a silvery aura around himself and stepped onto the stage, moving stealthily and casting looks as he went. When he reached center stage, he made a play of noticing one of the fallen banners and picked up a corner of the cloth.
He laughed, then let the cloth fall and hurried the rest of the way across the stage.

Tallyroth banged his cane again. The clouds dissipated, and the players all returned to gather around him to hear his pronouncement.

“Well,” the master illusionist said, the corner of his mouth turning up just a fraction, “perhaps you grasp the new staging, after all.”

Riethe grinned. “Of course we do, now that I’m here.”

This resulted in several groans, and someone resummoned one of the clouds over Riethe’s head, only now it was dark, and bolts of lightning stabbed down at the big illusionist’s skull. He made a pantomime as if he had been struck a blow, clapping a hand to his brow and staggering about as the groans became laughter. That was Riethe—an enormous idiot, but hard not to like.

“Go on, then,” Master Tallyroth declared. “Go get some rest before the performance tonight—whenever tonight shall be.”

So directed, the illusionists all bounded from the stage like boys released from study by their schoolmaster, and Eldyn with them.

T
HE SUN LURCHED to the horizon, and night fell at last. The theaters opened their doors, and lights were conjured and tossed into the sky to signal to the city that the houses of illusion on Durrow Street were ready for business. By the time the curtain rose, the theater was only half full, but that was better than some nights. And there was hope the next night would be better, for the audience heartily applauded and stamped their boots at the newly added scene. Eldyn could only be glad for this, even if he could not say he cared much for the scene himself.

It was expertly designed, of course, as were all of Master Tallyroth’s scenes. The problem was that it had little to do with the rest of the illusion play. It was the charter of the Theater of the Moon, granted by the Guild of Illusionists, to tell the story of the Sun
King and the Moon Prince—how the former ever pursues the latter, but can never really catch him. For even when it seems the silvery youth is captured at last, and the Sun burns him to a cinder, the Moon is reborn to grow and shine forth once again.

Despite this deviation from the usual theme of the illusion play, Master Tallyroth had little choice in the matter—not if the theater was to remain in business.

Was it really just a few months ago that the receipt box had been overflowing after each night’s performance? It seemed so long since that time. Their play had become a sensation on Durrow Street, and its notoriety was only increased by the series of performances they gave that led to the downfall of the Archdeacon of Graychurch—after exposing him as an illusionist who had used his abilities to drive the Archbishop of Invarel mad.

Only then King Rothard died, succumbing to his long illness, and the city entered the required period of mourning. By law during this time, displays of public merriment were halted, and so all of the theaters on Durrow Street were forced to shut their doors, going dark for two months. By the time the period of mourning was over, only half of the theaters that had shut their doors could open them again. Things had already been difficult on Durrow Street prior to the king’s death, and many of the theaters did not have funds enough to survive so long a closure.

The Theater of the Moon was one of the luckier houses, for Madame Richelour had reserved much of the earnings from their success, and so it endured. But things hardly improved once the theaters opened again. When people were worried about having coins enough for bread and candles, they tended to spare few of them for more frivolous expenses such as seeing an illusion play.

Of course, there were still plenty of people in Altania who had great amounts of money to spend. After all, if certain broadsheets were to be believed, it was the fact that so few possessed so much, while so many had so little, that provided the tinder the rebels were trying to spark into a fire. That disparity seemed to increase daily in Invarel as more folk fled the troubles in the Outlands and came to the city carrying what little they possessed on their backs
and in their pockets. At the same time, a number of lords, baronets, and well-to-do gentry had departed the city, making for their estates in the east and south of the country to remove themselves as far as possible.

Of those moneyed individuals who remained, fewer were willing to venture down to Durrow Street. Every day the newspapers printed stories of robberies of the most violent sort that occurred in the Old City. Thus it was, even with only half the number of theaters as there had been, they were making less than half of what they had before.

The only sort of audience they could really count on attracting to the theater these days were soldiers, for the number of them stationed in the city had greatly increased. This might have been a boon, as the redcrests were paid regularly and, when off duty, had little to do for amusement, most of them being young, unattached, and away from home.

Unfortunately, there were only two sorts of illusion plays that generally appealed to soldiers, these being burlesques or patriotic displays. Or better yet, a combination of both—for a buxom wench who waved the national banner before gustily offering herself up to an entire company of soldiers was a sight that always seemed to win approval.

Yet popular as such things might be, a scene like that would never be found at the Theater of the Moon. Madame Richelour refused to have a burlesque on her stage. Still, some concession to popular sentiment had to be made—hence the addition of the new scene with the golden maiden. Gold was one of the three colors of the national banner (the others being blue and green), and with her laurel crown and the winged horse, the maiden was intended to evoke a goddess of ancient Tharos. This in turn was meant to bring the princess, Layle Arringhart, to mind, as tradition held that the Arringhart line was descended from the emperors of Tharos.

In all, it was far from a ribald farce such as soldiers might find at another theater, but the maiden was made to be very pretty, and the audience, composed largely of soldiers, cheered when she
used her blazing torch to smite down the shadowy army. That the army was meant to represent the rebel forces of Huntley Morden could not be made more plain given the banner they carried, which bore the green Morden hawk.

