CAIUS

I’d done something wonderful, but of course Alcibiades wasn’t going to be pleased.

We both needed something to take our minds off trouble “at home,” or at least “at the palace.” I could have grown used to living in such a place—except for the spying, of course, which didn’t bother me as much as it did Alcibiades, yet nonetheless was a point of some concern for both of us—but that was neither here nor there where Alcibiades was concerned. We’d been here a day short of one month precisely. A distraction was necessary, and I had just the means for it.

“The theatre,” Alcibiades said flatly.

“The theatre,” I repeated. Sometimes it was very difficult to get anything at all through his head.

“You want me to go to the theatre,” Alcibiades said.

“I want you to go to the theatre,” I confirmed. “Don’t worry—I hear it’s all very exciting. I’m sure you won’t fall asleep right away.”

“I hate the theatre,” Alcibiades said. “I hate the theatre in Volstov, and I hate it here.” He leaned against the wall of my room and glowered at the ceiling, very much like a little boy in the midst of a good, long sulk.

“You can’t possibly know that if you’ve never been,” I tried to reason with him, though why I thought reason would be effectual, I’ll never know.

“Yes,” Alcibiades said, “I can. I’m not going, and that’s the end of it.”

The door separating our rooms snicked shut behind him as he left, but it was no fun sulking without an audience and I knew he’d be back. I didn’t have to be a velikaia to see very clearly exactly what he was doing in his room: checking his cheeks in the mirror to see whether or not he needed a shave in general, and whether or not he needed a shave now that he was going to the theatre with me tonight. His brow was furrowed beneath his unkempt hair while he pondered the best way to agree to the theatre because he truly was interested, even if he refused to admit it. For now that he’d been so adamant about not attending, capitulating was quite difficult.

I knew him so very well. It was a pity he didn’t know himself better.

Five minutes later, just as I was setting out that evening’s outfit for him, I heard the door slide open.

“What’s it about?” he asked. “The play, I mean. Some stupid history? If there’s singing, I’m not going.”

I whirled around, trying my very best not to look as though I’d been expecting that. My face was the very picture of surprise. At least, I hoped it was. I was an appreciator of the theatre, but never an actor myself.

“Oh, do come and get dressed,” I implored him, not entirely answering his question. I had a tragic dearth of knowledge when it came to Ke-Han theatre. I only knew what I’d managed to squeeze out of Lord Temur, that there were familiar stories, changed and updated according to the tastes of the people but never truly different. There was something delightfully traditional about it, and wicked as well, since as I understood things, it was a clever way to get topical political commentary past the censors. My only concern was that I had failed to ask whether or not there would be singing.

He glared at me, then at the clothes I’d set out for him. They were neither red nor blue, but a delightfully stony green I’d discovered after I’d been fortunate enough to run across the palace tailor making his way from the Emperor’s chambers. Some explanation of my situation, as well as my dear friend Alcibiades’ predicament in terms of suitable attire, had been required, and after that it had only been a matter of slipping into the general’s rooms in order to purloin an outfit of his for the purpose of measurements.

“What’s that,” he asked, regarding the clothes as though they might well contain poisonous vipers.

“They’re your clothes for the evening, of course! You don’t expect to wander into the heart of the city dressed in that awful old coat, do you? We’d be turned away at the doors. Come, come.”

I took it upon myself to pick them up, pressing them into his arms and shooing him from the room so that I could get dressed appropriately, myself.

“So what is it about?” Alcibiades bellowed through the wall between us. “I’ve had about enough of moon princesses, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh no, my dear, it’s the most scandalous thing,” I replied, delighted by the informal nature of speaking through the wall in this fashion. Like something out of a story. “It’s a new play. Said to be about the prince and his retainer! Though it’s not said, of course, since that would land everyone in a spot of hot water, but it seems quite evident to the people themselves. Or so I’ve heard. From my sources. By which of course I mean our delightful tailor! They’ve been popping up all over the place since the prince’s disappearance, so I suppose one can’t call it new, precisely, but it’s the latest thing in the theatre district and I mean to experience it.”

