The performance had been over for nearly two hours, and Dinae was still packing. For the first hour, she had received and flattered privileged, adoring, and paying devotees (prearranged by Bardelbee). After which, exhausted, she retreated to her room to remove her costume and makeup, eat a snack of fruit and nuts, and decide what to wear for the rest of the evening.
Since then, time had crawled for Mardans as she dithered over how much to bring and the particular items to include in her luggage. He had limited her to one trunk, promising to replace everything she left behind. Even so, she seemed unable to part with numerous items in her wardrobe.
Mardans cleared his throat, halting her inspection of a light blue blouse. “You realize the plan goes into action in about three minutes,” he said as calmly as he could. “You have maybe five minutes to be packed and ready to leave.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she railed, shooting him a look that could have killed a lesser man.
Of course, it was his fault. “Many pardons, Your Grace,” he returned, miming an elaborate bow that cracked her stare and made her giggle. “Just shove as much as you can into the trunk and be done with it! I thought you traveled light.”
“I do!” she protested, pouting. “For a woman.”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” he said ruefully. “My mistake.”
Finally motivated, she crammed most of the items from the surrounding piles into the trunk and closed the lid with the aid of Mardans’ full weight. They carried it between them to the window. Using a long rope he had brought in his duffel, he tied one end to a trunk handle and carefully lowered it to the ground outside. As soon as it hit the dirt of the alley below, the rope went slack, and he drew it back up. The tied end had been neatly cut with a knife.
“Our new friend is quite efficient,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure he can’t wait for the next package we send him.” He winked at Dinae.
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get on with it.”
Acquainted with ropes and knots from his ranching days, Mardans swiftly tied four loops on one end of the rope. “These top two are for your hands,” he instructed. “Put your wrists through the loops and grab the rope above the knots. These bottom two are for your feet. Slide them back toward your heel so when I lower you down, you’re standing on them, all right?”
She nodded, and he tightened the footloose as best he could. She sat on the windowsill facing out and took a deep breath. “Are you sure this is safe?” she asked for the seventh time that evening.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Trust me. Just use your feet to keep your body away from the wall and walk backward down to the floor of the alley. I’ll lower you down slowly.”
She gave him a dubious look but nodded. “Ready, I guess,” she said, a slight waver in her voice.
Mardans wound the rope around his waist a few times and took up the slack. Then he helped her turn around, her belly hugging the windowsill. “Remember, there’s a narrow ledge about three feet down. Tell me when you find it.” He held her while her feet fumbled for it, easing her down until she gave a small grunt and stopped. “Grab the sill.” He moved her shaking hands to it, and she held on, knuckles white and silent terror on her face. “I’ve got you,” he assured her.
Pulling the rope taut between them and bracing his legs, he said in a soft tone, “Now grab the rope and lean back.” First one hand and then the other released the windowsill and clutched the rope. Taking a deep breath, she stared at him with wide eyes and licked suddenly dry lips. “You’re in charge, all right?” he told her reassuringly. “We go only as fast as you want to go. My job will be to make sure the rope is tight. I’ll pay it out only as I feel you moving. Ready?”
Giving him another curt nod, she gathered her courage and leaned back slightly, testing her trust in the rope and Mardans.
“Good,” he said, smiling to encourage her. “Keep your eyes on mine. Bend your knees a little and take a step back.” She took a shuddering breath and lowered one foot a few inches. “Now the other,” Mardans said quietly, easing her down. “Don’t straighten up! Keep leaning back. . . . Good. Another step. . . . Great. Another. . . . Another. . . . Another. . . . I think you’ve got it! Keep going. . . . Slowly! Just keep a slow, steady pace. . . . Good. We don’t need to hurry. . . . There you go. . . . Good. You’re a natural! Just a few more feet, Red. . . . Amazing! You did it!”
She stood on the ground, shaking but thrilled to be standing again. A young man with dark brown hair and a warm smile stood beside her, helping her out of the loops and holding her elbow to prevent collapse. “I’m Aran, Miss Camara,” he said in his country twang. “Mardans asked me to help. I’m pleased to meet you.”
She laughed, exhilarated. “And I’m glad to be alive to meet you, too! Thank you.”
He blushed. “It’s always a pleasure to help the most beautiful woman in the world.”
She shook her head, grinning. “A sweet-talker! Where does Mardans find you people?”
A voice whispered from above. “Hey, you two! Quit lallygagging and get away!” The rest of the rope and Mardans’ duffel came down almost on top of them, and the window slid shut and locked.
Chuckling, Aran coiled the rope with practiced ease and beckoned her around the corner of the building, where a horse and wagon stood waiting. After stashing the rope and duffle in a large lidded box, he pulled a dark blue cloak and hood from a crate and assisted her into it and then onto the front seat. Quickly rounding the wagon, he vaulted up and grabbed the reins, clicking his tongue. The horse moved away at once.
