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.