Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Braylar mentioned that today was a shortened program, with only a small playlet preceding the longer play. The performance would be over shortly. And the players would file into the chamber, awaiting the arrival of their benefactor, and we were waiting to do… something. Something that could very likely result in our imprisonments or deaths.

I wondered if the gods would be sympathetic if I stayed to bear witness to an assassination. If I somehow survived my association with this man, I silently swore I’d escape to a cave and begin a life of hermitage. With zeal. And gratitude.

There was a thunderous roar above us. Must have been a fine performance. I wondered what part the short garish player had.

It wouldn’t be long now. My tunic was sticking to my sweaty sides.

Hewspear said, “Good man to open the playhouses up again. It’s said, and not in a stage whisper, that he did it as much to needle the nobles as please the common man, who crave diversion from the harshness of life. The nobles consider them dens of indecency, a gathering hole for whores and cutpurses and all manner of nefarious characters. Which they are, in truth. But whatever the baron’s reasons, I applaud him for it. If you’ll pardon the expression. Always did enjoy a good play, myself.” He smiled before blowing some shavings off the flute.

Braylar didn’t open his eyes, but replied just the same, “Did you happen to see Bright as Blood? Before we campaigned in Muljuria?”

Hewspear set to carving again. “No, I didn’t have the pleasure. I heard it was good, though.”

“Gripping tale of betrayal and lust.”

“I prefer the comedies, myself. Gripping tales of mistaken identity and lust. Or misjudgment and lust. Or fallacy and lust. I do like my lust, though. The lustier the better. So I probably would’ve enjoyed it, gore or no.”

It was unnerving that they could banter so easily before doing something that was, at best, dangerous, and worst, blackly criminal.

I cleared my throat and said, “Someone, please tell me why we’re in the moldy belly of a playhouse. What is our purpose here?”

After a long pause, Braylar surprised me. “You writerly folk are often guilty of a thing, I don’t know the jargon you would use to describe it, so I’ll put in it my own terms. On first inspection, the words you scribble, they’re terrain language. They exist on the surface for all to see, representing one thing or another. But there’s often another layer beneath, sometimes several, yes? This represents something else entirely, this subterranean language, and it takes a keen ear to puzzle out what is represented here. Playwrights are particularly prone to doing this, in my experience. That’s their gift. In any event, what transpires in the world of the playhouse above us just now, that’s terrainean, and evident to all. We’re subterranean. The meaning that lurks beneath.”

Braylar chuckled, as if he’d just uncorked the secret to some fantastic riddle. If Hewspear understood or shared the joke, he gave no indication, returning to his careful whittling after Braylar finished speaking. Then we heard voices. Coming closer, on the other side of the panel. Laughter. What might have been hooting. The players returning.

Hewspear stood and stretched, hands locked behind his back as he raised his arms up. Braylar stirred as well, standing and frowning at the dust and puddles. “All the baron’s patronage and not a broom to be found. Pity.”

He stepped back to the door we came in, retrieved his small knife and pulled the door open a crack, peering into the dark hallway. “If this is indeed an ambush, they’re doing a fine job of disguising it.”

Braylar looked at me and jerked a thumb towards the opposite door. “We’ll leave you in a moment. Stay just inside this door-I’ll leave it slightly ajar. Bear witness. Whatever happens.”

I found it hard to imagine that two words strung together could be imbued with such ominous overtones. Knowing I wouldn’t get an answer, certainly not one to my liking or free of ridicule, I moved to the spot he indicated, wondering a final time if “whatever happens” was something I’d deeply regret doing nothing to halt or delay. But I’d served under this man long enough now to know he didn’t look kindly upon interference to his plans, whatever they entailed. So I moved and continued doing what I was hired to do.

Braylar and Hewspear positioned themselves close to the sliding panel, listening to the pleased voices that couldn’t be too far on the other side. The Syldoon waited, time seeming to play tricks, as what couldn’t have been long felt like a nerve-tweaking eternity.

Finally, we heard the general murmuring and laughter die down as one voice rose above the others, no doubt announcing the arrival of the baron (and, though the voice could have no way of knowing it, “whatever happens”). I wondered if it was the company master speaking, and where the garish player was just then. Did he truly believe Braylar’s story? Would I have? I supposed so. For a taciturn man so gifted in bloodletting, he had the ability to be remarkably glib and charming. At least in short bursts.

Braylar and Hewspear exchanged a glance as they listened. I heard another voice. Though it seemed to be coming from the far side of the players’ chamber, and the words were indistinct, it had a richness to it, an assurance, that could only belong to one of high nobility.

I sat on the stool, straining forward, and listened as the baron slowly made his way through the room, congratulating this man and that, doling out his praise as if it were gold itself, and at each instance, rewarded by hearing purring gratitude.

It sounded like he was just on the other side of the panel. My heart was beating like a rabbit’s as I watched Braylar pull the panel open quickly. The only thing that kept me from crying out immediately was the fact that they didn’t draw their weapons first.

The Syldoon stepped through, and true to his word, Braylar left the panel slightly ajar. There were a few straw mannequins in various states of dress just in front, and it was clear from their positioning that this storage area was rarely used (and certainly not thought to be occupied). Just beyond the cluster of mannequins, the baron was touching a man on the shoulder and smiling.

The players were so enamored with their patron, and the patron with his benevolent patronage, that neither party noticed the arrival of the Syldoon. However, as I imagined, the baron didn’t come into the chamber alone or trusting his safety solely to gratitude. Four men in mail and baronial surcoats were standing just behind him, and though they were obviously not expecting any sudden arrivals from behind mannequins, they reacted fairly quickly just the same, moving forward to place their bodies between the baron and the Syldoon.

Baron Brune was a man of middle years, with eyes and hair the color of tarnished pewter, and though his face was deeply lined, there was a wryness there, the ease of someone who hadn’t taken his setbacks or failures as seriously as perhaps he ought to have. He took stock of the Syldoon. “What’s this? More theatre lovers among us?”

One of the guards stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be taking those weapons now, boys.”

Braylar replied, “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. Assassinations are so very difficult as it is-unarmed, almost impossible.”

It took everyone a moment to react to these words, but when they did, it was chaos. My heart nearly exploded in my chest. Several players sprang out of their stools and backed away, stumbling over each other. The guards all drew their swords. The baron, surprisingly, reacted the least of all of us as his guards began moving forward, ready to cut down the Syldoon, even though they still hadn’t drawn weapons.