I heard a confused swish of fabric, and what was doubtless Alcibiades trying to sort out the layers of his outfit. I did hope he wouldn’t be too angry with me procuring something in the Ke-Han style for him, but truly, it wouldn’t kill him to blend in every now and again.

“Are you quite all right, my dear?”

Alcibiades grunted, and I heard a loud thump that sounded as though he might have kicked a footstool toward the adjoining door between our rooms.

“You stay on your side,” he said. “Anyway, how’d you get tickets for this thing, if it’s supposed to be so scandalous or whatever?”

“Oh, they’re advertising it quite enthusiastically in the streets,” I informed him. “It’s merely at the palace that we have to keep things so tightly under lock and key. It seems we’re worlds apart up here from the glorious goings-on down there.”

“Right,” he said, as though he didn’t believe me. “Well, I can keep my mouth shut, in any case. Seems to me that—hang on a minute.”

I went to the mirror to don my earrings. Pearl drops, this time, to complement the dusky grays and bright whites of my own outfit. I did hope that Alcibiades had been speaking only in jest when he’d claimed to be sick of moon princesses.

“Do you need help with the sash?”

“No,” came the indignant reply. “Just a minute!” Another thump, perhaps moving the footstool from where it had fallen, and the door between our rooms slid open. Alcibiades lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “What I was going to say is that it seems to me if there’s something the Emperor doesn’t want us seeing, then it’s our job to go out and see it.”

“So it’s our duty to attend the theatre!” I turned once more, clapping my hands in delight. “And don’t you look handsome.”

“Don’t I?” Alcibiades asked, sounding grumpy about even that. He’d done the knot in his sash all wrong, bless him, but it really was a good effort, and the color suited him marvelously. I felt a flush of pride in my own handiwork once again.

I’d train him yet.

“You do,” I assured him, extinguishing all the lanterns in my room. “I’d invite Josette in to agree with me, but I didn’t think to get the poor dear a ticket since she’s been so busy with Lord Temur these past few days, and it would be dreadfully rude not to invite her, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” Alcibiades said, as though agreeing with me was something very difficult for him to do. “Wait, what was that about her spending time with Lord Temur? How much time?”

I slipped my arm through his as we left the room, taking that opportunity to readjust the sash before he noticed what I was doing. All in all, I felt quite accomplished. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear. Josette’s Volstovic through and through. I believe she’s just absorbing some of the local culture, which I might add, it is high time you did. In fact, it is what we are about to do right now!”

“I think I’ve absorbed enough local culture,” Alcibiades said, rude as ever. At least he’d had enough sense to keep his voice down. That time.

I hadn’t been able to make the connections necessary for arranging a carriage into town. The only man we’d encountered with such power was Lord Temur, and though I felt sure he liked us as much as his upbringing permitted him to, I felt equally sure that Alcibiades and I would not be able to enter the city without at least some questioning. I wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest for it, either, but by my thinking it was much easier just to bypass the entire difficulty. I had an excellent sense of direction, after all, and we’d traveled the route once before.

Besides, it was a warm evening. Perfect for walking.

It seemed that I was not the only one with that idea, since the streets were teeming with people young and old, men and women, finely dressed and shabby alike. Here they were all allowed to intermingle—ourselves included in that tally. I held firmly to Alcibiades’ arm, confident that with such a large and forbidding companion, I would not find myself the victim of pickpockets or their like.

“You sure you know where we’re going?” Alcibiades asked with an expression of mild concern, as though he believed he knew the directions better than I.

That was just like him.

“Yes,” I answered, doing my very best not to be exasperated with him. He was coming to the theatre, after all. Perhaps there was just so much room for change or surprise in Alcibiades, and he’d used up his quota all at once in agreeing to come with me. “Just follow along, my dear. I shall lead the way.”

The sun was just setting. Some of the street-side vendors seemed to take this as a sign to begin closing up shop, while others remained open, confident that the warm night would bring them yet more customers. It was true that the closer we drew to the theatre district, the more vendors I saw lining the walkways. Perhaps it was common to buy food to enjoy during a performance?

I was just about to ask Alcibiades if he would consider sharing some sweet dumplings with me when I noticed that his head was already lifted—like a dog detecting scents on the wind—and that he was already cutting his way through the crowd to absorb some local culture of his own. The fried dumplings. I ought to have remembered.

