Previous Chapter

“Bella? Ragi?”

Andre took a few hurried steps down the corridor, his boots slipping on the old stone paving, hands outstretched in front of him in an attempt to find purchase. When he didn’t get an answer or feel anything ahead of himself he came to a stop, bewildered. He felt the walls of the passage on his left and right but nothing in front, which suggested there was really only one way to go, but it was disturbing that he didn’t hear anything in front of him. Even if Bella and Ragi chose not to answer him he should still be hearing their footsteps.

Then again, Bella had called this the low passage. Perhaps they were not, strictly speaking, in front of him. He knelt down and felt the ground in front, just in case there was some kind of ladder, stairs or ramp they had descended. However the floor felt perfectly level. More confused than ever, Andre took another couple of steps forward and raised his voice another notch or two, nearly yelling, “Ragi! Bella!”

Still no one answered him. As his confusion ebbed and began to give way to something else Andre realized he could do something very simple to fix a part of the problem. He conjured a lantern like he used backstage, set it in the ground and opened the shutters, about to conjure a flint and steel. Then he froze. His hair stood on end and an eerie sensation crawled up his arms like a nest of ants on the march.

“Do you think he offers us names, dearest?” A voice behind him asked in a rattling, rustling tone like dry leaves blowing across cobblestone.

“No, no, dearest,” a second voice replied, grinding like gravel underfoot. “He looks for someone.”

Andre froze, shrinking down towards the ground as far as he could go, squeezing as close to the wall as it would allow. He wasn’t sure what he was hearing but he had a guess.

“Perhaps he is looking for the two who came through before, dearest,” the first voice said.

“The Daughter of Grapes?” The second made a noise like a rockslide with the cadence of laughter. “Perhaps, perhaps. But the way isn’t open to him, dearest, and if he keeps going he will never rise overhilll again. Should we show him to his friends?”

“The grape growers pay for their passage. How could we let him pass for free? That would not be fair.”

Andre’s stomach clenched, his head spinning as he realized what kind of voices he was hearing. “Hello my friends,” he croaked, voice hoarse. “Have I passed underhill and into the realm of the Fair Folk?”

“Do you hear that, dearest?” The second voice asked. “He does know where he is. What do you think? It should be fair to answer him.”

“Of course, dearest.” A glimmer of light came up behind him, passing Andre on one side, and moved a little further down the corridor. The source or sources of light was difficult to make out, seemingly blocked by a lumpy object or creature. The first voice spoke from the figure in front of him. “Will it give us a name?”

Dealing with the Fair Folk was a dangerous game by all accounts but this particular question was one he knew well. “I will name you Leaves, if it pleases you.”

Leaves laughed, a sound like the wind in autumn, and said, “I am very pleased.”

From behind him the second voice said, “How lovely, dearest. Will it give us a name, also?”

“If it please you, I offer the name Gravel.”

“What shall we name him in return?” Gravel asked. “He sneaks through the door when no toll is paid yet he speaks with courtesy and offers names. What shall we call him? No Respecter of Doors? Grateful Trespasser? Perhaps simply Foolhardy?”

There was a sharp hiss followed by a soft popping sound then Leaves turned about, holding Andre’s lantern aloft between them. It was lit, and the meager light it cast seemed blinding in the narrow, underground passage. The sudden glare half blinded Andre. All he could see for certain were two eyes that gleamed almost as bright as the lantern and the light itself, held in a thin, clawlike hand with four black, shiny fingers the joints of which were more like an insect’s than a man’s. “I name it Blacklight,” Leaves said. “If it please you.”

Andre licked his lips and replied, “I am very pleased.”

“Then, Blacklight,” Gravel said, “why have you entered underhill, uninvited by the Folk, unnamed by the doorkeepers and unknown by the Lady of the Earth?”

That question was tricky, not because Andre didn’t want to answer it but because he wasn’t sure how to answer safely. Every story where a person escaped the Fair Folk began with an exchange of names. A faux pa like trying to name yourself at that early stage was a good way to ensure they never let you return overhill in your natural life. However, now he had to tell Leaves and Gravel that he was trying to find Bella and Ragi.

He had no idea whether just saying their names was a good idea or not, even though he’d just shouted them into the darkness twice. Gravel had mentioned a Daughter of Grapes, which Andre assumed was Bella. However, even if he was right about the identity of the Daughter he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to just appropriate that name for himself. He would have to be vague.

“I came here following two friends, a man and a young woman, who passed through a strange doorway to this place. Unfortunately we were somehow separated. Perhaps you saw them?”

The lantern in Leaves’ hand sputtered and the flame leaped higher for a second or two then returned to normal. Andre blinked, the sudden illumination leaving spots in his eyes. To his shock, as they faded he saw a glimpse of Bella and Ragi as they walked through the doorway underhill framed from within the passage rather than from without. Gravel asked, “These are the two?”

“Yes.” Still unsure of what he could safely say, Andre left it at that.

“The Daughter of Grapes and her Guardian,” Leaves said. It lowered the lantern enough that Andre could see its head, buried deep in the folds of a hood that cast shadows obscuring everything beyond its eyes. “She is named by the doorkeepers and known to the Lady, as is her Guardian, and their invitation stands. You are not invited or known, nor were you named when you crossed the threshold.”

“I was not aware that I was passing underhill,” Andre admitted. “B – the Daughter of Grapes did not say that I would need to be invited, named or known when she proposed we go this way.”

“It is not uncommon,” Gravel said. “The people overhill have poor courtesy and often fail to speak the most important things to each other. The family of Grapes have long offered gifts that warrant their invitation. However the privileges it entails are not for any who they choose to take with them, only for those that have been introduced. She was introduced on her first birthday and her Guardian with her. It has been some time since then so let us be fair – she may have forgotten the specifics. Still, we cannot let you pass.”

Andre wasn’t sure what Gravel meant by Bella being introduced at her first birthday but if that was the last time they’d been in contact with her or Ragi it was entirely possible the humans had forgotten the specifics of their agreement with the Folk. Regardless, it sounded like he needed to cut his own deal of some sort with them or he was going to stay underhill for a while. “I am sorry I trespassed.” He got to his feet and bowed from the waist. “May I offer you a token of my respect in exchange for your forgiveness?”

Leaves held up the lantern in its hand again, turning it so its glowing eyes could study it from every angle. “If you offer it I shall keep this as a sign of our naming, Blacklight.”

