LW-What Is A Stage? (2)

Act 3
Scene 1
Enter the Scholar Foul

Scholar Foul.
What dark deeds do bring my thoughts to life as I gaze upon this knife within my hands? Is it the mortal means upon its edge that brings me pause? Or is this the deathly moan of my conscience reaching to me from its grave? What thoughts are these to have, for a man so dire in his fate that he does find regret in epilogue to his crime?

He turns to face the left side of the audience.

Scholar Foul.
Is my part in this sin done? Am I now free, having severed the ties between myself and the Fair Lady in ways only a mortal soul might know? Can I now find my peace? To set my course for golden shores where I might retire to my reward?

He then turns to the right side of the audience, holding out the knife in his hands.

Scholar Foul.
But what reward can replace the aching void within my chest. For I have slain the Lady Fair, as surely as you can see this blade within my hands! For not a moment before did it reside within her breast, a sight my eyes will not forget for all my years to come! The bargain I did strike was for my life alone, and her’s was the price it was to be! T’was the cheapness of cowardice that did sway my mind to evil deeds!

He looks upon the knife, holding it with blade pointed back to himself.

Scholar Foul.
A man of honourable whit would know there is no reward for innocent death, only a price that must be paid in flesh and soul! To do unto myself what I did do to her most fair would be the righteous course…and yet my hand is stilled, my courage sorely lacking. For whilst I might dispatch a sleeping babe I fear I cannot make some small amends. And for this, my shame, I shall use it as wind to my sails!

The Foul Scholar flee’s the stage.
End Scene.

+++

“My marks to you, thief, are poorly scored.”

The figure thusly named did not react as one might think a thief might when caught in the act. Indeed the cloaked figure did seem apt to play the merry host, as from a jug a fine red wine was poured. Had Spiro not just walked into his tent behind the theatre, still dressed as the Scholar Foul in high collared black coat and pointed shoes, he might have found some humour in the scene. But two hours on the stage or near it did tend to erode the various social niceties society demanded, and thus the small dagger would have to do.

“Ah, but am I thief or the herald of bountiful opportunities?” spoke the cloaked man in an accent both familiar and alien to Spiro’s ears. True the man had entered his tent without permission, and did quite happily help himself to wine warmed by a heavy summer evening, but thrice vexed was Spiro if not the mystery of the happening did not have his attention.

“I have heard many a line from pocket pincher and window worker caught in the midst of acts most foul, but never have I heard their craft described as such. Shall I assume these opportunities you speak of will occur after you have left unmolested? Or perhaps the unburdening of my possessions will lighten my soul?” Spiro said, moving slowly to place the entrance of the tent to one side so he might examine his guest in more detail. The cloak was the sort a man might wear to travel, were his means humble and his feet the primary mode of that progress. Its hem showed dust, as one might expect, but it also did show a neatly arrayed pattern of folds: an ordered mind did use it as a pillow, as well a man use to the outdoors might. A beggar or country wander would not care for appearance, nor the order of formality, and coupled with that odd accent…

No…surely the possibility was too farfetched, even for a magician of the fictitious arts.

“It is a truth to say I would not travel with such finery, well perhaps now in my later years. But when I was spry and young I would find this cumbersome and wasteful: a mirror for an actor is one thing-” he began to say, turning towards Spiro with two cups.

“But for a Rishland Overlander is it by far a luxury ill afforded.” Spiro finished, as the man continued his turn to its end and grinned at the owner of the tent. He was of comparable features to Spiro, his hair dusted with white and yet still dark as night and neatly kept. His eyes were a shade lighter, and his face bore the leanness of a man who enjoyed the acts of running and martial exercise as those Rishland warriors were so keen about. The Rishlander smiled, and held out the second cup of wine to Spiro.

“Seeing as I am not wearing the green of my ilk nor do I stand with men at arms, might I ask by what manner you choose to identify me by? I’ve heard the accent your player uses for the role of the Soldier, and at times I do confess his part is less the tragedy and more the comedy. So you could not have identified me as we sound like cat and dog in duet.” He said with a wry smile as Spiro’s dagger did not wavier, nor did his eyes fall to the distraction of libations offered.

“The accent my partner of the lime light uses might well be crude, is true, but to those of the continent that listen to it they know not of Rishland’s rich baritone. I have heard it spoken, and know the tells by which it is identified.” Spiro explained, before slowly allowing the dagger to drop to his side, and his hand reached out to accept the cup “Also you dress in a manner of coordinated order, not flashy or memorable, but in such a way that simple cloth does become your uniform.”

“I will have a frank discussion with my tailor then, upon your critique of my social camouflage.” The Rishlander said with easy humour, and took a sip from his own cup “Can I assume you are willing to hear me out?”

“Let us just say that my curiosity has been aroused, and should the reviews be poor for your performance I will let you know promptly.” Spiro replied, the slender blade tapping against his leg to help make a plain point.

“Fairly done.” The man said, before gesturing with the cup to tents modesty surroundings. A simple folding cot along one wall, a desk littered with revisions of scenes and the bill of sales for the troupes supplies and sundry expenses, were but to the two largest items. Of the other items was a simple hung rope on which a selection of garments did rest, from the plain to the outrageous and back again. A full bodied mirror on a stand reflected back a portion of the scene, and yet Spiro would wager the gesture the man had made was not to the simple tent and life he led.