I stepped quickly to keep up with him, since it was either that or be dragged away through the crowd.

“I’ll have one of those as well, my dear,” I said, examining the stand to see if there were any distinctive markings, or whether I was going to have to use Alcibiades’ excellent nose whenever I wanted to track down the fried dumplings for myself.

He looked down at me, almost disappointed, as though he had wanted to keep the entire cart for himself.

“All right then,” he said, holding six fingers up to the vendor. “We’ll take six.”

“Six?” I repeated, aghast.

“You’ll hold these for me, won’t you?”

Then, without waiting for a response, Alcibiades took two sticks in each hand, and handed two to me.

I told the vendor thanks, and then hurried after my companion, lest he become caught up in his feeding frenzy and do something inexcusable like wipe his hands on his new clothes.

“It’s good food,” he said, around what must have been three dumplings in his mouth, judging by the empty stick.

I felt my mouth twitching in laughter before I could help it. Perhaps through dumplings, I would convince my friend to enjoy his stay there after all. At least, if the matter of Yana’s letters could be resolved.

Alcibiades had gone through two more sticks of the dumplings by the time we reached the theatre, so at least my hands were free to reach for the tickets. I’d made certain to leave enough time for us to find truly excellent seats, and once inside the theatre proper I took off like a shot, slipping away from Alcibiades so that I could examine the stage from every viewpoint, in order to decide where it would be best to sit.

Fortunately, whoever had designed the theatre had kept in mind the comfort of all the patrons; there was no one seat, no matter how far removed from the stage proper, that would leave its owner with a poor view of the play. There were also wooden walkways, suspended just above the general seating area, that bisected the audience—and which, I realized, must have allowed for the actors to come out into the audience; to join with them, however momentarily, as one. The theatre itself was not so large that sitting far removed from the stage would ruin our view; the question was merely whether or not we would be able to find two seats together amidst the crowd.

“Quit swooping around like a bat in the belfry and just sit,” Alcibiades said, crossing his arms like he was rethinking the entire night out.

“Eat your dumplings, my dear,” I told him. There was nothing to do when he got into these moods except pay him no mind whatsoever and go on with my business. That was precisely what I intended to do.

It seemed that eating his dumplings was a course of action that Alcibiades and I could both agree upon, since he fell silent after that, munching away like a contented monkey.

Truly, there were so many animals the general resembled that it was very difficult to characterize him.

I came to a rise just left of the center, set so that one could see all of the stage, and just the tiniest bit of the area backstage, where Lord Temur had told me the actors might congregate before they were ready—that is, if they chose to enter through normal means. The theatre in the Ke-Han style, Lord Temur had also told me, was in this particular incarnation enamored of unorthodox entrances: Puffs of smoke were not uncommon, nor was it out of the question to expect an actor to appear from the rafters above us, dropping directly onto the stage as though he had leapt from the heavens.

It was perfect.

“Here!” I called, settling delicately down against the cushions and sitting straight up with excitement. Alcibiades followed me to where I’d settled, looking somewhat mollified by fried food and the prospect of a large cushion to sit on.

“More comfortable, anyway,” he admitted, peering forward to try to catch a glimpse of the goings-on backstage. We both saw a flash of red at the same time, the flutter of silk and a pattern I could just barely make out: three golden diamonds, nesting one inside the other.

“Who do you suppose that was?” I asked, and gripped Alcibiades’ sleeve. “I do so love the theatre.”

“Hm,” Alcibiades replied, in a way that intimated he was just as excited about what came next as I was.

The shows began in the morning, much to my disappointment, and could last as much as the entire day. That was typical of plays in the capital, I’d learned, whereas the more provincial shows in the countryside resembled an evening of Volstovic theatre and took place only at night. Sadly, I knew that it would be quite impossible to trap Alcibiades into a full day of cultural activity, from dawn to well after dusk. His constitution simply wouldn’t allow the affront. And thus I was left to pick my battles very carefully; he would have been immensely impressed if he had known what a clever strategist I was becoming, just for him. The final act was what I was most curious about.