“That lantern is created by my Gift, Leaves,” Andre said quickly, anxious to make it clear he was dealing honestly with the creature. “It will not last very long. You can have it if you want but if I would rather bring you a true blacklight from -”

“This will suffice.” Leaves blew out the flame and drew the lantern into its robes. As it did so Andre felt a strange sensation, almost like he was falling as something was yanked out of his hands, and somehow knew that the lantern he had conjured was no longer his. His stomach flipflopped and he had to lean against the wall to steady himself.

“He is unwell, dearest,” Gravel said, shuffling up to peer at Andre from beneath a wide brimmed, floppy hat. Like its companion, this Folk was lumpy though mostly hidden beneath a fur lined coat with enormous sleeves and a broad, heavy belt around its waist. It steadied Andre with a blue, chitinous hand. Its own face was just as obscured as the other creature’s, though its glowing eyes seemed less alien than those of Leaves.

“Forgive me,” Andre said, rallying his faculties and straightening up with some difficulty. “I’m not sure what happened and it took me quite by surprise.”

“I am not sure why it would,” Leaves said. “That which is given to another changes its nature. It is no longer what it was and becomes what it must be – not given but received. It is only fair.”

“Of course,” Andre muttered. “How could I have forgotten the only law underhill?”

“How indeed?” Gravel asked.

“All is forgiven now,” Leaves said, turning and walking off down the corridor. “Let us away. The doorkeepers of the Folk know your name and invite you to pass through, we will make you known to the Queen Below. Yet your time here must be short, else it grow longer than would please you.”

“Will I be able to meet the Daughter of Grapes when I leave?”

“Her path was much shorter than yours,” Gravel said, taking Andre by the arm and leading him through the dark corridor with only the faint glimmer of its eyes to light the way. “I am afraid she has already passed overhill.”

“Then take me to the exit she used.”

Leaves heaved a sigh like a branch creaking in the breeze. “We cannot. Her doors are not our doors and we cannot open them for you. We will bring you as close as we can.”

“I see,” Andre said. Though in truth he did not.

“It is unfortunate that we could not meet with the Daughter this time,” Gravel said, his own voice somehow wistful in spite of its rough quality.

“Have you known her family for a long time?” Andre asked, hopeful he could learn something about what made Bella so important to people in Fionni.

“Not for we who live underhill. Compared to one of you, it may seem a long time. Four generations of their family have been introduced to me. Yet I treasure their company, for often the most fleeting meetings are the most rewarding.”

“Dearest.” Leaves sounded reproachful. “Do you value the meeting of them or the taste of their grapes?”

Gravel laughed. “That is not for me to say. It would not be fair to speak good or ill of another overhill in the presence of our guest.”

“No, I suppose it would not.” Leaves came to a sudden stop and drew a ring of keys from some place in its cloak, counting through them until it found the one it wanted. Then it turned to one wall of the passage and pressed the key into blank stone. In a way that defied the senses the stone wall transformed into a ladder that led upwards. “This passage will take you overhill, Blacklight. If you wish to return there you must do so now. If you come again to our doorstep, name us and we will speak with you though we can make no promise of a further invitation to our lands.”

“I understand.” In truth he didn’t, the rules of the Fair Folk were often obtuse and unintuitive to human beings, but he also had no plans to return to their doorstep so Andre didn’t concern himself with it. Just as he was about to grab a rung on the ladder and start climbing a thought occurred to him.

He had to concentrate a little bit harder than normal, as he had never conjured what he had in mind. However, he was familiar enough with the thing in question and after a moment of work he felt the bunch of deep red grapes form in his hands. He offered it to Gravel with a bow. “You have been most gracious hosts. I don’t know if this will suit your taste but I would be happy if you took it all the same.”

Gravel’s eyes glowed brighter and it clapped its hands together. “Most generous! Dearest, is this not a princely gift?”

“It is…”

Whatever doubts Leaves had been about to raise were ignored by its companion, who took the grapes gleefully. Andre was ready for the sensation of losing control this time and didn’t fight it. The transfer of the item was much less disorienting this time, though he did feel a greater sense of exhaustion than such a small conjuration should have carried.

Gravel plucked one of the grapes and rolled it between its fingers, saying, “This is a grape, yes? I have never seen a red one before.”

“Yes,” Andre said. “They can be both red and green.”

“Splendid.” To his surprise, Gravel shoved the fruit between the folds of his coat and made a sound like a millstone for a moment then offered the fruit to Leaves. “It is delicious, dearest.”

The other Folk made no movement to take the fruit. “Dearest…”

Gravel took its hand and placed the grapes in its palm. “I know, dearest, I know.” Then, to Andre’s shock, it pulled its hat off to reveal nothing! Nothing sat on its shoulders at all. Instead, the hat and the glowing lights beneath its brim came away as a piece and Gravel set it in Andre’s hands. “For your generosity, Blacklight, with my thanks. Wear it, that you might see the way before you. Now you must go.”

“Yes.” Andre said. “Yes, I think I should.”

Before anything else bizarre could happen he grabbed the rungs of the ladder and pulled himself up overhill.

Previous Chapter

“This isn’t necessary,” Bella said, too dignified to whine but getting as close as she possibly could. “We’re already in disguise.”

“But they already know your face and found your campsite and wagon,” Andre said. “That gives them a pretty good idea what you’ll look like now. You need to do something to throw them off the scent or they’re going to recognize you as soon as you get in line at the gates.”

“They have sketches of my face. Changing my clothes isn’t going to make my face any different, Andre!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Bella. People don’t look at faces first when they’re unsure who they’re looking at; they look at attitude, posture and clothes. Those things make identity clear long before anyone gets close enough to see a face. Anyone who looks at you knows who you are even if they’re like me and they don’t have the first clue who you are, specifically. They can tell you’re not who you’re dressed as.”

“So put me in a diff -” She grunted in a distinctly undignified fashion as Ragi adjusted things. “In a different dress or something. This is downright demeaning, not to mention sacrilegious.” 

Ragi took a step back and looked her up and down. She’d done her best to cinch down the girdle Andre had borrowed from the costumes but it still didn’t fully disguise her figure. “Maybe she should put it on under her chemise?” Ragi said. “It might sit a little more naturally that way.”

“I have it on good authority that it won’t,” Andre said. “Isobela had to play a man in a few shows in the early days of the troupe and I’m told she never looked perfect either. But this is supposed to be more comfortable. Don’t worry, a Herald’s scapula is loose enough to cover a multitude of sins.”

“Must we go as Heralds?” Bella’s dignity was giving way, her voice pitching further and further upwards as time went on. “Ragi could pose as a knight and the two of us his squires.”

