Shadowplay Page 17

  Sorry. I didn’t know if this would work. I won’t do it without warning again.

  Don’t! I thought. I tried to push her from my mind, and “felt” her drift away.

  I stared into the coffee cup. I did not like her invading my head at all. It felt like a violation. Maske and Lily continued speaking, but my mind did not follow the words. I clutched the coffee cup until my heartbeat returned to normal.

  But then I wanted to know something. After the initial shock, it seemed silly not to take advantage of something so extraordinary. I did not relish the thought of her in my mind again, but at the same time, I was curious. I sent a wisp of thought toward her, which she met, almost like taking my hand.

  Are you one? I asked. A Forester?

  No, but I agree with some of what they want. Don’t you?

  I don’t know. I guess they’re protesting against pretty much everyone I knew in my previous life. I had overheard many heated discussions of politics, at dinners. The circus folk, after drinks at the bonfire, had also complained at length about the monarchy. Tin and Karg, the strongman and the dwarf, often had arguments. But perhaps now was the time to study all the sides of the issues and find out where I stood and what I believed.

  Maske had been speaking: “…they may wish to overturn the monarchy and plenty of people are sympathetic, but these antics make them look like little more than petulant children full of theatrics. What happened to petitions and due process?”

  “Petitions were ignored.” Drystan swirled the wine in his glass.

  The conversation meandered in that vein for some time, and eventually I grew a little bored. I didn’t know enough to be able to add anything meaningful to the conversation. Ashamed, I focused on the food.

  “Oh, did you read the paper this morning?” Lily asked. I took a large bite.

  Maske shook his head. “Didn’t have a chance to yet. We were busy finishing up the theatre. Why? More disaster and dismay?”

  “A Shadow was murdered in prison last night.”

  I started choking on my food.

  “Are you alright, my dear boy?” Lily asked. I nodded, my eyes watering as I forced myself to swallow. My throat felt raw.

  “What Shadow?” I rasped.

  “That one who was done in for fabricating evidence a few weeks back. Shadow Kameron Elwood? Shocking, isn’t it? To think! My dear late husband hired him once to see if our supervisor was skimming from the top and sneaking off his shifts early. He was and was fired. But now I do wonder if perhaps he made the whole thing up!” She waved her hands.

  “How did he die?” I whispered.

  “Oh, it’s terribly tragic,” she said, sounding more delighted than saddened. “He was housed with one of the men whose evidence he’d fabricated. The man had been innocent of the crime he was imprisoned for, but he wasn’t released quite yet as Elwood had notes that pointed to even worse crimes, so the constabulary decided to investigate. But the man had been in prison for over ten years – lost his business and everything. He’ll be in that prison for a long time more now, though, on account of strangling Elwood in his bed.”

  I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. I’d had no love for Shadow Elwood. He had tried to send me back home and was not the most honest of men, but that did not mean I wanted him murdered. Dead. If we hadn’t turned him in, he wouldn’t be, and there was no denying that fact. I felt sick.

  I met Drystan’s gaze and I couldn’t read what I found there. Another death to our ledger.

  Cyan whispered in my mind again: No, Micah. Elwood chose to fabricate the evidence and put men and women behind bars. The man chose to take Elwood’s life. The fault is not with you.

  Stay out of my head unless I invite you. It’s crowded enough in here with my own thoughts.

  She drifted away.

  I said little for the rest of the evening. Lily seemed to notice she had upset me and grew even livelier to try and cover the silence. Drystan came to my rescue, bantering with Maske and charming Lily. Underneath the façade, though, I knew he felt as empty as I did.

  It was such a simple thing, in the end, to sign a piece of paper.

  We stood in the headquarters of the Collective of Magic itself, a large house in the Gilt Quarter. I felt grubby in my patched shirt and worn trousers. Somehow, in the last two months I had grown so much that my ankles peeked out from above my shoes. Showing my ankles in public. How my mother would have been scandalized.