The audience was far more rowdy than the pristine palace would have led anyone to believe the Ke-Han people could be. But there, gathered in the theatre with us, were the merchants and umbrella makers, the artists and the farmers, even peddlers with an extra coin or two to spare for their entertainment. Whoops and calls emanated from the audience in the native, if slurred, Ke-Han tongue. From what I could understand of the situation, they were all calling for the appearance of one man—an actor—no doubt the star of the stage that night.

“They are waiting for it to grow dark outside before they light the lanterns,” I whispered to my companion. Alcibiades grunted, and looked up to the ceiling, where the fat paper lamps hung in two straight lines, bisecting each other at the center.

The entire place was full of the scent of food and sweat and, my very favorite, anticipation. We were all as one, every member of the audience, leaning forward as we waited for the moment that the lanterns were lit: And then we were bathed in the golden glow of atmosphere, the perfect, supernatural experience just before smoke began to roll across the stage, and a howling voice began its narration.

“What’s he saying,” Alcibiades hissed, as the cheers and cries quieted and the audience fell hushed with momentary reverence. From what little I already knew of the Ke-Han theatre—Lord Temur had warned me against going due to all this vulgarity—that silence would not last.

Fortunately, where my knowledge failed in the common slang, I was quite capable of a rough translation of such formal language.

“‘Long have I traveled this dark road,’” I translated. I kept my words no louder than the barest of whispers. “‘Long have I searched for a port in the dark storm. But I am cast out from my home—who will be loyal to me now?’”

I was given no further opportunity to continue, for with a sudden explosion—miniature fireworks, how utterly exquisite!—an actor appeared on stage, body frozen in a sharply angled pose. He looked more like a statue than a man, so still and so expressionless. His robes were made of the deepest cobalt blue and I caught on his back the three golden diamonds I’d seen before.

My fingers twitched at Alcibiades’ sleeve, and he was so distracted by the glorious display he even patted the top of my hand.

“‘My lord calls,’” I whispered, wishing I did not have to translate for the general. Nonetheless, it wasn’t particularly unexpected that he wouldn’t know this, the most formal dialect of the Ke-Han, reserved now only for the classics and performance scripts. “‘I hear him upon the wind. Who needs now the presence of a man loyal when the world is not? It is I, noble warrior! We fight as one!’”

The actor’s face began to change, but not through any motion he made. Rather, it was through the subtle changes of emotion. I knew at once that he was the loyal retainer. Even I, stranger that I was, could feel the purpose behind his performance.

“Uncanny,” Alcibiades muttered.

The cheering from the audience began.

“‘Never shall we be separated,’” I continued, savoring each word. “‘I have pledged my life to thee, and thine it is, no matter who chases us down.’”

“I know who chases you down!” someone shouted from the audience. He was followed by such a chorus of hooting and jeering that I wondered what sort of training the actor must have had to ignore it completely—to carry on as though he were alone in the world. Indeed, alone like the prince and his retainer upon the high mountain.

“‘Is that you, Benkei?’ That must be the prince, offstage,” I said, as I leaned closer to the stage. “I wonder how he’ll appear—I wonder if he’s as beautiful as the one we were so lucky to see for ourselves—”

“Shh,” Alcibiades hissed. “You’re being rude.”

My cheeks were hot with amusement and pleasure, and the close atmosphere of the theatre, the heavy air made damp and close by all the bodies pressed together, waiting for the prince to arrive.

“Benkei, my sorry ass,” said a man sitting next to us, before he settled back to scratching the back of his neck as though he might have had fleas.

“‘My lord, I have brought you your sword,’” I whispered. “‘By your side I shall be as your sword. We shall fight as one, and safety under the gods will be ours.’”

“A little bit much, isn’t it?” Alcibiades murmured, shifting uncomfortably. It was either because he’d finished his dumplings or because the emotions of the people there had finally caught up to him. “A little bit queer, too. In Volstov, he wouldn’t be such…” Alcibiades trailed off, chewing the words over while he observed the actor, imposing and fierce and lit with glowing lamplight. “Well, such a damn hero.”

“Unless there was some good reason for his change of loyalties,” I added.

“Ch’. Foreigners,” the man sitting next to us said, casting us a disapproving look.