“I don’t have a knight’s costume that would fit him and, even if I did, it would have heraldry that most people would recognize from a play. Besides,” Andre started holding scapulas up in front of Bella, examining their fit. “You’re too thin to pass for a full grown squire and too tall for a page boy, whereas you’re just the right size for an apprentice Herald who’s fasting.”

“He has a point.” Ragi said.

Andre settled on a scapula painted with the jagged, criss-crossed lines of the King of Scars and threw it over one of her shoulders. “Maybe now you understand why it’s uncomfortable to play into something that’s not real.”

“The Kings are real,” Bella replied, studying the garment with a skeptical look, “that’s the whole reason I don’t want to pretend to know more about their Heralds than I should. Their rites and rituals are all very secretive. What if I’m asked to do something sacred and I don’t know how to do it?”

“Tell them to come to me,” Ragi said, pulling on his own disguise. The heavily embroidered collar marked him as a senior Harbinger, of far more importance than the Omen Heralds most people knew, to say nothing of an apprentice. “I’ll make some excuse and they won’t question it.”

“Or just remind them the Kings don’t like to be worshiped,” Andre muttered, folding up the extra costumes they wouldn’t be using. He would make his own once it was time to go.

“What?” Ragi popped his head up through his collar and fixed Andre with a hard look. “Where did you hear that?”

“I…” Andre trailed off, trying to remember. The fact of the matter was, no one in Mastroianni’s troupe was a Herald and they spent most of their time on the move so Andre’s familiarity with the Kings and their Heralds was almost nonexistent. He didn’t really know much about them beyond what came up in the average script. Yet he’d always taken it for granted that the beings who visited on your day of death and the people who burned incense to curry favor with them were distinct and separate groups, with the greater being quite unimpressed with the lesser. He gave a lame shrug and tossed the costumes in one corner of the tent he’d conjured for them to change in. “It’s just something I heard, once.”

Ragi crossed his arms over his chest, his forgotten scapula wadding up between them. “Where?”

“I don’t remember,” Andre replied, scratching nervously at the side of his neck.

“Does it matter?” Bella asked, belting her own disguise around her waist. “I plan to say as little about the Kings at the Corners as possible. If I get something wrong they may decide to change the day of my death!”

“That’s not how it works,” Ragi huffed, beginning to straighten out his own garments. “They don’t control the date, they just know when it is.”

The conversation was making Andre increasingly uncomfortable so he forced a change in the subject, moving over to Bella and tapping her belt. “You should wear this further down on your hips. Right now anyone who looks at you can tell you have a woman’s waist.”

She turned bright red but began adjusting her belt.

“Andre.” Ragi’s voice had gone completely flat. “I know that standards are very different on the stage but please keep some boundaries.”

He yanked his hand away from Bella’s waist, suddenly embarrassed, and said, “Of course, signoire. My apologies.”

“Hurry up and get into your costume, Andre,” Bella hissed, cinching her belt tight to keep it from slipping in its new, more precarious position. “The town gates will close in a few more hours and we need to be inside them when they do.”

“Not a problem,” Andre replied. “We can be at the east gate in less than fifteen minutes and make the docks in an hour.”

“We’re not headed to the east gate,” Bella said. “We need to go through the western gate and make for the low passage.”

“Bella…” Ragi’s voice had taken on a reproving note.

“You’ll never reach them before the magistrate can hand them over if you don’t take the low passage,” Bella insisted. “Speed is the key, signoire.”

Something changed between the two of them when she called him signoire, rather than by name. A strange tension filled the air, like a battle of wills being fought behind a veil of courtesy. “Signorina, you must understand the difference between what you want and what is necessary before you speak of what is or is not the key to it. You must get on the ship. Andre is willing to help me find my family.”

“That’s true,” he put in, “but I would be more willing if we can do it with more speed. How much time will this low passage save us?”

“It’s the difference between reaching the magistrate’s cells tonight and in a few days time,” Bella said. “And it will only open for me.”

“What if the guards have already shown the people there your picture? They could already be subborned by the captain or the magistrate.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “No, Andre. Trust me, they are not.”

Andre gauged the distance in his head, adjusting for the number of people camped around the walls and the fact that there was no true road running the perimeter of Fionni. “It’s a couple of hours to the west gate from here. Won’t it be easier to cross inside the city?”

“You’ve never been inside the walls, have you?” Ragi asked. “At this time of day the streets are about as busy as they can be so at best it will take just as long. With our luck these days it will take much longer. We can’t afford the delay.”

“Why not?”

“Because, based on the scouting I did over the last week, the only usable entrance to the low passage we’ve located is inside the west gate,” Ragi said. “Once it’s closed for the night so is our access to the passage.”

That all sounded very bizarre to Andre but he wasn’t going to press the matter too hard. The Maestro had dozens of friends and connections he counted on in big cities and he never liked discussing them much, either. “How easy is it to get to this entrance? Will we need a distraction?”

“It depends on how alert the guards are,” Ragi replied. “It couldn’t hurt. Why, did you have something in mind?”

“Yes.” Andre reached into the pile of costumes and pulled one out, then started pulling it on. If he was going to walk all the way around the city he didn’t want to concentrate on conjuring a disguise the whole way. “We’ll have to make a brief detour, though.”

The best part about the outskirts of a city like Fionni was that there were as many people plying their trades outside the walls as inside them. Not all merchants wanted to pay the city’s exorbitant gate taxes, after all. Andre was able to locate everything he needed inside of half an hour and the only thing that was particularly expensive was a clay pot large enough to suit his needs.

Ragi watched him mixing things together skeptically and said, “Are you sure that will work?”

“As certain as a stagehand can be,” he replied. “I’ve made this stuff hundreds of times.”

“Hurry it up,” Bella said, her voice a bit ragged.

“I’m going as quickly as is safe,” Andre replied, giving her a skeptical look. “I’d think you would appreciate a moment to rest, the way you’re dressed isn’t meant for long hikes.”

She nodded, doing her best to breathe deeply. “I noticed.”

It didn’t look like things got any easier for her as they went the rest of the way. Even carrying the remaining costumes in a roll on his back Andre had a far easier time of it than she did and, by the time they reached the west gate, Bella was pale and sweating badly. Still, there wasn’t much they could do about it without revealing their disguises.

As they approached the gatehouse Ragi gave Andre a nudge and murmured, “Where?”

It was a good question. The afternoon was waning and traffic into the city had slowed to a trickle, with most of the gate packed by people leaving for the day, their business complete. That actually made Andre’s task more difficult, as he needed somewhere to put the jar where it wouldn’t be seen for a minute or two. His eyes drifted back and forth across the road, looking for inspiration.