  I felt especially ragged next to Cyan’s composed grace. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her tunic, staring down her nose at Aspall and Taliesin. She could have worn an Elladan dress, but she wanted to look Temnian. Taliesin was unsettled by her, me and Drystan. We looked foreign to him.

  Many older Elladans were still uncomfortable around foreigners, for they’d grown up during a cold war. The other islands didn’t have as much Vestige – it had decayed in the warmer climates. Ellada held its power through its stockpile of Vestige weapons. Sometimes, the colonies would rise up but the skirmishes never lasted long. Older Elladans still remembered when the other islands were colonies, and few travelled between the islands of the Archipelago unless they needed to.

  Our rivals, Sind and Jac Taliesin, stood across from us. They were short, with solemn faces and hair pomaded into perfection, their new, crisp clothing contrasting with ours. I could not tell them apart. They met our eyes with haughty gazes of their own. Maybe they didn’t understand all they stood to lose.

  Aspall read the new agreement aloud. A duel in three months’ time – the winner could perform magic and would gain the other’s profit.

  The agreement was long and peppered with legal jargon. Briefly, I wished my father was here. He would have noticed any sneaky turn of phrase in a second and made sure the agreement was as fair to our side as possible. Homesickness echoed through me. Once, I lived in a place such as this: rich woods and fabrics, and a warm fire in every room. Now I lived in a draughty theatre that was never fully warm.

  I lost the thread of Aspall’s droning words, but his next words snapped me to attention.

  “Now, for the specifics. How many performers?” Aspall asked.

  “Two magicians and an assistant each,” Maske said.

  Taliesin waved his hand, his gaze lingering on Cyan. “No. No assistants.”

  Taliesin and Maske went back and forth, their voices rising in anger.

  “Why shouldn’t there be assistants? They were always a part of our shows!”

  “Magic against magic, Jasper! No… distractions.”

  “You jealous old fool.”

  “You insufferable git. What, afraid if the audience looks away from your pretty Temnian girl that they’ll see how poorly your amateurs perform?”

  “It’s nothing to do with that!”

  “Please,” Aspall said. “Let us discuss this rationally.”

  In my mind, I asked Cyan a question. She answered with a grim smile and a nod.

  “I can step out, and Cyan can take my place, not as an assistant but as a full magician,” I said.

  The room grew quiet.

  One of the twins spoke. “A… female magician?”

  Cyan put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong with a female magician?”

  “Nothing,” the other said. But he muttered something to his brother, who fought down a snigger. I narrowed my eyes at them.

  “Has… the young woman been trained?” Aspall asked.

  “Yes, she has,” Cyan answered, testily.

  “Is that what you wish, Sam?” Maske asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be your stagehand.”

  “Does this meet your agreement, then, Mr Taliesin?” Aspall asked.

  Taliesin looked shocked by the turn of events. “That’ll do,” he managed.

  “Then we have come to an arrangement.” Aspall noted the amendments. Maske managed to make one more concession: an assistant could appear as a prop in one illusion on each side, which tied into his mysterio
us finale.

  Everyone signed the agreement, from Taliesin’s blotty scrawl to Maske’s impeccably tidy signature. Technically the contract was not legally binding for me, Drystan, and Cyan. We all signed false names in Temri script.

  After the contract was signed and the seal pressed into hot wax, the head of the Collective of Magic himself, Professor David Delvin, came to congratulate us. He was a wizened old man, but the wrinkles on his face showed he spent most of his life smiling. He thanked us, shaking our hands. He discussed business and publicity, saying that he had some excellent plans for the final venue. The Collective, in return for its support and management, would take a fifty per cent commission of ticket prices. Steep.

  Professor Delvin gave us all a pointed onceover and an advance on our profits to buy new clothing. I did not think it was possible for any of us to blush any more than we did at that.

