Shadowplay (3 page)

“Drystan?” I said, coming closer.

He moaned, shaking his head from side to side.

“Drystan? Are you alright?”

I crouched next to the bed. He bolted upright and swung his fist, catching me on my injured arm. The pain seared through my arm, my vision tunneling. In reflex, I cried out and jabbed him in the jaw with my good arm, and then I crumpled.

The punch woke him. He stared straight ahead, shivering, not quite awake. He drew in several ragged breaths before coming back to himself. “Micah?” he whispered, a hand on his jaw. He wiped his ashen face and looked down.

“Yes?” I managed, pain coloring my world red and black.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“You punched me.” I hissed the breath through my teeth.

“Did I?” He came down to help me up. “I’m sorry. I must have been dreaming.”

“A nightmare, more like.” He had swiped at Bil with his own cane at just that angle.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, his voice still unsteady.

The pain overwhelmed me. “You hit me in the arm,” I grated.

“Styx, the broken one?”

I nodded, a gasp of pain escaping from me.

“We should really find a surgeon.”

“No,” I gasped. “No doctors.”

Drystan helped me from the floor and to the bed. A knock sounded at the door.

Drystan opened it. Maske stood there, holding the glass globe, his face again half in shadow. He wore a striped nightgown and cap, incongruous with his neat beard.

“I heard a scream,” he said.

“I had a nightmare,” Drystan said, his voice flat to hide his embarrassment. “Micah came to check on me, and I’m afraid I have injured his arm further.”

“Let me see,” Maske said.

At least he was not a doctor. The magician came closer, setting down the globe and sitting next to me on the bed.

My torso was hunched, but I took a deep breath and straightened. His eyes lingered on the bumps under my shirt, and then the bump between my legs.

“It’s complicated,” I whispered.

“You should probably see a doctor for your arm,” he said, as if I had not spoken. “Should I call for one?”

I shook my head. “A doctor cannot see me. They cannot know.”

He nodded, placing his hands gently on my arm. I closed my eyes. One less secret to hide.

Maske’s magician’s fingers felt their way along my arm. I moaned, squeezing my eyes shut even tighter.

“I have had my share of accidents throughout the years, and I have set a bone or two. This is a simple fracture. I can re-splint it, and it should heal cleanly. But there are no guarantees.”

I hesitated, and then I nodded.

Drystan brought Maske the medic bag. Maske continued his investigation of my arm.

He said nothing, but waited for me to speak.

There was no point pretending. I felt obligated to try and explain. “I was born different from most,” I muttered, the mumbled explanation distracting me from my pain. “I was raised as a girl, but now live as a boy. But I am both.”

“I see,” he said, his eyes only on the bruises of my broken arm.

But he still didn’t know anywhere near the full story. Truth be told, after the response of the Penglass to my touch, I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was. I had been Iphigenia Laurus, the daughter of a noble family in Sicion, a society debutante. I transformed into Micah Grey, runaway on the streets turned aerialist and pantomime actor. I didn’t know who I would be now.

This stranger now held more leverage against me, should he choose to use it. I had no such leverage in return.

Perhaps Drystan did.

Jasper took out a roll of plaster bandages from the medic bag and a new arm sling. He told Drystan to fetch the washbasin from the chest of drawers.

He held my arm firmly. Maske wrapped the damp bandages around my injury. I struggled not to move, stars of pain dancing in my eyes. The bandages dried, and the pain lessened to where I felt coherent again.

“This will take about six weeks to heal, and will be weak for a time,” Maske said. “But you should regain full use of your arm.”

Should
.

A shiver ran through me. I could not imagine having a weak arm. Not being able to climb or tumble, always having to be mindful of how I moved. Such a possibility at sixteen was frightening.

“Here,” Maske said, measuring a spoon of laudanum and passing it to me. “This should dull the pain and help you to sleep.”

I gulped, grimacing at the overwhelming bitterness that all the honey and herbs could not hide. Maske patted me on the shoulder.

“I have a feeling you two are going to make my life decidedly more interesting,” he said.

“I imagine you’ll like that, Maske,” Drystan said with a small smile. “Considering how interesting your life was when I knew you last.”

“Perhaps, Drystan,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t want my life to be quite so… animated as it was when we last parted. I’m no longer that foolhardy man. Things have been far too quiet for far too long, but life is safer that way.” He stared at us, and in the dimmer light his eyes were wide and dark again, and my skin pricked into gooseflesh.

“I shall see you two in the morning. I hope neither of you have any more nightmares.”

“Me, too,” Drystan said softly as Maske closed the door behind him.

“How long are we staying here, Drystan?” I asked into the darkness after we climbed back into bed.

“I hadn’t thought much beyond this point, truth be told. At least until the trail runs cold.”