“What about…” Bella paused to draw in a shallow breath. “On a wagon?”

“Too unstable,” Andre replied, having already considered and dismissed it. “The jar has to stay upright. Besides, I don’t see one going into the city right now and one going away might get too far before things get exciting.”

“You said you can do this with your gift as well?” Ragi asked.

“Yes, but only where I’m at. We want to get some distance first.” His gaze settled on a small willow tree near the gate where a couple of people had been waiting to meet an empty wagon just emerging from the gatehouse. “There. We’ll take a quick break in the shade and set things up there, then head into the city.”

Bella appreciated the break, flopping down among the roots of the tree and exhaling as much as she could. “I thought wearing one of these the normal way was bad. This is so much worse.”

“Softly now, softly,” Ragi murmured as he sat down beside her.

“Be glad Heralds of Scars grow out their hair or we’d have had to tie up and hide that somehow, too,” Andre said quietly, setting his pack on the ground and extracting the pot. He removed the wax stoppers from its top and the small hole he’d drilled into the side near the base. Then he reached in, conjured some water in the palm of his hand and used it to bathe her forehead.

“Oooh,” Bella muttered. “That’s nice.”

A side benefit, Andre had mostly done it in case someone watching was wondering why he’d bothered with the jar at all. For a couple of minutes they sat and rested. Once Bella’s breathing had evened out Ragi motioned for them to get up and, with a mix of groans and complaints, they did. Andre had left the jar out and as he got up he hid it from the road with his body and mimed resealing the lid. Instead of putting the wax stopper back he conjured a flint and steel then struck them into the mouth of the pot several times. A soft pop and the sudden smell of tar told him he’d accomplished his goal.

The flint and steel vanished and he mimed putting the pot into his pack, except instead he pushed it into a hollow of the treeroots. Then they got up and headed towards the gatehouse.

There were two guards standing behind a table, one standing and one seated, both looking incredibly bored. A locked moneybox sat on the ground beneath the table and one of the ubiquitous charcoal sketches of Bella was tacked to the table itself. As they approached the gate the seated guard glanced over all three of them then fixed his attention on Ragi. “Good omens, Harbinger.”

“Good omens,” Ragi replied. “What price for passage, signoire?”

“Five lira per head.”

Ragi forced a grin and said, “Half for the boys, I hope?”

A cold sweat formed on Andre’s back one pinprick at a time. Why was he haggling when they could just pay the tax and go?

“If they’re old enough to be acolytes they’re old enough to pay the full price,” the guard said, barely even acknowledging Ragi’s attempt to wheedle down the cost. “Fifteen for the three of you.”

“Fine.” Ragi dug into his purse and had just finished counting the coins out into his hand when a cry went up.

“Fire!” Someone was calling from behind them. “Fire!”

Everyone turned to look and Andre naturally spun with them. Sure enough, a thick, greasy plume of smoke was billowing up from the roots of the willow tree as the tar and oil stuck to the inside of the pot burned. Most of the crowd surged away from the tree in a nervous but orderly fashion.

Ragi slapped his handful of coins down on the table with a metallic rattle, drawing the attention of the two guards back to the present. “There you go.”

Neither guardsman seemed terribly interested in the trio of Heralds on their doorstep now so they waved them through the gate as a half dozen of their comrades hurried out of the gatehouse, carrying a barrel of water between them. No one paid any attention to the three of them as they passed through the walls towards the city.

A third of the way through the gatehouse they came upon an open door leading to the stairs up to the city walls. From the way it drifted slightly on its hinges Andre guessed some of the guards that had run out with the barrel had come from up there. Instead of walking by it, like he’d expected they would, Ragi stopped then reached out to close the door.

After which Bella rapped on it with a curious pattern of knocks. Before Andre could ask why they were doing any of this she opened the door again and stepped through into a tunnel that was almost pitch black, sloping down into the earth. Ragi motioned for Andre to follow and hurried after her. The door was already drifting closed behind him and Andre reached out to push it back only to discover he couldn’t. Pushing against it was like trying to push against a team of oxen.

In just a few seconds the doorway was going to be too narrow for him to fit through and he had no idea what was going on. A frantic glance told him the gatehouse was still basically empty. He could run into the city and try to meet up with Bella and Ragi there. Even if he couldn’t locate them the Maestro and the rest of the troupe would be through the gates in another day and a half. He didn’t have to go in after the two of them.

But he did.

He got no more than three steps over the threshold before the door closed with a barely audible clunk and left him entirely in the dark.

Previous Chapter

By the time Andre finished his story Isobela had joined them, asking questions that forced him to go back and fill her in. Finally, after about an hour of back and forth he reached the end of the story. Once he was done the Maestro leaned back on the bench where he sat with an arm around his wife and sighed. “It’s a bad situation, Andre.”

“You should have told us about this sooner,” Isobela said.

“There wasn’t time to do anything about it before the performance started,” Andre protested.

“If you knew the girl they were looking for you should have told us as soon as you realized it.” When she saw his stricken expression she hastened to add, “Not to send the guards after her. I see no reason for that. But we could have discussed the situation and decided what to do if they came to us immediately; then you could have been more prepared tonight.”

“Perhaps,” the Maestro said. “Though there’s no telling what would have happened. Either way, it would have been better if you had told one of us the situation before it became so salient. But the damage is done. What will you do now?”

Andre flopped down on the locked money box in the corner of the caravan. “Does it matter? The guards already took Sophia and her mother, there’s not much I can do for them now.”

Mastroianni leaned forward, his expression severe. “What are you going to tell her father when he comes looking for her? It sounds like the other girl knows enough to look for Sophia here so at some point he’s going to drag that out of her. Then he’s going to come looking for her.”

Andre put his head down in his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve never met him and I’ve never had to tell someone the guards arrested their daughter and wife!”

“You can write him a script,” Isobela said. “Contrite, I think, with a dramatic recounting of their heroic attempt to escape.”

“You know I’ll forget it.”

“It will only be two people!”

“A hostile crowd is a hundred times worse than a large one,” the Maestro said. “You’re young, Andre, but you’re also a man grown. I won’t tell you what to do about it, though I suggest being respectful and regretful, but I can’t let them stay here. It would be different if the guards hadn’t already found half their party here. Now that they have it will be far harder for us to survive a second discovery without suspicion or worse falling on us. I can’t have that.”

Andre nodded, glum. He wasn’t surprised, although the plain fact of it still stung. “Then I’ll send them on their way if I see them.”

