Mr. Stitch (16 page)

“Yes,” the director responded. “We’re going to have you start off the whole thing, just come in all gruesome like that. It should give a nice ambience to the rest of the piece.”

“Isn’t it weird that I’m
praising
Theocles, though? Like making him out to be a hero?”

“Yes, that’s the
dichotomy
, Charles. We want to set Theocles up as a war-hero in the beginning, so that his descent into cruelty is heightened.”

Skinner sat in the back of the theater, listening. She was in the dark, and none of the actors would have recognized her as the writer, anyway. They’d been receiving the pages of the script anonymously. While she still felt a twinge of guilt, using the story she’d heard like this, she had to admit it had helped. The visit to the hospice had given her a broad brush with which to paint the horrors of war across the script, lending both a dark, gritty reality to the story, and helping to generate a depth of sympathy for Theocles’ character.

Is it all right if I’m doing it for the right reasons?
She wondered.
If it leads to a more conscientious rule, to less of a willingness to wage war…does that make it worth it?

True Spring came, with the comfortable regularity of all of Trowth’s seasons, and if there was one time during that city’s long war against its elements that could even remotely be described as comfortable, it was True Spring. Second Winter thawed, snow melted, and the streets ran thick with cold, clear water. Crisp, salty breezes snuck past Trowth’s ancient sea-wall, and came close to dispelling its omnipresent umbra of cloud and pollution. The sun warmed the city’s old stones.

The end of the season would turn raw and rainy, of course, as heavy, damp air poured in from the sea, but, every year, for two weeks at the beginning of the season, Trowth enjoyed as close to perfect weather as the benighted metropolis was capable of. The Armistice, as these two weeks were commonly called in deference to the unacknowledged campaign that the weather waged against the town, extended to every aspect of Trowthi life. Old enmities were forgotten, debts were—if not forgiven—at least suspended, no harsh words were offered. Two weeks of clear, warm weather after the annual nightmare of Second Winter was enough to cool even the hottest-tempered ruffians; well-to-do citizens and irascible low-lifes alike poured into the street, and no man or woman even considered marring these days with violence or misdemeanor.

Shutters were thrown back, doors and windows left open, and warm feelings and good cheer filled the vast honeycomb of houses, pouring out into the streets, where men and women promenaded late in the lengthening days. All of the human and indige need for human contact, pent up and repressed for the rest of the icy year, found expression during Armistice, and seemed determined to make up for lost time.

It was no surprise that the Armistice was also a time for theater premiers; both the Royal and the Public saved all of their most promising work for the warm True Spring grace period, during which time audiences were traditionally larger and more well-disposed to spread positive word of good performances. Very occasionally, the theaters used this temporary period of universal largess to support plays that, otherwise, might have raised violent objections.
Theocles
—published, for propriety’s sake, under the innocuous nom-de-plume “E. E. Beckett”—would have earned approbation simply for its first ten minutes, so clever and vicious was Elizabeth Skinner’s excoriation of the Emperor and his war. It was hardly a surprise that Emilia Vie-Gorgon had arranged for the premiere of
Theocles
to fall on the second day of Armistice which arrived, as all seasons in Trowth arrive, precisely and dramatically.

Valentine Vie-Gorgon was entirely unaware of his cousin’s machinations, or indeed, her or of Skinner’s involvement with the play at all. What he did know is that his long-exasperated but always-affectionate father had given him a ticket for the reviewer’s box, and there was little the young coroner enjoyed more than the social and artistic entertainment provided by a night at the theater. Valentine shared the box with Roger Gorgon-Crabtree, a noted reviewer for the
White Star.
Roger was a very fat and conspicuously charming man, whose affable, almost vapid demeanor belied a razor wit and an almost encyclopedic knowledge of his subject. He was, in short, absolutely the ideal companion for the premiere of
Theocles
.

Roger met Valentine at the theater’s entrance, where they were permitted to go directly to their seats—tickets having already been collected. A substantial crowd milled pleasantly outside, eager for admittance and simultaneously pleased at not having to have to hurry to avoid the cold, or the rain, or mind-bending psychestorms, or the sharp-edged calcite hail that would come in late Summer. If anything, the low-rated families and well-off merchants and shopkeepers that represented the majority of the crowd seemed disinclined to waste the beauty of the Armistice by going inside at all, and if they could have waited in line until the sun was long set, and the late-night chill found its way back into Trowth, they probably would have.

“Have you heard much about this one, my boy?” Roger was asking him, as the two men settled into the plush chairs in the critics’ box.

“No, it’s new, isn’t it?” The theater was full of warm chatter, almost necessitating that Valentine shout to his companion. “Based on the poem?”

“That’s right,” Roger was saying, sipping at the complimentary punch provided in hot steaming bowls for the box seats. “Though I’ve heard—and mind you, you’re not to repeat this—that the writer, a Mr. Beckett, was also the unnamed collaborator on the
Bone-Collector’s Daughter
.”

“I don’t think I know that one.”