It was all dreadfully obvious, and not particularly artistic. But it was spectacle, and they executed it well. Based on the vigorous applause, their audience tomorrow would likely be bigger than tonight’s, and for their efforts Madame Richelour rewarded the players with a few extra coins. Not so many as she might have given them in the past, but more than enough for them to get sufficiently drunk. This was a task the illusionists undertook at once, and they proceeded from the theater directly to the Red Jester. Soon the tavern’s dank interior was made light by their laughter as well as the phantasms they spontaneously conjured.

Eldyn was already on his second cup of punch before he realized Perren was there at the tavern. Perren was a somewhat roundish young man with a habit of wearing rumpled clothes of the blandest colors, and the soft outlines in which he was drawn tended to cause him to fade into whatever was around him. This was in fact a good trait for an illusionist, for he would never distract from his illusions, though it sometimes made him difficult to spot in the smoky interior of a tavern.

But there he was, sitting in the corner by himself, looking at a broadsheet. This behavior in no way surprised Eldyn. If he did not know Perren was an illusionist, he would have taken him for a lawyer or a clerk. Then again, as Eldyn had been a clerk himself once, he felt a common bond with Perren. Not all illusionists could be so brash and flamboyant as Riethe—thank the light.

Taking up a second cup of punch, Eldyn headed to the corner where the other young man sat alone.

“Perren, why didn’t you say you were here?”

“I was just … that is, you looked like you were occupied.”

“Nonsense. I could never be too busy for you—especially tonight.”

Perren smiled at this, but he quickly ducked his head, and
Eldyn could only marvel. He had never met so shrinking a fellow as Perren. They had known each other for months now, and had spent hours together working on impressions. There was hardly cause to be bashful.

Well, Eldyn knew how to get Perren in a bolder mood. He sat across from him and slid the extra cup of punch across the table. It was a good thing he had brought it over, for Perren seemed in great need of it. He took up the cup and, in several gulps, drained it. Eldyn took a sip from his own cup.

“We did it, Perren,” he said, feeling exceedingly pleased. He tapped the broadsheet on the table. It was that day’s copy of
The Swift Arrow
, with Eldyn’s impression on the front page.

Perren shook his head. “You mean
you
did it.”

“Yes, I suppose so, but I certainly couldn’t have done it without you. You taught me everything, and for that I owe you.”

Perren suddenly sat up straight, blinking behind his spectacles. “You owe me?”

Eldyn nodded. “More than I can express. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to repay you for all that you’ve done for me, but I’ll try my best to find a way. Anything I can do for you, I will. Perhaps refilling these will be a good start.”

He picked up their cups to take them to the bar, but Perren laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Yes,” Perren said, his voice going low. “You do owe me.”

Eldyn smiled. “No need to worry. As I said, anything you want. Which means this round is on—”

His words were cut short as Perren leaned across the table, still gripping his arm, and kissed him.

The empty cups clattered to the table, and Eldyn felt a flicker of light passing between him and Perren, as always happened when two illusionists kissed. In that instant he understood why Perren had been so generous with his time in teaching him to make impressions. How had he not realized it before? He should have seen it months ago. Only he had been so caught up in being a student that he had failed to study the teacher.

Gently, but with force enough that there could be no doubt that it was intentional, Eldyn pushed Perren’s hand from his arm. Knocked off balance, Perren fell back onto the bench. He fumbled with his spectacles, straightening them on his face. Behind the lenses, his eyes were bright with pain and confusion.

“But I thought … you said that you owed me, that you’d do anything that I wanted.”

Eldyn sighed, knowing he was in part to blame for what had happened. “I do owe you, Perren. And I would do anything to repay you—anything that a good friend would do.”

“A friend?” Perren shook his head. “Is it because of how I look? I know you’re handsomer than me, Eldyn. But you’re more handsome than everyone. And I thought that, once you saw all that I could give you, you would have to give me something in kind.”

Eldyn felt a pang in his chest. Even if he was looking for a companion of that sort, Perren would never have caught his eye. It wasn’t just that he was pasty and dressed poorly; rather, it was his self-consciousness and his awkward attempts at conversation that kept him from being noteworthy in that regard. Besides, Eldyn wasn’t looking for such a companion. How could he give his light to another man knowing that so much of it had been given to him by Dercy?

He couldn’t.

“It’s not how you look, Perren,” he said, his throat tight. “It’s because of me. I’m not … that is, I can’t give that to another right now.”

“Oh, I see now,” Perren said, looking up. His round face, usually so soft, suddenly had a hardness to it, and his eyes had narrowed behind his crooked spectacles. “You can prevail upon another to teach you everything he knows. You can use him to get what you want, and you can take and take from him. But you can’t be bothered to give one whit back, can you?”

The anger in these words astonished Eldyn. He had never heard Perren speak with such vehemence.

“That’s not true, Perren,” he said, unable to keep the shock
from his voice. “I do want to give something back to you. I want to repay you for what you’ve done.”

“Don’t bother,” Perren snapped, rising to his feet. He tugged on his rumpled coat, though this only made it sit more unevenly on his round shoulders. “I don’t need your money. I can make plenty on my own. And don’t think you can use my contacts at
The Swift Arrow
to sell your impressions. I’ll tell them you can’t be trusted to offer exclusive rights. After all, you played me false, so why wouldn’t you sell your impressions to another broadsheet behind their backs?”