  After what felt like ages, we were let free. Maske went back to the theatre, instructing us to go to the tailor’s. Cyan forewent new clothing, and I asked for a set with the same measurements as Drystan, as we were close enough in size. In my mind, I told Cyan where I planned to go. I nodded to them both in farewell.

  The tailor scowled at me, but I left without further ado, breathing in the frozen winter air. I hated being touched by strangers. Growing up, I saw doctor after doctor. Nurses, medical students – so many peered at me undressed, poking and prodding. I did not realize that I still had such a phobia of being measured and examined. Just before I ran away, I learned that a Doctor Pozzi gave me to my parents and another doctor planned to operate on me to make me marriageable.

  I ran a hand over my cheeks. I still had no stubble to speak of – only the soft down of peach fuzz. I would turn seventeen soon. My parents celebrated my birthday on the first day of spring. A new beginning. I ran away from them in late spring of last year. It was almost spring again. Eleven months away from ballrooms and tutors and tea parties.

  I had not sent Cyril a letter in some time, and I decided to correct that. Parting with more coins, I bought the cheapest supplies at the stationer’s. I made my way back to the tea room where I had first followed Shadow Elwood when I had seen him spying on the Kymri Theatre.

  For though he was gone – dead – something did not quite add up for me. Why had he gone to that building just after spying on ours? Had it just been another case, completely unrelated? But I remembered the woman in the wine-colored dress. That could only be the woman in a red dress with a child “eaten up from the inside” that Anisa, through Maske, had spoken of. Who was she and how were we linked?

  I ordered a pot of tea, though I knew I would have to skip out on the bill. In between writing a draft letter to my brother, which I would transcribe later in lemon juice, I watched the building. I sat near the front, the heat from the tea room steaming the windows. I wiped at them occasionally, making a show of glancing at the clock as though I waited for a tardy someone.

  Dear Cyril,

  I am well. The Shadow that darkened our path is gone. A different sort of shadow looms before us. We’re being put to a test. I’m staying vague, but when you hear of it, you’ll know. It has to do with an old feud and settling old scores. Perhaps you could find a way to come.

  All seems quiet enough for now, but I can’t let myself become complacent. I’ve learned that life can change quicker than the blink of an eye. But I am happy, I think, or near enough. I may have found someone who has helped with that. I feel guilty, though – as though I’m betraying the old love through finding a new one. Though it’s not love, not yet. It’s too new for such a word as that.

  How are you? It’s been so long since I’ve had a letter. You must be nearly finished with schooling now. Will you come to the capital for university in summer?

  So much to say, but so difficult to put into a letter. I miss you each and every day.

  All my love,

  Your sibling of many names

  It was such a paltry letter. When my brother and I were together, we could talk for hours. He would know I was upset before I would. We would fight, as all siblings did, but he was a constant for me. I ripped off the bottom of the paper and wrote a shorter note to my old friend Anna Yew, hoping she was well. I’d taken the risk to write to her, and she’d passed on my messages, keeping my secrets. Anna had always loved fairy tales and wanted her one true love and a magical wedding. I hoped she found them.

  I folded the paper into the envelope. I sniffed, hoping the tears would not fall. Looking up, I caught sight of the woman pushing her child in the wheelchair. She wore a brown dress this time underneath a thick woolen coat, her hood up against the cold breeze, again obscuring her face. The boy was bundled up like a babe in blankets.

  I thought back to the séance, and to Cyan. Perhaps the boy was special, like us. But while Cyan and I were healthy, his skin was a pallid yellow, with no flesh to his features. He was a boy with an old man’s face and sad eyes.

  They passed right by me. I watched her hooded form retreat, knowing that this was another mystery I would have to solve.

  With a sigh, I waited until the serving girl was distracted and snuck from the tea room, guilty at having to steal. I had not been quick enough, however, and the woman and her child had gone with no way for me to follow.

  Snowflakes fell from the sky, dancing to and fro on the wind. I opened my mouth and caught one on my tongue. It tasted of nothing.