Mastroianni slapped his hands down on his thighs and said, “There are worse things to do, I suppose.”

His wife gave him a curious look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“As I said, he made his own decision that created this problem,” the Maestro replied, pushing himself to his feet. “Now he must decide how to solve it.”

Ha crossed to Andre and gently but firmly pulled him to his feet. “I’ve searched for the right part for you for years, boy, but I have to admit I never thought you would choose to try improv.” The Maestro led him to the caravan’s door and paused there, studying Andre with a concerned look. “If you find it’s more than you can handle, that’s fine. Don’t do anything you’re not ready for. But if you are ready for it there’s no better time to try something new than right now. We don’t have another performance for a few days so you have some time and if you need something from the props or costumes make sure it’s back before the next show. Just let us know if you’ll be leaving camp. That’s all I ask.”

Their conversation done, Andre found himself crossing the camp with his thoughts awhirl. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. The Maestro clearly had some idea in mind, which annoyed Andre to no end both because Mastroianni hadn’t explained his idea and because he clearly expected Andre to do whatever it was regardless. It felt like he was just another actor for the Maestro to boss about on stage.

Ultimately there wasn’t much he could do about that either way in the middle of the night. So he slipped into his caravan, quietly made ready for bed and did his best to fall asleep. The results were mixed.

Andre didn’t remember the sun coming up the next morning so he assumed he must have fallen asleep at some point but from his overall exhaustion it couldn’t have been for more than a few hours. He dragged himself through the next day, mechanically going through the basic maintenance and cleaning tasks of a day without a show. He never saw sign of Belladonna. No strange man appeared and identified himself as Sophia’s father.

The next day he took Tullio and Gianni over to one of the city gates and they went busking, collecting a few coins from the people entering and exiting Fionni. Tullio played flute, like his mother taught him, while Gianni and Andre took turns tumbling. They did very well. By the time the sun was high overhead Andre had already emptied the coins from their collection basket twice. He was growing worried about the amount of money in their bag attracting attention. Finally, as things slowed to a crawl during lunch, he called for a stop and told the boys to run their takings back to the Maestro. Andre himself stayed by the gate, occasionally pulling a stunt or two for passersby.

With the sun directly overhead it was hot, tiring work and Andre eventually conjured a sheet a few poles to shelter under. He was in the process of sitting down on a convenient rock when he heard the coins in his basket jingle. Worried some urchin was trying to run off with them he spun around and snatched for the basket, scooping it off the ground with more effort than he’d expected.

A small but weighty bag sat in it, nestled among the loose coins. Andre looked up from his basket to find a short but remarkably wide man with absurdly curly hair studying him with keen eyes. He looked like the type of men Andre had seen in other troupes who specialized in lifting incredible weights or dealing with dangerous animals. His hands were scarred and calloused, the arms they were attached to as wide as Andre’s legs.

In contrast to his remarkable stature, the man was dressed in the most forgettable clothes imaginable. A long, reddish brown tunic. Dark brown hose and boots that rose to midcalf. Over it all a tanned leather apron with pockets below the waist and an unadorned cap.

The two of them stared at each other until Andre grew uncomfortable. “Signore del Rhodes, I presume?”

“And you are Andre the stagehand,” the man replied, crossing his arms across his chest. Andre briefly marvelled that they were long enough to reach. “I understand you did a kindness for my family and our guest. Don’t look around for her, please, she’s nearby and safe, which is as much as you need to know for the moment. You understand the power of a simple glance, don’t you?”

“Of course, signore.” Andre forced himself to casually put his basket back down and return to his seat on the rock. “Would you like a seat?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the other man’s face. “No, thank you. I don’t get up as easily as I used to.” The amusement vanished. “Please, just call me Ragi for now. The Borgias know my name, though I doubt any of them have seen my face.”

“Of course.” Andre eyed the purse Ragi had thrown into his basket. “You’re a very generous man, signore.”

“Consider it gratitude, Andre. I know you took care of the girls a few days ago and I hope you can answer a question now.”

Andre looked down, suddenly interested in the rocks on the ground. “You hope I can tell you where two of the girls are now.”

Ragi nodded wordlessly.

“They came to me two days ago but the guards found them before I could do anything to help. I’m sorry.”

A soft, rumbling sound leaked from deep in Ragi’s chest, a mix of frustration and something Andre couldn’t quite place. “I worried as much when they didn’t come to our meeting place this morning. I take it they were found as soon as they arrived.”

“The same night, though they were there for a bit.”

“Then I know where they are at this point,” Ragi said, spinning on one heel and starting towards the city. “Thank you, Andre.”

“Wait, signore.” Andre reached into the basket, scooped up the weighty purse and held it out towards the other man. “I haven’t earned this.”

“There you’re wrong, signore. A few moment’s kindness may not seem like much but in Nerona these days it’s far rarer than gold.” 

Andre stared at the money in his hand, confused. The Maestro had made it sound like this was going to be a difficult conversation but so far, other than the lingering sense that he’d somehow let Sophia and her mother down, it had felt quite natural. Of course, Mastroianni had been wrong before and would likely be wrong again, as all men were from time to time. But a nagging intuition told Andre the Maestro wasn’t wrong this time.

“What will you do now, signore?”

“We must meet our ship,” Ragi said with a resigned shrug. “Then I must find my family.”

Andre took note of the change from ‘we’ to ‘I’ and drew the obvious conclusion. “A notion, signore.” He gestured for Ragi to join him under his shelter again so they wouldn’t have to speak quite so loudly to be heard. Once the other man did so he continued, “It will be difficult for your guest to pass the gate guards. They most likely have a sketch of her and they will examine every merchant’s daughter they see with extra care.”

“We will manage.”

“I’m sure you could,” Andre said with a placating gesture. “But even if you pass once, you and your family must pass through again, for it doesn’t sound like there will be a ship for you to leave on. So you will have to pass the gates twice.”

Something about Ragi’s expression told Andre the other man disagreed with that assessment but rather than bring it up he just asked, “What do you have in mind?”

Andre hefted the bag of coins and said, “What do you think of commissioning a private production, signore?”

Previous Chapter

In point of fact, rather than overstaying its welcome the show felt like it flew by. Andre struggled to stay focused on the stage due to a constant need to count the guardsmen on the edge of the crowd and ensure they were all still there. Yet the constant back and forth kept him so wound up he barely noticed the time passing.