“My sincere apologies,” I said. It meant only that I had to settle myself closer to Alcibiades so that we would disturb no other patrons of the arts with our commentary and with my translation, which I did. “‘Here you have come to complete your training. Even the spirits of the wind and trees respect your plight, and weep for it.’”

“This,” Alcibiades said, “is downright insane. How do they get away with it? What in blazes does their esteemed Emperor think?”

“They’ve given them different names, you see,” I replied mildly. “I think that makes it all less obvious.”

“Huh,” Alcibiades snorted, then, “bastion.”

The prince had appeared.

It was not with fanfare and fireworks, as had his lord Benkei. It was not even with a shower of tinsel or through a trapdoor. He had merely come onto the stage as though he owned the stage, gliding across it like a spirit of the wind and trees himself. He, too, was dressed in blue, though it was scattered across with gold and silver, like light upon a deep lake. He was beautiful—though not, I noticed with some interest, as otherworldly as the true prince had been, the prince upon whom this entire madman’s charade was based.

I thought of Emperor Iseul’s eyes as he bore down upon Alcibiades, as though he meant to kill him. Indeed, he was not a man who would allow something so simple as substituted names to stop him from killing the playwright behind this insult and the actors who perpetrated it. Perhaps not even the members of the audience were safe, on account of their tacit participation.

It was much like being in the lion’s den while the lion was out. At any moment, the great beast might return to reclaim his territory, but for the moment, it was ours.

“The prince!” someone called from the audience. The cheers began in earnest over the dialogue I could barely translate properly when it was all I could hear.

“I’ve heard he’s got an army of spirits up north,” a nearby patron told his companion. Then, his voice hushed, he added, “Prince Mamoru.” The tone he used to speak the name was almost reverent.

“They’ve made him into a deity,” I told Alcibiades, my eyes wide with wonder.

“No,” Alcibiades replied. “They’ve made him into a god.”

I was about to correct him—to tell him the two were one and the same—only then I didn’t. He was right. A deity was too small for what the second prince had become onstage, moving past his retainer with the grace of a moonbeam. Alcibiades was right. He had become a god.

I couldn’t help wondering if he knew it, the poor dear creature. At least he had someone with him. Someone as loyal and as unfaltering as time itself, as the narrator might have said. I felt a thrill run up my spine at the prospect; and, at the same time, I wondered where they were hiding themselves. If they truly were still alive.

It was as though Alcibiades and I had become caught up in a story, a tale of heroes and villains. There was something about the city that night, the smoke and the stage, that made reality seem very close to the stories. It was almost difficult to tell the difference between the two.

The smoke rose once again over the stage, and I thought I saw the flicker of screens being changed, the apparition of another face in the gloom.

“What now?” Alcibiades murmured, craning his neck to see.

There was a figure emerging onstage. He was taller than the prince, but more slender than his retainer. He stood rock-still at the center of a platform as it rose from somewhere below the stage, his eyes cast down, his arms stretched out to either side of him. His palms were upturned, as though awaiting adulation, and through the smoke I thought I saw a flash of the same crimson red we’d seen backstage. Indeed, even his face it seemed was painted in harsh, thick lines of the same color, and his robes were the color of blood. It was Alcibiades’ Volstovic red: the very same hue.

There was a sudden rush of movement from all around us, as everyone in the audience suddenly began to stir, whispering to their companions or stretching to get a better view. I sat up straight as I could, wishing not for the first time that I might borrow just a little of Alcibiades’ height.

The narrator was wailing again.

“‘My search is nearly over,’” I translated hastily, while using Alcibiades’ shoulder to lever myself up to see. “‘Soon I will have—’”

“Murderer!” someone nearer to the stage yelled. His words were slurred, as though he’d been drinking.

I saw our row-companion’s eyes go wide with shock, though all around the theatre there was a buzz of approval.

The actor playing the Emperor did not falter, but rather held so still that I found myself a captive of his presence, unable to look away. There was no trace of remorse on his face. Indeed, there was no trace of anything at all. Rather, his expression was blank, devoid of any recognizably human emotion. It was like a palace mask, and yet unlike it, since the lines painted on his face made him look more demon than man.

Was that how the people of Xi’an viewed their new Emperor? It was a troubling thought.