“We need to leave Ellada, don’t we?”

“It’s probably our best chance. I know people in Byssia. But it’ll cost more than we kept from... from the safe.”

We lapsed back into silence.

“Do you trust Maske, Drystan?” I asked. “With no reservations?”

“I trust him. But I trust no one without reservation.”

That did not comfort me.

And a small corner of my mind wanted to ask:
not even me?

 

4

PENGLASS PERIL

“Most Elladans have not travelled beyond the island. Some may have gone to Girit to visit family, but very few have been to the Temnes, Linde, Kymri, or Byssia. Thus, the Archipelago must come to them in the form of entertainment
–
circuses or magic shows, theatre or vaudeville. Of course, by nature of this entertainment, many Elladans still know very little about the native culture of each island, no matter how much they think otherwise.”

Modern Ellada, Professor Caed Cedar, Royal Snakewood University

The next morning, Drystan’s bed was empty when I awoke to a rainbow falling across my face. The stained-glass window showed a dragonfly, which startled me. I’d dreamt of dragonflies the previous night, weighing the darkness of my soul. I couldn’t remember if the dragonflies decided whether my soul would stay in gentle waters or sink into the dark current of the River Styx.

After my first hot, proper bath in six months, I felt like a new person in my clean, if patched, clothing, even if I limped down the stairs. The Kymri Theatre was full of strange alcoves. The skirting boards and moldings were all carved with animals or glyphs, and walls painted shades of blue and terracotta; the floors dotted with colored mosaics.

Eventually, I found the kitchen, a cozy room at the back of the building, full of tiles of blue and green, warm varnished wood cabinets inset with blue and yellow glass, and shining copper appliances. The air smelled of coal smoke and coffee. At the worn kitchen table, Maske read the newspaper and Drystan stared at his hands, his drink growing cold. He wore a spare pair of Maske’s trousers and a patched shirt. Dark circles ringed his eyes.

“Coffee,” Maske said, his face still behind the newspaper.

“Thank you,” I said, though I was not too excited by the prospect. The last time I tasted coffee was when I spent some brief time with a spice merchant, Mister Illari, before I joined the circus. It had been strong and just as bitter as the laudanum.

I sat at the table with them and took a sip, and found to my surprise that it was far milder than the stuff Mister Illari had made. With four lumps of sugar and a huge dollop of cream, it was actually quite nice.

A scrawny little calico with a torn ear sauntered into the kitchen and mewled, demanding food.

“Hey, hey, Ricket,” Maske said, getting up and taking a plate of meat scraps from the chiller. He patted the top of the cat’s head.

The cat contented himself with gulping the food, purring all the while.

It was so strange to be back among civilization. To not find granules of sand in each seam of my clothing, to have stone walls between me and the outside, not thin wood or the canvas of a tent. I was no longer surrounded by dozens of people. At the same time, the quiet was unnerving; the only sound the rustle of the newspaper and the ticking of the old clock on the wall. It was a domestic scene, except that the magician was a stranger and we were fugitives wanted for murder.

After a moment, Maske looked up from his newspaper. “As you’re both here, I believe I may as well tell you that we have a problem.”

I set down my coffee with a clatter. “Pardon?”

Wordlessly, Maske slid the newspaper across the table between Drystan and me.

The
City Searcher
was an Imacharan rag, and they would print even the most outlandish rumor. Unfortunately for us, those were the ones most likely to be true. Above a story about the rising ire of the Forester political party was an article about us:

The
City Searcher
has an exclusive eyewitness account of a resident who claimed to see the event from her window.

 

I fought down a choking noise. Seeing Aenea’s name in print brought all the grief perilously close to bursting. And now all of Imachara would be after us. Drystan read next to me, his shoulder pressing against mine.

 

I took a deep breath and looked at Maske’s expectant face.

“This article makes it sound much worse than it was,” I said, and Drystan kicked me under the table. I rubbed my shin.

An eyebrow rose, but Maske said nothing.

“I once trusted you enough that I would stake my life on it,” Drystan said. “Have you changed in the past few years?”

“I have taken you in,” Maske said. “But being discovered harboring fugitives would prove quite tricky for someone with a past like mine. I want to know what I am getting myself into, should you both stay. I’m not demanding you divulge all of your secrets – just the most pertinent.”

Secrets. Always so many secrets. Sometimes I felt as though I would drown in them.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” I said, on impulse. “But if I do, will you tell me your tale?”

Both of Maske’s eyebrows rose. “My tale?”

“The theatre has been shut for years, and Drystan only told me you no longer performed. I would like to know what happened.”

“It is not a happy story.”

“Neither is ours.”

He gave me a long look, but I narrowed my eyes, not letting him win so easily. I gestured at the newspaper article. “Please.” I took a deep breath, holding it while I waited for his response.