The distraction was not all upside. He nearly missed three major set changes and fumbled so badly during the dragon sequence Isobela singed his hair. By the end of the show he could tell the Maestro and his wife were not happy with him. At least he had a brief respite from their disapproval as they went out into the crowd afterwards.

Andre turned his full attention towards striking the set. With the sun fully set the stagehands struggled to get everything put away, scattering more blacklights than normal and still struggling to move the delicate scenery and props in the dark of night. After nearly an hour of tripping over half seen hillocks and invisible roots the work was done. He sent Tullio and Gianni to collect the lanterns, keeping one for himself, then went to find the Maestro.

Normally he would still be milling through the audience, basking in their attention and receiving any contributions they offered. That night there was no audience left. Between the late starting time and the difficulty in striking the set they hadn’t finished until long after the audience departed.

Well, most of the audience. Andre couldn’t help but note that the three guardsmen who accompanied the grim faced man were still loitering around the stage when he policed it. That told him their leader was still around somewhere as well. He flipped the shutter of his lantern full open and made his way towards the Maestro’s caravan, vigilant for signs of Mastroianni or the guardsman.

He heard them first.

“…though I am glad something good came out of it, Maestro,” the guardsman was saying. “What brought you to Oliviamonde, if I may ask? It wasn’t the kind of place to attract actors even before the siege, did you have another profession at the time?”

Andre froze and flipped the blacklight’s shutters closed, hesitating by the corner of the lumber wagon. He couldn’t see the other two men yet but the soft glow of a lantern was visible over top of the vehicle. The Maestro’s voice was quiet but carried enough to make out. “As you must have guessed, Captain Phillipe, I was a condottiere.”

“With the Blacklegs, then?”

A soft chuckle, followed by the sound of Mastroianni slapping his stomach. “Hard as it may be to believe now, yes. And you? Fionni is a long way from the mountains and I don’t recall any flags from the counties here abouts flying in the camps either. Did you march there with one of the other hireling companies?”

“No. Like the boy I was born there, though I did not see the siege myself. By then I was a bravo, guarding caravans to earn my keep, but when I heard the citadel was fallen I hurried back to see what there was to see.”

“Ah.” The Maestro’s voice turned melancholy. “Then you must have been disappointed.”

“The town had been sacked before,” the captain replied, his voice thickening a bit. “I’m sure I’ll live to see it sacked again. But it wasn’t a warm homecoming.”

The conversation was beginning to fade into the distance and Andre knew he’d need to move to keep up with it. A quick glance around the corner of the wagon told him they were headed towards the Maestro’s caravan, which wasn’t a surprise, but there was no way to follow them in inconspicuous fashion. He’d have to go another way.

Easy enough to do, the encampment’s layout was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand and the two men were moving at a leisurely pace. So Andre looped the lantern through his belt and took off at a run. The lumber wagon was near the edge of the camp so he doubled back and went along the outside of it, then darted from there to the musician’s caravan. He heard Tullio’s mother murmuring inside but ignored it. He slunk along the side and peeked past the corner to see the light of the Maestro’s lantern but not the man himself.

Another quick lunge put him behind the props caravan, a few seconds later he was behind the costume caravan. He paused to knock softly, hopefully on the wagon’s side. He hadn’t bothered to set up some kind of signal with Sophia and her mother but perhaps they would answer him. If they were still inside.

But there was no answer.

So he moved on, crouching behind the last wagon in line, across from the Maestro’s caravan. He could still hear the two men speaking, although he had missed part of the conversation as he scrambled through the damp grass outside the troupe’s encampment. “…glad you could come, although I’m afraid I can’t really help you,” the Maestro was saying. “People come to the theater to lose themselves.”

“Doesn’t that make you the natural person to help me find them again?”

“It’s a breach of trust, Captain. They come to us to be no one for a while, they come to us and make us someone. If we don’t honor that exchange we betray them and then, what are we? Nothing but impoverished itinerates living on the charity of others, good for nothing and despised by all.”

“The woman is in great danger, signore, and leaving her there is no favor to her.”

“You said she was in the company of friends.”

“I fear the danger may be greater than they are prepared for.”

“Captain Phillipe.” The Maestro’s voice shifted subtly. It became slightly less deep, more rough as the polish of his public persona lapsed just a bit and his true face showed through. “I recognize that instinct, and it’s a noble one. You see people who have abandoned civilization and taken to the wild roads and think you owe them something. Safety. A hand up. A shelter from the sun and rain. However, the world is more than these simple things. Stories teach us that if a person leaves them behind it must be for a reason. If this young woman you speak of left her family and home behind it must have been with purpose in mind. Who am I to judge her reasons? I cannot say whether the danger she faces or the purpose she pursues is more worthy of consideration. I can only tell you this.”

Andre crept along the side of the wagon and peeked out, wondering what Mastroianni was about to say. What he saw made him freeze before he got a chance to look at the two men.

The Maestro continued speaking. “If I find the woman in danger I will not hesitate to bring you to her. Otherwise, it is not my place to interfere.”

“I suppose I can’t ask for more than that.” A sloshing sound came from their direction. “Are you still interested in that drink?”

The Maestro laughed. “Am I still an actor? Come, my caravan is just down here, the one with the awning.”

Andre scrambled back behind the wagon. “Awning?” Phillipe asked. “What awning?”

It was an understandable question because the red awning on Mastroianni’s caravan was gone, most likely removed by Sophia at some point. What Andre couldn’t understand was why she would do so. Perhaps they’d chosen not to wait for the Maestro to come and taken it as a blanket to sleep under?

“That’s odd.” The Maestro sounded just as confused as Andre was. “Perhaps it blew down?”

“It hasn’t been windy,” the captain replied, his voice growing nearer at an alarming speed, his footsteps in the dew soaked grass creating a sinister hissing sound. “There may be a thief in your camp, Maestro.”

A sharp whistle split the night. A moment later, three answering whistles in the distance.

“Why would someone steal my awning?” Mastroianni asked, clearly skeptical of the captain’s diagnosis.

“It would be an excellent way to carry your money box without attracting attention, for one thing.” The captain’s voice turned thoughtful. “Or perhaps they have other uses for it.”

Andre got down on his hands and knees, then laid flat and peered under the wagon. It didn’t give him a very good view of what was happening but he could make out the broad strokes. The captain was walking back and forth, looking around the Maestro’s caravan, while the Maestro approached the door with his key in hand. “I don’t think so, Captain. The lock is still here and latched but we’ll check inside just to be sure.”