“See if you ever track down your brother!” called another member of the audience, one less muzzy with drink.

Alcibiades sucked in his breath. Sitting as close as I was, I could feel it when he went tense, as though the play had suddenly turned all too real.

“What would his father have said? Turning against your own flesh and blood,” a nearby woman muttered disapproval to her companion, shouting the last to the rest of the theatre.

“Perhaps he’s gone mad, like his great-grandfather.”

“Perhaps we need Prince Mamoru back here to overthrow him!”

“I can’t hear anything,” Alcibiades complained, looking upset.

It was then, with a tremendous crash, that the doors broke open.

Men in deep shades of imperial blue—robes just as fine as the costumes upon the stage—stormed in through the splintered wood and torn paper. They had helmets on, to shield their faces, and each man carried a sword. Not the wooden practice swords I’d grown accustomed to seeing, either. These were live blades, and they glimmered wickedly in the lamplight as the guards marched in.

One of them stepped up onto the stage, obscuring the actor completely.

“By decree of Our Lord, Emperor Iseul,” he began.

Someone to our left booed loudly. They had clearly become carried away with themselves. The noise cut itself off suddenly, as though he or she had received an elbow to the stomach or a hand over the mouth.

“This play is over!” the guard shouted, driven to the edge of his patience. I felt Alcibiades beginning to stir next to me, and felt a familiar rush of excitement mixed with apprehension. Such interesting things always happened when I was with the general. It was a good thing I’d thought to bring my fan, which I unfurled to obscure my face.

“What’s more,” the guard went on, unsheathing his sword as his fellow soldiers strode up the aisles in organized lines. “The lot of you are under arrest, pending the apprehension of those responsible for this piece of filth.”

A shout of dismay went up from the audience. Alcibiades surged to his feet, dragging me up with him.

There was a moment when I felt suspended in time, like an actor onstage myself. I saw the other patrons—our audience—as though frozen, anticipating the moves of the guards, our villains, dressed in blue.

The costumes were all wrong. “The heroes are supposed to be in blue,” I told Alcibiades in an excited whisper.

There was a flurry of crimson movement onstage; and, as though it had all been a part of the script, the pretend-Emperor brought his wooden sword down hilt first on top of the guard’s head. We in the audience had time for a roar of approval, putting all our praise for the play into one primal cry of appreciation.

Then the guards were on us.

Alcibiades pulled me forward, choosing to travel down toward the stage and against the flow of the crowd, which was surging back toward the far wall. I had no choice but to follow, since he was a dreadfully strong brute when he had a mind to be. And besides, I was no battle strategist.

“I shouldn’t think it would look very good for two of Volstov’s diplomats to land in jail,” I remarked, cheerfully tripping a guard who’d grabbed a young lady by the arm. She smiled at me before she wheeled around into the crowd, disappearing from view.

“We’re not going to,” Alcibiades grunted, pausing a minute to look around.

I took that opportunity, brief and breathless as it was, to examine the room myself. There were many patrons who appeared to be running for the nearest exit, like ourselves, but to my shock I saw more than one who’d stayed to land a punch or two against the guards. Onstage, the pretend-Emperor’s fellow actors had joined him, with the larger Benkei standing as a defensive wall against the surge of increasingly angry enforcers. I had looked up just in time to see the young prince-actor, delicate as a moonbeam, roundly kicking a guard in the shins, then dropping him down an open trapdoor.

I let out a whoop of approval. Alcibiades looked at me as if I were mad.

“Caught up in the moment,” I explained.

“Uh-huh,” Alcibiades said.

Then, quicker than I’d seen him move yet, he pulled me underneath the footbridge that traveled from the stage to the audience, connecting the two together in a brilliant stroke of theatrical innovation.

“We’re going out the back way,” he told me, bent almost double in the low space beneath the bridge. “You’ve got those knives with you, don’t you?”

“How could I go anywhere without my fan?” I said, pleased that he’d come to know me so well.

“Use them,” Alcibiades said, in a tone that made me think he must have been a very different person during the war, with so much fighting to keep him busy and less time to be sullen about every little thing.

