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Cammek put the micro-dragon away and picked up his dinner. "Doesn't matter. I won't be sleeping
anyway. Care to join me in a bottle? I'm tempted to drink myself into a stupor."
"I don't advise it," Tip-lea-pon said. "You have no idea how much pleading from Louizza it took to let
you keep your head. That was really inept, you know, sending your resignation before you were out of
the kingdom."
"I never dreamed Pennilvath was so blasted efficient, even if he did win the last two wars." Cammek
studied the warrior woman as she opened her own bottle. "Something . . . seems different about you.
What?"
"You're used to seeing me glued to Louizza's side."
"Must be. I didn't think you ever got time off."
Tip-lea-pon snorted. "Since the rehearsals started, I haven't had much, but that's my own choice. I'm
officially on from dawn to dusk, but when Louizza's stayed late here, so have I."
"Why? Can't be much fun for you."
Tip-lea-pon's muscled shoulders shrugged. "I'm . . . interested in the theatre." She finished her bottle.
"Well, I must go. But I thought you could do with a cheering word. Things will work out. I'll burn an
offering at the temple of the gods of drama for you."
"Thanks, but to get out ofthis , I'd probably need to build them a new temple."
After she left, Cammek arranged his bed on a couch from Act Two. As he drifted off to sleep, he
realized why Tip-lea-pon looked different: she wasn't wearing her armor.
She looked good without it, too. Cammek had pleasant, if wildly improbable, dreams.
* * *
Unfortunately, Tip-lea-pon's offering must have offended the gods. The morning rehearsal was ghastly.
The veteran actors were furious with Cammek for abandoning them, and Louizza had cried herself into a
bad cold.
Cammek ate his M.R.E. accompanied only by his leg irons. Suddenly, he heard a faint whisper.
"Cammek. Listen; and don't be alarmed. I'm here to help."
He whirled, trying to see who was talking to him. No one was nearby. Tip-lea-pon stood about ten feet
away, but she was staring, tight-lipped, at the princess, who was blowing the royal nose.
"Don't say anything," the voice continued, allowing Cammek to determine where it was coming from.
The ground? No,his leg irons were talking to him . "I shall explain my plan in full tonight, but you must
cancel the evening rehearsal."
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"Cancel it?" Cammek hissed. "It's eight weeks until the festival!"
"Cancel it," the irons said firmly. "If you make Louizza sick through overwork, the king won't stop at
putting you in chains."
"All right," Cammek said. "I didn't have much enthusiasm for working late myself. Are you a magical
spirit?"
The irons hesitated. "Yes, it must be magic. Or something," they said finally.
Cammek began walking clanking noisily to the stage. He paused as he passed the warrior woman.
"Did you, er, hear anything just now?"
"Hear what?" she asked.
"Never mind." If people knew he was hearing voices, he'd be in more trouble. "Listen, folks, I'm
canceling tonight's rehearsal."
Scattered applause and rude cheers met his announcement. "Big of you, Cammek," said Jeclyn. "Most
generous." Sarcasm dripped from his dulcet tones.
"Let it be, Jeclyn," Cammek said wearily. Of all the professionals, Jeclyn had given him the most grief
over his aborted resignation. It made sense: he was best suited for his part, no matter what kind of
reviews the rest got, his would be good. Clim-bor-pon was doing his usual outstanding work in the comic
role, but there wasn't much to it, and Polsiee was, in Cammek's opinion, definitely inadequate as the
second lead.
After everyone left, Cammek ate his dinner and waited for the magical spirit or whatever it was to return.
Hours passed in silence. He even tried talking to his leg irons. They didn't answer. Disgusted, he opened
another beer.
"Cammek!" came a harsh whisper from backstage.
Chains in one hand, beer in the other, he hurried behind the curtains. "I'm here," he panted, "Where are
you?"
"Nowhere and everywhere. Isn't that the conventional answer?"
"Uh-huh," he said. "So why does it sound like you're coming from the wardrobe?" He flung open the
door, revealing nothing but costumes.
The voice continued to come from inside the wardrobe. "Shut up and listen. You have to produce a
successful play in two months or die. Moreover, you must make the princess a star. You can, if you'll
take a chance."
Cammek coughed. "I'm under a death sentence. What's chancier than that?"
"Good. We think alike," said the wardrobe. "I've known this for some time. Now, what would you say
Louizza's main talents are? You must capitalize on them."
"She's too funny for the part. And though she's pretty, she doesn't act it, if you know what I mean. Not
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the type heroes fight over."
"She can also sing and dance splendidly. She started at the age of three."
Cammek swigged his beer. "So? This isn't opera."
"Bear with me," said the wardrobe. "Now, what's wrong with the play?"
"The king's cousin wrote it. It's a sweet frothy piece about the opening of the frontier province and
whom the local baron's daughter will take to the costume ball: the handsome dragonrider or the evil
minister. There's a funny subplot with one of the ladies-in-waiting and the captain of the pegasus cavalry.
Not much to work with, considering my competition. I mean, Prince Harrold puts on bigger productions [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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