“We do not have such things as this where I come from.” The man began his slow explanation, taking another sip of his drink “Our theatre is more stationary and set in its ways: the pomp of patriotic opera, the hero who gives his all for country and countrymen is no less a standard of the Rishland actor’s bill than it is the soldiers. We are a people steeped in history and yet we must pantomime our own desires to make them appetizing to the masses. What use has a dock worker for a tale of merchants and their cunning ways, when a more thrilling tale of valour and courage can be had? And as for a travelling show as this…the only thing we might share in common is that we play from a very small and popular set of tales for our audiences pleasure.”

“So you come all this way to seek us out, to what? Take notes from our second hand script book?” Spiro scoffed “I would remind you that ‘The Lady of Summer in Winters Court’ is a Rishland epic, penned by one of your own not a score of years hence. I would pray to you, good sir, find the meter to your piece quickly least my opinion find sharp reply.”

“You Middle Hungarians are a feisty lot, I will award you that.” He grinned “And yes, the play your troupe has perfected is one penned by one of my countrymen is true. And yet it is…a delicate play to produce and act. The figures portrayed are not only larger than life, but are indeed still a living presence in the lives of the Rish. We often forget that the play is more a record of history made for public consumption, than it is a work of fiction. The Fair Lady, the Scholar Foul and even the Solder are people for whom names were given: Makira, Ingram and McDonald.”

“Well one of the McDonalds anyway.” Spiro replied.

“And that is to the point made!” the man said with a thrust of his hand, pointing the cup of wine at Spiro as though jabbing with a knife “In truth a dozen theatre companies across my home land would put the play upon their boards and make a merry fortune from it: but the theme is taboo, and the price for a failure in that glare of shame would ruin any company of stage dancers for sure. Why were my own troupe to perform the piece and come to some middling acceptance, we would find ourselves herded over ice clad cliffs and into the sea for our sacrilege.”

He took a fortifying sip of wine, and then continued.

“And yet…were a foreign band to attempt it?” He said, stretching out his words as though to purr “Why any failure could be blamed upon their lack of noble Rishland blood within their veins. And were the play a success without recourse, then my own countrymen of the stage might find courage in aping the foreigners who adventured into the Rufflewok’s den to play the fools. That is why I have sought you out, and chosen this somewhat odd form of interview before your good personage.”

“You would have us travel and risk the wrath of alien souls were our art not accepted? Pardon me, oh Bountiful Opportunity, if that does not sound like a fool serving for honours sake: mine would be all the risk, and yours would be all sweet reward.” Spiro growled.

“Nay! I would have none of that upon a fellow member of our much lamented profession!” the Rishlander countered, his eyes looking about the tent slowly “I would offer to you, on behalf of my own players company and a consortium of theatres that wish to test the waters of sensitive materials, full pay and transportation across the narrow sea twixt here and there. Your reward would be assured, and were the play poorly received, the reviews and thoughts upon your name would not find their way back to your native hunting grounds here on the continent. Think of this not as an experiment, but as a chance to soak up the miasma and spirit of the Isle of Rish so that your own players might before that which they pretend. Think of the improvement upon the Soldier’s role if your player knew the tongue better?”

“Your cabal of players would pay us to come and preform this experiment?” Spiro scoffed.

“We would have you attempt that which might ruin one or all of us should we attempt it, aye. Also, tell me true, how often have you been promised coin without condition? I ask you not to succeed, but only to attempt, and in the doing secure a lease for a known coin that will not be dickered or short changed. In our line of work that stable credit is not often seen.” He leaned closer and grinned “Besides, not a soul on the Isle of Rish has seen your play in wide review: they know not the lines, nor the pitfalls the characters do find themselves in. A fresh eye and mind, to make your talents all the greater-”

“Flattery will get you most things from me, dear friend, but coin promised will get you nought but air.” Spiro countered, mulling over the offered proposal. It did have the taste of the fantastic to it, but there was an element of excitement buried with in it. A new land to make a name for themselves, where they would not have to worry about passing another show coming along the road that had beaten them to the punch. A land of bountiful opportunities indeed.

“Bring me some way to know your word is safe, and I will bring your offer to the attention of my players. My name might ride above the title is true, but debated in committee is the flavour of tea we serve after rehearsal. You understand, one teller of harmless lies to another yes?” Spiro added after a heartbeat.

“I will do as you ask, and tomorrow night will bring a means by which your fears can be put aside. I ask only that, come that moment you have an answer for me presently. It is so that with all haste we might begin the journey before the ice of winter turns the narrow sea into a frozen mire.” The Rishlander stated, and held out a hand “Might we shake upon it?”

“Aye we shall, but first a name to go with the deal we will make. I would rather trade with a devil known to me than some new taxman on horseback.” Spiro said, taking the offered hand with slow and deliberate care.

“Call me as a friend might, by the moniker of Chaucer. For it is as much my title bestowed as a name granted to me by the woman of my birth.” He grinned and shook the hand gladly.

“Until the morrow then?”

“Until the morrow. And thank for the wine. I can but hope I have the chance to repay you with a draft of Rishland Ale should my offer be accepted.” The man now called Chaucer nodded, and then departed from the tent with silent footsteps.