James Roy - The Gimlet Eye

They stayed and watched from the royal box for a while longer, but after seeing Fontagu screaming insults at his poor, bumbling cast for twenty minutes or so, Tab turned to Amelia. ‘Torby?’

‘Torby.’

Being the middle of the day, they went by the most direct route to the Grendelmire Infirmary, even though that took them straight past the lane that was believed to lead to Skulum Gate.

‘Don’t even look down there,’ Tab said to Amelia as they passed.

‘I know it’s a bit creepy, but don’t you ever wonder -’

‘No. No, I don’t. If we’d been just a little more experienced, it would have been us, Amelia. We should have been grateful that we were still learning.’

‘So why wasn’t Stelka sent there?’

‘Can you imagine the outcry? No, they needed a reason that people could agree with, so they made up that ridiculous charge and threw her in jail. Come on, don’t slow down,’ she said, grabbing Amelia’s arm and dragging her away from the laneway with the dead end and the cold air.

The Grendelmire Infirmary was three storeys high, with an imposing facade and rows of small, unfriendly looking, barred windows.

‘It’s sad, visiting Torby here,’ Amelia said.

‘True, but I think it’s important.’

‘He doesn’t even notice that we’re here.’

‘I know.’

The room that doubled as an entry hall was empty, so they made their way straight up the stairs to the second floor, where Torby’s bed was. He’d been moved from his comfortable space some months before to make room for the dying mother of one of Florian’s favoured courtiers, and after she finally died, they’d never bothered to move Torby back. His was the last in a row of a dozen or so beds, which faced another row on the opposite side. About half the beds were occupied, mostly by very old people, and one or two who were muttering madly under their breath.

Torby lay on his left side, his eyes turned to the blank wall. Even when the girls stood at the end of his bed and spoke to him, there was no reaction from him; not even a flicker of the eyes.

‘Torby,’ said Tab, crouching down beside him and taking his hand. ‘It’s Tab and Amelia. How are you today? Can you squeeze my hand?’

There was no response. Tab looked at Amelia, and saw tears in her eyes.

‘What have they done to you, Torby?’ Amelia said.

‘It’s terrible,’ Tab said. ‘He’s getting so thin.’

‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go,’ Amelia suddenly said. Then she turned and half-ran for the door.

‘We’ll come and see you again tomorrow,’ Tab promised, giving Torby’s hand another squeeze. ‘Keep hanging on, all right? You’ll be fine.’

She headed back downstairs, and found Amelia sitting on the front steps.

‘Are you all right?’ Tab asked, sitting down beside her.

Amelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I hate seeing him like that. He was doing so well, then… then this.’

‘I know,’ Tab replied, tucking her friend’s hair back behind her ear. ‘It’s so strange, though. He was getting back into his magic, becoming more confident.’

‘There had to be some kind of connection between the Archon dying and Torby going backwards,’ said Amelia. ‘I bet it had something to do with Florian.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘True, but don’t you think it would be interesting to know what happened to Torby, and whether it was linked? But of course now Torby can’t tell us.’

Tab nodded. ‘It makes me angry too. But you have to keep your temper under control, Amelia. And you can’t just say whatever comes into your head wherever you happen to be. Even if Florian…’ She stopped while a visitor passed them on his way into the infirmary, then lowered her voice a little. ‘Even if Florian did make Torby that way, there’s no way to prove it.’

‘I know.’

‘So don’t let yourself get so worked up about it.’

‘You’re right. And what is that disgusting smell?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t smell it. Oh yes, there it is!’

‘That’s the smell of tigerplums!’

Tab shuddered. ‘Aren’t they hideous? There must be a tree around here somewhere.’

‘They should cut them all down, if you ask me, the horrid, stinking things.’

Fontagu was anxious. It was a matter of days until the opening night of the performance. Already the preparations for Florian’s birthday celebrations were in full swing, with a large part of Tarquin’s Hill cordoned off for the erection of marquees and stalls for invited guests. The route from the palace to the hill had been inspected several times, and all homeless people, unseemly types or poor folk had been moved elsewhere. The same had been done along the route that led to the New Paragon, where Fontagu was putting the finishing touches to his play.

It was hard work, being the writer, director and star of the show. It was doubly difficult knowing that a dud performance could end up with him… Well, he didn’t like to even contemplate the possibilities – the very thought made him break out in hives. And a leading man with hives would never do.

The changes that Janus had insisted on had been challenging. At first glance, they appeared to be no more than a line here and a word or two there. But then came the big change – a part specially written for Florian himself.

‘Lord Janus wants him to feel special,’ Kalip Rendana had said weeks before, when he’d dropped in unexpectedly to return the script. ‘So he wants him to have a cameo role. A small speaking part.’

‘How small a speaking part?’ Fontagu asked warily.

‘Something near the end. Here, I’ll show you where he’s made the changes.’ Rendana opened the script to one of the later pages and pointed. ‘There, where he’s marked it.’

Fontagu felt suddenly faint. ‘There are lines and lines here. And who is this Calran person?’

‘He’s an incidental character. Whom the Emperor will be playing.’

Fontagu began to read. ‘“Greetings, I am Calran, a wandering hawker, out to do no good. I have seen your fine animals and your lovely wife, and wish to take them all for myself, o lame and blind carpenter.”

‘Oh, this is terrible!’ Fontagu exclaimed. ‘What I mean is, this is terribly good,’ he quickly added as he saw Rendana’s hand go to his belt where he kept his little knife. ‘I expect that I might have to tidy up some of the dialogue a little, but… but I’m a professional, as you know.’

‘Of course,’ Rendana said, his hand still resting on the pommel of his knife.

Fontagu read on, silently this time. It seemed that after a brief conversation between the hawker and Robar that eventually turned into an argument, a swordfight was to break out, in which Calran was to briefly get the upper hand, but in which ultimately he would suffer a fatal blow.

‘Calran’s got to look good, but he has to die in the end,’ Rendana explained. ‘I mean, it’s a classic story, or so I’m told, so this Robar chap has to win. But not too easily.’

‘I see,’ Fontagu said. ‘So I get to kill Florian… Well, Florian’s character, I mean,’ he added with a nervous laugh.

‘That’s correct,’ Rendana said. ‘Lord Janus was anxious to know whether you have one of those stage swords. You know, the ones that look real, but when you push them against something they fold into themselves?’

‘Of course,’ Fontagu said. ‘I’ve got one right here.’ He reached into his personal chest of props and took out his best stage sword, which he waved and flourished about for a moment. ‘As you see, good sir, even from very close up, it appears to the naked eye as a genuine sword with which one might do great harm on the body of an opponent,’ he said in a loud stage voice. ‘But from up close…’ And he lunged forward, taking Rendana completely by surprise, pushing the sword at his abdomen, right to the hilt.