Mercedes Lackey - The Wizard of Karres

In fact, he elected to keep the show dark for an unprecedented second day to allow the merchandise stalls to take the place of those who decided that they would rather peddle souvenirs than compete on talent alone.

Meanwhile, the rumors outside the gates continued to swell. Curious and increasingly impatient miners began to show up at the ticket office to demand schedules and ask about advance tickets for particular shows. So when the gates did open at last, at dawn on the third day, there was a gratifyingly large crowd.

Which Pausert didn't see, of course, because he was in morning rehearsal. But when the cast broke for lunch, he was gratified to see several of his allweather cloaks and one or two of those dratted fishing poles going past in the possession of new owners.

He inhaled his food, and headed for Sideshow Alley. The stalls were never actually empty. The morning shift in his stall was being maintained by one of the aerial contortionists from the Big Top who was part of the curtain act and the Spanish web ensemble. Here she performed solo contortion and balancing on the tiny stage. As Pausert entered the stall from the back, she passed him, dressed in her street clothes, with a friendly wave. "No accolades yet," she said cheerfully. "But I'm getting a full house every turn."

"Excellent," he replied, and ducked inside.

There was just enough room behind the stage for him to change into his Escapist costume—in his case, a skin-tight shirt in silvery synthasilk and looser breeches in electric blue. As he put his own props up on the stage, he heard the talker outside, running his pitch, talking up the act. Sometimes, when things were slow, acts would come out in front for a free-see. Pausert had the feeling that would not be the case here.

Then he relled vatch.

Do you need me?asked Silver-eyes.

Are you willing to be my assistant, the way Second Littlest is usually?

Sure. You don't even need to feed me.

Unbelievable. A cooperative vatch; at least, for as long as it wasn't bored. But maybe the reactions of the audience would keep it from being bored. He could hope, anyway.

The persona he had cooked up for this act was, in truth, based a bit on the way he used to think of himself, and a lot on some of the overinflated egos of his superiors on Nikkeldepain. He waited a bit nervously behind the curtain for the talker to give him the signal that the stall was as full as it was going to get—a flashing red light just above his head. Then it was his turn to toe the control that set the automated lights and his recorded music going and the curtain to rise.

Then he struck a pose. As the curtain came up, the stage lights brightened and the house lights dimmed, the audience of miners saw a fellow in flamboyant costume in an exaggerated "strong-man" pose. He took a couple more—equally exaggerated—poses, while his recorded music played, until the audience began to chuckle, realizing that he was "playing" someone who was altogether too full of himself.

Then his talker came in, and began doing the spiel, and he went into his act.

The first couple of escapes were done "straight," though with a ridiculous amount of flourish. Then came the comic sequence.

He wasn't altogether certain that the vatch was going to help—until, practically on cue!—he felt the cool breath of air on his hands that told him that Silver-eyes was doing Goth's job exactly. The roar of laughter as he struggled, while the talker pretended consternation, came as a relief and a surprise. There were a lot of people in here!

He finished the act exactly as scripted, and went into the "blow-off" poses to gales of laughter as the curtain went down.

Perfect! he thought at the vatch.

That was fun! replied Silver-eyes with enthusiasm. I like the watchers! But what was that noise they were making?

It's called laughing, and it means that they are having fun, too.

Will the next ones laugh too?

As long as we do the act right. Pausert kept part of his attention on the barker outside as he cleaned up and replaced all of his props. For a while, he had been unhappy with this act, until he'd hit on the idea of creating a kind of character to play. It might have been silly, but once the audience was laughing at the pompous character, rather than at him, it became a lot more enjoyable to put on the shows.

Then we have to do the act right. The vatch sounded quite determined on that score. Can we change it when we get tired of doing the same thing?

I think that's a good idea, he told it, cautiously. But you need to talk to me beforehand about the changes you want to make, or they might not laugh when you do them.

He sensed its agreement, and then the light flashed and it was time to do the show again.

Three shows an hour, with a break for fifteen minutes, for four hours; that was his shift in the stall, and every show was full up. The tent stall held fifteen or twenty people at a time—probably fifteen the size of the miners he'd been seeing—and it seemed as if the audience was completely new each time. It was astonishing. Even without tips or accolades, he was earning a good pile of cash this afternoon. His talker (with whom he split the take, since the talker was as important in a way as the act) had never, ever been able to fill the stall at every show before!

Every time the audience laughed, the vatch giggled with pleasure; the little thing was actually enjoying performing! By the third hour it was suggesting small, cosmetic changes—like holding the drape down when he'd freed his hands so that he had to "fight" his way out of it—that increased the comedic impact of the blow-off. When his turn in the stall was finally over, and he made way for an exotic dancer who was one of the glamour-riders with the fanderbag act, the vatch was practically glowing with happiness as it popped away.

And it was a little—just a little—bigger.

Now that was interesting. He hadn't fed it. So how had it gotten bigger? Could it be that something about strong human emotions also fed it?

He was going to ask Goth about that when they met for dinner, but the four little, heavy knots of scrap cloth that the Leewit thunked down on the table in front of him drove the question right out of his head. "Lookee here, Captain!" she crowed. "Tips!"

"We aren't the first to get them—the dancers are starting to get a lot," Goth added, judiciously. "But a couple of the miners got all sentimental about our sibling-rivalry business. I guess sentimental will work, if you don't have a pair of big—"

"Fewmets!" exclaimed Hantis, plopping herself down in her usual place at the table. "And here I thought I was going to be the one to surprise you!" She added a couple of knots of her own to the small pile. "The buzz is that the merchants are doing all right, and that those benighted fishing poles and cloaks are about half gone already. What passes for fish around here concentrates metal in its skeleton! It's only copper, iron, and some sulfur, but it's pretty, like peacock ore. Some of the engineers are trying to figure out how to clean the meat from the bones and use the things for jewelry. No point in trying to peddle it here, but maybe our next stop."

"The Big Top was full, and everybody seemed to be enjoying the show a lot," said Goth. "Makes me wonder what these miners are going to think about the play."

Pausert had been wondering that, too. Were their tastes as sophisticated and eclectic as Mannicholo seemed to think? Or would the Old Yarthe plays be beyond them?

But as he opened his mouth to ponder the question aloud, Hulik appeared—

And her agitation caught the attention of everyone around their table.

Pausert couldn't recall ever having seen her look this way—it wasn't "upset," exactly, but it was disturbed, and excited, and—unsettled.