“Wise of you.” Instead of just waiting by the door for the Maestro to return, Captain Phillipe walked to one of the poles that had supported the awning and wiggled it experimentally. Then he set a clay bottle down in the grass, grabbed the pole with both hands and pulled, yanking it up out of the ground. He swept it back and forth through the air a few times and grunted once.

“Find something?” Mastroianni asked from somewhere inside.

“Not yet.”

To Andre’s horror the guardsman proceeded to kneel down until they were almost at eye level with one another. He only avoided detection because the guardsman was looking the other way, under the Maestro’s caravan. The captain extended the pole he was holding underneath the vehicle at ground level and suddenly snapped it upwards, hitting the underside of the floorboards with a sharp wooden crack.

“What was that?” The vehicle rattled as Mastroianni pounded towards the door.

Phillipe didn’t answer, instead rotating the pole forty five degrees and repeating his previous maneuver. This time the pole made a dull thud and a woman’s voice let out a muffled yelp. With a flash of motion a red bundle yanked itself out from under the caravan, pulled by a rope tied to the hitching tongue. The cloth unfolded and gently deposited Sophia and her mother on the ground, the latter rubbing her side ruefully, then spun around and enveloped the captain just as quickly.

Although he didn’t look surprised at the awning’s sudden appearance, Phillipe made no effort to dodge the fabric. He got to his feet before the cloth wound around him, the pole still in his hands, but that was all he had time for. Andre scrambled up and around the wagon. By the time he got past the end of it and ran towards the scene of the encounter, as if he’d come because of the noise, the three guardsmen he’d seen earlier were less than twenty feet away in the other direction, coming at a dead run.

Captain Phillipe had somehow unwrapped himself from the awning and was in the process of rewrapping it around the pole to keep it in place. From the way it bucked and jerked it was obvious Sophia was trying to keep him from doing so. She just couldn’t and the frustration on her face was obvious. Her mother was watching the guards approach with a resigned expression and when she put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder the cloth went still in the captain’s hands.

The Maestro stood in the caravan’s doorway, his lantern held aloft, studying the scene. “What’s going on here?”

“Maestro -”

“Not now, Andre.”

The captain gave him a look, as if waiting to see whether Andre would listen to Mastroianni or not. But once it was clear he had the floor, Phillipe said, “I think I’ve found your thieves, Maestro.”

After giving the two women a cursory once over the Maestro shrugged and said, “I suppose you have.”

Sophia opened her mouth to speak but closed it again when her mother squeezed her shoulder. Then the older woman said, “My name is Charissa de la Rhodes and I am no thief.”

“I am Captain Phillipe Borgia and I am not qualified to say whether you are or are not a thief. You will have to make your plea to the Magistrate.” He set the pole against the side of the caravan, leaned down, picked up his bottle and handed it to the Maestro. “Unfortunately, my duties prevent me from sharing that drink with you now, signore, but I hope you will enjoy it none the less.”

Mastroianni took the bottle, his face expressionless. “Of course.”

With a gesture from their captain the guards surrounded the two women and led them away. Andre tried to glean some meaningful look or gesture from them, letting him know that they still had some plan to slip away but no such fleeting contact came. As they vanished into the night and his spirits slumped the Maestro put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Andre, perhaps you will tell me what is really going on here.”

“What makes you think I know what’s going on?”

The older man grabbed the front of Andre’s tunic and held it up, covered in dew and blades of grass. “This, among other things. Is it only coincidence that you were rolling around on the ground at the same time two women were hiding in a makeshift hammock under my caravan?”

“No, Maestro.”

“Then I suppose you have a story to tell me.”

So tell it Andre did.

Previous Chapter

Andre picked up his pace, ignoring the soft, distressed noise that Bella made, and briskly rolled his cart down the path towards the guards. The two men weren’t paying him much attention, far more interested in the stack of papers they were carrying. That suited Andre just fine. It wasn’t their attention he was interested in.

Yet he did have to clear his throat, breathing deeply through his nose as he tried to warm up his voice without making a lot of noise. It was a difficult task but one he felt he accomplished well enough. At the same time he conjured a tin bowl on top of the costumes in the cart. Once he was about twenty feet away from the guardsmen he opened his lips a few inches, holding them perfectly still and speaking into the bowl using his best impression of the Maestro’s commanding voice. “Hey there, lads, come and have a look at this!”

His voice hit the tin bowl and echoed off it, ringing and distorting as it echoed over the open ground. As soon as he was done speaking he let the bowl vanish and fixed his eyes on a man in the distance, close to the city walls, who was waving flies away from his face. The guards naturally looked around to try and find who had spoken to them. When they saw Andre paying no attention to them they naturally looked to see what had him so interested.

What they saw looked an awful lot like a man waving to get their attention, so off they went. Andre slowed to a stop and waited for the girls to catch up. When they did, Sophia was giggling under her breath, saying, “How did you do that?”

“That,” Andre said, “is stage magic. I can’t tell you how it’s done, the Maestro would have my hide.”

“You just said you weren’t cut out for the stage,” Bella objected. “You look like you can manage it just fine to me.”

“We’re not on stage.”

“Does that make a difference?” Sophia asked, nudging him towards a path on the left as they started moving again.

“A lot.”

“What’s wrong with actors?” Bella asked. “You’re a stagehand, shouldn’t you like them?”

“Spoken like someone who’s never met an actor in person.”

“I’ve met a few. Why don’t you like them?”

“I never said I didn’t, although they can be a bit much sometimes.”

“That’s our wagon, over there,” Sophia said, pointing to a sturdy, canvas covered cart with a tent beside it a few hundred feet away. “The problem’s the stage, right?”

“Essentially. My real issue is that the stage isn’t real.”

Bella stopped and gave him an incredulous look. “What is that supposed to mean? Everyone knows that plays aren’t real, that’s not the point of them.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He also came to a stop and thought for a moment. Then he reached down into the pile of costumes and rummaged around until he pulled out two coifs. One was made of knitted gray yarn. The other, shimmering steel links. He held both pieces of headgear up for the women to study. “Tell me, which one of these is real?”

Sophia immediately pointed at the metal coif. “That one, obviously.”

“You think so?” Andre tossed the conjured piece of chainmail towards the cart and let it dissolve to nothing along the way. Then he set the knit coif down on top of the other costumes. “How about now?”

“No surprise there,” Bella said, clearly unimpressed. “Why would a theater troupe spend so much on a real piece of armor when a facsimile will do? It was obviously a trick, just like acting is obviously not real.”

“No,” Andre said, “the obvious thing was bait. The trick comes once you take it.” He snapped his fingers and the conjured yarn also vanished back to whence it came and he started towards the campsite again. “That’s the thing about the stage. Everyone knows the actors are playing parts so they miss that the stories themselves aren’t real.”