The next thing I knew, we were moving again, under the overpass and back into the audience seating. Alcibiades lifted me under my arms—making no attempt to be careful about my clothes at all—and slung me up onto the bridge like a sack of common potatoes. He hauled himself up next and caught me at the shoulder, pulling me to my feet. All around us people were shouting. Some were rallying cries; others were threats of legal action. It was becoming impossible to sort one from the other.

I couldn’t help but feel a mounting sense of excitement, since Alcibiades had us running straight toward the actors, so that we might actually see them up close.

A guard pulled himself up onto the bridge and Alcibiades dragged me back behind him. Very shortly I was going to get tired of being so manhandled, as it was behavior I would never allow under normal circumstances, but there was something crudely touching about the whole matter. Never mind that it made me feel quite like the prince in question, and Alcibiades my loyal retainer, sworn to protect me and guard me while nonetheless treating me like merchants’ wares to be hauled about.

The guard said something that I was quite sure was rude, though his dialect was one I was unfamiliar with.

Alcibiades moved with the same baffling quickness he’d shown a moment ago, ducking close around the guard’s sword to punch him square in the face.

I gave a hop of delight, and hurried forward to take his sword. It was much heavier than it looked, but I presented it quite proudly to Alcibiades all the same.

“What the hell did he say, anyway?” Alcibiades demanded, taking it.

“He said that your outfit is very dashing,” I told him. “Do let’s make our escape.”

“After you,” Alcibiades sighed, and booted me down through the trapdoor.

It was dark beneath the stage, but it was far from quiet. Above us was a cacophony of footfalls, the sounds of set pieces crashing in the chaos. All those pretty things—utterly ruined. What was worse, though, was what might happen to the poor author of the play. He’d certainly landed himself in hot water, and all for the sake of pursuing his art.

Alcibiades landed with a heavy thud, almost on top of me, though I managed to step out of the way just in time. “Be careful where you’re landing,” I chided him.

“What do you know about these theatres, anyway?” Alcibiades asked, charging in front of me. “Any more trick doors, or do we have to improvise?”

“This is how the Emperor came onstage,” I reasoned. “So there must be some way to get backstage—aha!” A wood panel just at my fingertips swung outward, and light shafted in quick and warm into the darkness. We were in a sort of waiting box beneath the stage, and there was our way out. That is, unless the guards had already filed backstage themselves.

There were clothes everywhere, and prop swords; a few masks set upon low tables, and more face paint than I’d ever seen on the most vain old baroness’s bedside table. There was the red, and there was the blue, and there was the white.

“Do you think the prince got away?” I asked Alcibiades, catching his eyes for a brief moment.

Alcibiades snorted. “Which one?”

He grasped my wrist and tugged me toward what appeared to be a side exit. And it was just in time, as well, for as we slipped past the door I heard a crash behind us, and the shattering of glass. The backstage mirror overturned as the guards poured into the room.

Alcibiades pulled me into the dark alley. We were behind the theatre. We could still hear the shouts from within, as well as those that poured out onto the streets. Lights were flickering on all down the length of the theatre district, lanterns peeking out of every window. People were yelling at one another, answered peremptorily by the abrupt orders of the guards. All of that was undercut by the unsteady rhythm of armor against armor and heavy bootfalls.

“If they catch us, we’re sunk,” Alcibiades told me.

“I suppose we’d better run,” I replied.

“Pity you’re not wearing those shoes with the platforms,” Alcibiades said dryly. “You’re going to get the hem of that thing all muddy.”

“Not if you carry me the rest of the way,” I suggested impishly, before I pushed myself off an alley wall and started off toward a back alley—one of the dark streets I’d been cautioned by Lord Temur himself not to travel.

Luckily, they were almost eerily empty; everyone had either locked up tight to avoid whatever was happening or had rushed off to join the fray. There weren’t even any poor young women plying their single trade; I could imagine them all, pressed against their windows, watching the lights flicker on and off and straining to catch even one word amidst the chaos of voices.

“Why is it,” Alcibiades said, shaking his head; he still hadn’t abandoned the sword I’d stolen for him, and showed no signs of being about to do so, either, “that when I’m with you, shit like this always happens?”

“Oh, my dear,” I replied, stepping out into the main street to find it, too, empty and abandoned, “I was about to ask you the very same question!”