Feltheryn let the puzzle go, another observation of the human condition for his catalogue of character, and finished his business with Dubro.
Lempchin had not found the seeress m a soft enough mood to give him a reading of the cards for free, so the boy begged for a pastry instead, and that led to Snegelringe boxing his ears as they left the bazaar to return to the theater.
The theater itself was still under construction in the shell of a building that had burned during the plague riots. It was located between West Side Street and Processional, near enough to the palace that the prince could come at his convenience yet far enough away for the Rankan lords to retain their feelings of respectability. Molin had at first proposed housing the actors at some distance from the actual playhouse, perhaps in Westside where there was new construction: but Glisselrand had made clear, with her wannest affectations, that a woman would feel unsafe going such a great distance alone, and that providing her with a dependable escort would cost Molin much more than was reasonable. She had phrased it in such a way that there was no room, short of acute rudeness, for the priest to suggest she provide her own escort, or do without. Thus the theater included an attached residence which, though small, was better than anything they might find among the workmen’s quarters at Shambles Cross.
The Architect of Vashanka had even taken a personal interest in the construction, as if the finishing of the walls on which he had so long labored was somehow not enough to occupy his creativity. He offered plans for a very lavish performing space and was not in the least offended when Feltheryn pointed out to him, with grave discretion, the need for a stage house at the top and dressing rooms below and behind the actual stage; not to mention space in the wings for the storage of properties to be brought on.
The rebuilding had gone on apace and now the structure was beginning to look much the way Ranke’s theaters looked. There was a proscenium, a thing never seen outside the capital, boxes for important people who wanted to be seen as much as they wanted to see, and a royal box for those nights when the prince wished to attend a performance. The theater was, after all, a political tool of some import for those, like the late Emperor, who knew how to use it.
It was therefore not as great a surprise as it might have been when Feltheryn entered and found the Beysa Shupansea having tisane with Glisselrand in the foyer, surrounded by several ladies-in-waiting whose raiment was so splendid that it paled only before the Beysa herself.
For a moment Feltheryn was awestruck. The cloth in the Beysa’s dress alone could have footed the bill for the whole of the theater. She wore such riches as Ranke never saw, and she wore them well, her breasts thrust out voluptuously and yet with dignity, her head held with a pride that was neither unnatural nor condescending. The gorgeous snake coiling about her throat like a necklace was a priceless piece of theater!
The only woman he had ever seen so queenly was Glisselrand herself, perhaps in the role of Adriana in Templesmoke: but of course he would not declare that to the Beysa. “Does not the day confound the night?” he quoted from The Archmage by way of greeting, for he had not yet learned her proper title of address. “Are not the stars but fragments of the light?”
The Beysa smiled and the membranes on her eyes nictitated. She knew flattery, instantly understood why he chose to use it at this moment, and decided to accept it graciously.
“I have come to see your theater,” Shupansea said. “And perhaps to make my own small contribution to its success, if that would be appropriate and acceptable.”
Feltheryn decided he liked her.
“But of course!” he said. “Has my lady shown it to you, or have you waited for my return?”
“Your lady has shown it,” said the Beysa, “and we have discussed my gift. She asked only that I accept a few sweets, and this lovely hot tisane she makes, while we awaited your approval.”
“If my lady approves it, then so do I,” said Feltheryn. “But what is it that you so kindly offer, if I may ask?”
“The Beysa,” said Glisselrand (and her voice held the full rich lustre that it always did on stage) “has offered to have the royal box flocked with velvet. Not just the rails but the whole thing, inside and out. I think that is most kind of her, don’t you?”
“Not only kind, but generous,” said Feltheryn. “May I assume from this that . . .” (There was nothing for it, he had to use some title!)”. . . Your Highness plans to attend our humble offerings?”
“It will be a great treat to see such plays as those the Rankans saw,” said the Beysa. “Especially after so long here in Sanctuary. In my homeland there were many spectacles provided to amuse us, and I confess to missing them. I shall be most pleased indeed to come the very night you first perform.”
The irony of her using the past tense when referring to the plays performed in Ranke was not lost on Feltheryn, but he noted it only in passing. An occupied Royal Box inevitably meant a full house!
Later, that night, Feltheryn had second thoughts about presenting The Power of Kings. In addition to the King, his son, and the leading lady, the play required a second young male, the son’s best friend. It was the most sympathetic part in the play, for the friend, Rorem, died by an assassin’s arrow in the last act, even in the midst of swearing his love for the prince, Karel. It was one of the great and moving scenes of the play, and one of the most mystical, for it was never explained. Like the events of real life, nobody ever discovered who killed Rorem, or why.
The problem was that Rounsnouf, the company’s comic, was the only person available to play the part; and Rounsnouf had discovered the Vulgar Unicom.
To be sure, every town had its share of low dives; but the Vulgar Unicorn (Rounsnouf explained as best he could after much too much to drink) was special!
“Master Feltheryn, I have never seen so many great character studies! The place is a treasure house’ I could live there, absorbing the little moves they make, taking in the peculiar touches of their accents! There is a dark-haired boy who is all bluster and covered with knives, yet who possesses a wonderful vulnerability; I would not trust him with a gravestone, yet he appeals to my heart, . . – There was a young woman, clearly of the noblest birth, and yet trained as a gladiator! Can you imagine that? I dared to speak with her, and she told me that she chose to learn to fight! So fascinating! Oh, how I wish you would join me there!”
It was not the wine, nor the ale, that thus gave Feltheryn misgivings: it was the seductive quality of observation the tavern offered. While all actors spent much time observing the details of character in their fellow humans, there was something about Rounsnouf that was like a hunger, and that fed off other people. He used every observation he made in his brilliant work in the plays, but when one encountered him backstage, or away from the theater, it was always disquieting. Glisselrand said she hated to leave him alone with Lempchm, not because she thought the comic would bugger the boy but because she wondered if she might come home and find him in the stewpot.
“How are you coming with your part?” Feltheryn asked, not valuing the answer of a drunk but trusting to wine to bring out the truth.
“I’ll have it by opening,” said Rounsnouf. “Never fear! It is only a small part, after all.”
“Yes,” said Feltheryn, “but it is an important part, and it is not a comedy, it is a tragedy. You have played it before with less than glorious results, I might point out. I would appreciate it if you left off your observations until we have opened, and concentrated on the work at hand. The Vulgar Unicorn will not close nearly as soon as our play will.”
Rounsnouf sat down on the floor and folded his short, thick fingers intertwined. He shut his eyes, set too close together, and yawned. Then he scratched his butterball stomach under his motley tunic.
“I suppose you are right,” he said, entirely too agreeably. “I would like to be able to deliver Rorem’s death speech without laughing. Oh thou whose blood runs in my veins, more closer yet than any brother. Thou, whose blood I chose against the call of nature …”