The two girls exchanged a confused look then started after him. Sophia wrinkled her nose and said, “Okay, Andre, that feels meaningful but I’m not really getting what the meaning is.”

“In the story of Ulysses he slays a dragon, marries the princess of Lome and eventually inherits the throne.” Andre arched an eyebrow. “How many people do you know that are given a hero’s welcome after slaying a dragon?”

“But that’s because the dragon’s closest relative comes for revenge…” The younger girl trailed off as his point became clear.

Andre nodded at her, absently scratching at the side of his neck. “No one wants a dragon around, plundering their cities, devouring the livestock and sometimes even eating the people. They tell stories about how great it is to get rid of them. But anyone who actually goes out and slays the beast is treated as worse than a dragon themselves. They’re something that brings dragons. So they get thrown outside the walls – assuming they aren’t chained to them and left there as a peace offering to the vengeful wyrm who comes looking for them. That’s because the story isn’t real.”

To his surprise, Bella nodded along looking regretful. “Many stories smooth over the worst parts of the tale and praise the best parts until they’re unrecognizable. I never liked Ulysses and the Dragon for just that reason.” Her eyes flicked up at his hand then away, chagrined. “What dragon did you challenge, Andre?”

He whipped his hand away from his neck, flushing red. “None. The only dragon I’ve ever seen is a puppet.”

“I suppose that’s enough to tell you what’s fake about the story. Can you tell what’s true?”

“I didn’t say fake, just not real. Besides.” He drew himself up in mimicry of Bella’s formal posture and measured walk, so out of place among the people camped around Fionni’s outskirts. “Do you think everything playing pretend wants the truth about it spoken?”

“No, Andre,” Sophia said, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t suppose they do.”

An awkward silence fell over them for the last few minutes it took to reach their campsite. As they approached the wagon a woman bustled out of the tent, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked almost identical to Sophia, save for a few gray hairs her daughter lacked. “There you are!” She exclaimed, giving each girl a peck on the cheek then grabbing Andre by his elbows and looking him over. “And you! You’re the one helping some poor girls clean up. Bless you! Will you stay for a moment? I’m sure we -”

“No signora, I have to get back to my people before I’m missed. We have a tight schedule to keep, I’m afraid.”

Her look of genuine disappointment caused him a pang of guilt. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, mother,” Sophia said, gently putting a hand on the woman’s arm. “Andre’s troupe is staging a play this evening and I’m sure there’s a lot he has to do before that.”

Her mother was no fool and clearly understood there was more to it than that but she didn’t press the issue. “Very well, then. Perhaps we’ll stop by to see the show.”

“Let me know if you want to meet the Maestro afterwards,” Andre said. “I’m sure I can arrange it. If you don’t see me just look for one of the other stage hands and ask them to find me. We’re the ones in brown.”

It took a good twenty minutes to work his way back around the outside of the city to where he’d left the troupe. The roads were filling with people as midday approached. He also spotted more and more of the city guards moving about, asking questions and occasionally running a person to the ground. Andre also noticed more than one of them showing a piece of parchment to those they were talking to.

Very strange behavior. It was almost strange enough to take his mind off the two strange girls he’d met. Almost.

When he wasn’t avoiding eye contact with the guards or maneuvering his cart around other people on the road he wondered why Sophia had come down to the ocean that day. She couldn’t have known she’d meet someone doing laundry there. Was she just looking for the ship she said her family was waiting for? Or perhaps she wanted to get her cousin away from the guards milling about the walls that morning. A beautiful but unmarried woman couldn’t be too careful, after all, and more than one guard had taken advantage of such women before.

With such wonderful thoughts rattling around his head he finally arrived back at the caravan. Almost at once he heard Isobela’s voice rising over the general bustle. “Andre!” She called. “There you are, come here at once!”

Confused, his head swiveled about until he spotted her by the caravan she shared with the Maestro, waving for his attention. He hefted the cart’s handles a bit higher and started in her direction at a jog. “Never mind that.” Annoyed, she mimed setting something down. “Leave it and come over here!”

A towering man in a feathered hat stepped around the side of the caravan. He was dressed in the now familiar colors of a Fionni guardsman, although his coat and hat were of a much better quality than any Andre had seen so far. The man had a hard, weathered face that looked permanently annoyed. “No need to hurry him, signora,” he said. He glanced from her to Andre and back again. “This is your other son?”

“No, signore,” Andre said, setting the cart down as he drew near. “Though the Maestro and his family have cared for me well since taking me in.”

“Andre…” Isobela gave him a disapproving look.

The guard nodded his understanding and he produced a thin plank of wood with a stack of parchment atop it in one hand and a stick of charcoal in the other. “Your name’s Andre then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Age?”

“About sixteen, sir.”

“Place of birth?”

“Olivamonde, sir.”

He paused in his writing and looked up. Andre whipped his hand away from his neck, annoyed that he’d been caught scratching twice in just an hour. An arm wrapped gently around his and Isobela leaned against his side, keeping him from reaching up there a third time. The guardsman pursed his lips, clearly curious, but didn’t comment on it.

Instead he finished writing whatever he was writing and said, “You and your husband did a good thing, signora. You’re a very lucky man, Andre.”

“As you say, sir.”

“Did you go anywhere in particular this morning?”

“Just down to the gulf beaches, sir.”

“That’s not the direction you came from.”

There was no reason not to tell him that he’d walked a couple of girls back to their campsite along the way. Except for the fact that he didn’t want to. “On the way back I bought some thread, sir. Some of our costumes need mending.”

The guardsman just grunted and put his charcoal stick away. “Did you meet anyone along the way?”

“I saw a lot of people, sir. It feels like half of Nerona is on their way to Fionni today.”

“That’s true most days.” He plucked a parchment off the bottom of his stack and held it out for Andre to look at. “Let me be more specific. Did you meet this person?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, if you do let a guardsman know. Thank you for being so cooperative, signora, I look forward to your show tonight. I’ve always enjoyed Ulysses and the Dragon.” The guard turned and walked out of the troupe’s camp at a measured pace, a few other guardsmen falling in behind him as he went.

Andre watched him go, wondering what it was all about. The charcoal sketch on the parchment he’d seen wasn’t great art, in fact it was badly smudged in places, but it was still perfectly recognizable as Bella. He couldn’t begin to guess why they were looking for her, though.

Whatever the reason, he found himself hoping Sophia and her cousin didn’t come to that night’s show after all.