“Oh? Played at the Public about two years ago. Caused quite a stir, if I recall correctly, religiously outrageous and all that. At least, as outrageous as Canthi pantomime can be, if you take my meaning.”

Valentine did not, as he had paid very little attention to his literature classes in school but, not wanting to seem like the sort of man who had wasted a very expensive education, allowed that he did indeed take Roger’s meaning, and it was more than a little extraordinary that the play ran as long as it had.

“Quite right,” Roger replied. “Quite right, my boy. But you know, the crown is always hesitant to shut the theater down. I don’t know, I suppose you don’t remember it, but there was a play, ten or fifteen years ago. A silly thing, but it made a few jokes at the expense of our beloved Emperor—Word protect him and keep him! He had his men close it down after a week, declared it an affront to the crown, put it on the Black List. And wouldn’t you know, a month later and someone’s
published
it. Just printed up pamphlets of this script and sold them for pennies on streetcorners. He probably made a fortune.”

“People bought it?”

“Well, no one would
admit
to it, obviously. Sh, sh, it’s starting.” Roger had an unpleasant habit of talking during the performance, making snide and sometimes astute observations, or asking innocuous questions, and then shushing Valentine before he had a chance to respond. He also carried with him, to support his bulk, a heavy wooden walking stick, that he was perpetually tapping on the box’s railing as a way of showing his good favor. Still, there was something interesting about Roger’s perspective—his sense of history and structure served to inform what turned out to be an astonishingly deep text.

“See that? That’s a reference to the sharpsie riots. Oh, very clever.” Tap, tap, went the cane.

“Wh—”

“Shh, shh.”

Later:

“Ah! Did you catch that? The Minister of Defense is going to choke on his breakfast tomorrow!” Tap, tap, tap.

“You mean—”

“Shh, shh.”

All in all, the experience was both frustrating and strangely entertaining. Valentine found himself, at first, spending as much time craning his neck towards the other box seats in order to gauge the responses of the Families and Ministry members—the ones that Roger named as the butt of certain obscure jokes—as he spent watching the play itself. And despite all that, there was something about the piece, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that struck him as being familiar. It wasn’t the story itself, which was clearly a dangerously accurate allegory for current imperial politics—he knew that one off the top of his head. It was something else, something to do with the structure of the language, some quality of sound or syntax that he had trouble shaking off.

And yet as the play progressed, Valentine became aware of a compelling spirit, as though beneath the social referents some deeper truth had been brought to light, and all the complexity, the humanity, the reality of the characters, seemed to shrink away in the shadow of that truth. That something was being
revealed
was an undeniable sensation, and it drew Valentines eye back to the stage, time and again, to watch the haggard face of the actor playing Theocles, whose voice changed from the throaty rasp of the soldier to the dread thunder of the wicked king, to the quiet horror of the man whose circumstances had outpaced him. Here was a man cast adrift from his own humanity; Theocles, in service to his nation, had lost touch with certain elements of his soul, and found what replaced them was bloody-mindedness and growing paranoia. All in all, Valentine found Theocles to be a far more compelling character than the actual, present emperor upon whom he was based.

When intermission came, he seized on the opportunity to stretch his legs, and it was while he walked in the lushly-appointed halls behind the Royal’s balconies that he ran into Skinner.

This was not literally true; for though Valentine had been carelessly eyeing the elaborate woodwork along the doorframes while he walked, and certainly
would
have crashed headfirst into anyone that had the misfortune of walking in the opposite direction, Skinner herself had a long and practiced sensitivity to the location of bodies in space. She heard Valentine’s carpet-muffled footsteps, and carefully stepped to the side as he approached.

“Valentine.”

The young man nearly stumbled. “Skinner! What are you doing here?”

Skinner permitted herself a small smile. “I heard there was a play tonight.”

“Oh, right. Well, right. Hey, did you notice the author? E. E. Beckett? You don’t think…that’s not El—I mean, that’s not
our
Beckett, right?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, challenged now to keep a broad, self-satisfied grin off of her face. “Surely we’d have heard?”

“I wonder if it’s a relative.”

“Does he have relatives?”

“Younger brother, I think, in Khent-On-Stark. A bootmaker. Hm. I guess I should ask him? Maybe I shouldn’t. I won’t.” He seized her shoulders, all grins and good cheer. “But what are you doing
here
, I mean? I thought you’d left the city! And you don’t have a box up here, do you?”

“No, a friend is letting me use hers. Someone I think you know, actually. Isn’t Emilia Vie-Gorgon your cousin?”

“Third cousin. I—hm.”

Skinner could hear the frown in his voice. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I just. She’s…how do you know Emilia?”

“She found out that I was in some distress after losing my job, and was good enough to offer some assistance. Why?” Her voice took on an edge as she spoke.

Valentine drew his friend to the side of the corridor and spoke in a low voice. He didn’t suspect Emilia was at this performance, but there was no telling what sorts of stray words might find their way back to her. “Nothing. It’s just. Emilia…I’ve known Emilia for a long time, Skinner, and she doesn’t
have
friends. She just
wants
things, and so she
gets
things. I mean, I love my cousin—“