  18

  THE SPECTER SHOW

  “The sun comes up, the sun comes down.

  At night the moon goes round and round.

  Chimaera creep and sneak and peek.

  They’ll gobble you up then pick their teeth!”

  Elladan children’s nursery rhyme.

  When I stumbled down the stairs for my customary cup of coffee at dawn, Lily and Maske were at the table.

  They looked up, guilty as children with stolen biscuits. Lily wore a robe and her hair was in disarray, while even Maske’s perfect hair was mussed.

  We stared at each other in an impasse. I had the feeling that Lily planned to leave early, so that no one would ever know she had spent the night. The widow and the magician.

  “I… I…” I sputtered, and then, though I wasn’t proud of it, I ran away.

  As I scurried back to the loft, Cyan poked her head out of the door.

  I opened my mouth, but she said, “I know.”

  “Does Lily care for him?” I asked. “I don’t want him hurt.”

  “I don’t either. But if you think she’s talkative, then you haven’t heard her mind. So much noise I can’t pick out a thread, but sometimes I pick up emotions. And she glows when she’s around him.”

  “Good. I’m going to tell Amon.” I grinned at her and dashed up the stairs.

  Maske refused to mention the incident, pointedly ignoring our titters over breakfast. Soon, we had other things on our mind. That night, we went to see the competition: Taliesin’s grandchildren at the Specter Show.

  Maske came with us. The large Specter Show theatre was half filled. It was not the week’s end, and most laborers would not be paid for another few days.

  The light dimmed and music from a gramophone played with a pop and a hiss. My stomach dipped with the same excitement as before I watched the circus on that last day of spring. The curtains pulled back and the first twin entered the stage. I could not tell if it was Sind or Jac. He was soon followed by the other. They gave a short bow and launched into the tricks, aided by their assistant, a girl with curly brown hair and long legs.

  As the show progressed, excitement twisted to dread in my stomach. The Taliesin brothers were talented. Their patter was witty, weaving in topical commentary, from the political upheaval of the Forester protests to the Princess Royal’s birthday to the upcoming festivities of the Night of the Dead and Lady’s Long Night. They started with small tricks – scarves appearing from sleeves, opening a closed palm to reveal a live butterfly fluttering away – before rolling out a spirit cabinet and having
their assistant disappear. I breathed a small sigh of relief that she did not appear as she did in our tricks, but having her drop down to the stage from a rope from the gridiron above was dramatic all the same.

  They continued to abuse their poor assistant, sawing her in half and then quarters, levitating her and then having her disappear in a shower of sparks. Though I thought I could figure out many of the tricks, some of them eluded me.

  The Taliesin brothers chose volunteers from the audience and performed mentalist tricks. They guessed how many siblings they had, what objects would be in their pockets, the name of an uncle that had died.

  “They’re planted,” Cyan whispered into my ear. “Talented actors.”

  After the intermission, the brothers raised a phantasmagoria, telling a story through images projected from a magic lantern onto a shifting canvas of smoke. Skeletons and hooded figures trailed along the smoke. The Night of the Dead had come early.

  “Once, old man Styx came to the world himself to collect the dead,” one said.

  A large hooded figure with a scythe emerged onto the vapor.

  “He would take the dead one by one in his robe to the River Styx, where the good would cross to the twilight lands by gentle waters and the wicked would sink to the dark currents below before returning to the land of the living. As they passed through him, they forgot all they were and all they had ever been. Each life was a blank slate, as it is for us now.”

  Men and women swam in a great, swirling river that undulated on the shifting canvas.

  The brother changed the slide. “A woman decided to trick Death. She sought the help of a Chimaera wizard, who gave her a spell so that she would remember who she was when she passed through the river.”

  A Naga, a snake man, gathered a great ball of energy, which moved toward an older woman bent with age. Death came and held his cloak open, and she moved into his embrace.