† † † † †
Wearing his uniform again, Mardans strode from Dinae’s room down the empty hallway and up to Bardelbee’s office door. Rapping loudly on it, he called, “Mr. Bardelbee! Tinetta here!” He knocked again, nearly shouting, “Bardelbee! Are you there?” Behind him, he heard a door open and close.
“Who’s making all the racket?” demanded an approaching actor in a fashionable blue dressing gown, whom the noise appeared to have awakened. “Don’t you realize how late it is?”
Mardans gave him a curt bow. “Forgive me, sir,” he said. “I have finished my inspection, and Mr. Bardelbee requested I speak with him before leaving. He told me he often has a smoke in his office after a performance. I thought I might catch him here.”
The actor, a middle-aged man with thinning blond hair, uttered a few choice words about his employer under his breath. “Well,” he said in a resigned tone, “now that I’m out here, I’ll have a go.” He knocked on the door and tried the knob. To his surprise, it turned, and he opened the door.
“Sorry, sir, you have a visitor,” he said as he opened it wide, but then he stopped abruptly, seeing Bardelbee sprawled on the floor, a few drops of blood staining his collar. “Mr. Bardelbee! Are you hurt?” He rushed in, kneeling on the floor to check for signs of life. “He’s breathing, thank the Shepherd!” Seeing Mardans standing in the doorway, he said with some heat, “Don’t just stand there! Get the constable! Hurry, man!”
Turning away, Mardans raced down the stairs, rousing the doorman before running out the door to find a constable. “Help! Constable! We need help here!” Having checked for the constable’s station earlier, he ran toward it and spied a uniformed officer already heading his way. His actor’s voice had carried clearly and far. Lights appeared in some upper-story windows, and a few were opened, the curious wanting to know what all the hullabaloo was about.
“What’s the trouble?” the dark-bearded and now red-faced constable said as he jogged up.
“Mr. Bardelbee lies unconscious in his office!” Mardans said breathlessly as they both hurried toward the theater. “Might be foul play!”
“Probably on account of that infernal redhead,” the constable growled. “She’s been nothing but trouble.”
Mardans had to stop himself from snorting a laugh. “I don’t know, sir. All I know is that he’s hurt. There’s blood. One of the actors is with him.”
“And who are you?” the constable asked as they entered the theater’s foyer. In the lamplight, he looked more closely at Mardans. “And what kind of uniform is that?”
“I’m Sam Tinetta, currently acting as the king’s inspector of entertainments,” he replied with a casual salute, following the broad-shouldered policeman up the stairs. “I wear the uniform of the palace guard. I do jobs like this for the king from time to time.”
The constable grunted but said nothing further until they reached the third floor. He was breathing heavily from the speedy climb. Straightening his jacket, he removed his hat and placed it under his arm, taking a few deep breaths before proceeding to the door. Dignity restored, he asked, “What have we here?” as he entered the office.
His eyes swept the room, taking in the scene at one glance as men of his profession are trained to do. Striding to the theater owner’s body, he made his own check for life signs and inspected the bloody area at the back of his head. Grunting again, he stood and looked at the others in the room. The doorman had entered behind them, having followed them up the stairs. “You,” the constable said, pointing at the small man, who was still wearing his theater livery. “You’re from around here. Go get a doctor. Tell him what’s happened and that I sent you.” Then he sighed, sitting back on his haunches before standing and scrutinizing the room closely.
Over the next twenty minutes, he questioned Mardans and the actor extensively and then quizzed the doorman and the doctor when they arrived halfway into the interrogation. He shook his head in frustration, realizing that none of them knew anything for certain. Having inspected, washed, and bound the back of Bardelbee’s head, the doctor was the most helpful, saying that from his experience in treating such injuries, the wound was already hours old. The assault, he reckoned, happened sometime during the evening’s performance, all but clearing the cast.
The constable sighed at last, rubbing the back of his neck and looking tired. “Well, I can’t learn anything else until Bardelbee wakes up and gives his account of things. Doctor, can we move him out of here? To his home?”
“I would advise against it,” said the elderly man. “Is there a bed in the theater we could lay him on?”
The actor looked up. “There’s an empty room near mine. It has a bed, pillows, and blankets.”
“Good,” the constable said, nodding. “Let’s get him moved, and we can reconvene when he wakes up. Perhaps we can all get a little sleep.”
Mardans and the actor carried the unconscious man between them to the unused room, and the doctor did his best to situate him comfortably. For a long moment after exiting the room, they all stood about in the hall, waiting for someone to indicate what they should do next. Clearing his throat, the constable took charge, ordering the doorman to secure the office, look in on his employer every few hours, and report immediately to him when he awoke. Then he nodded sharply to them and left.
For his part, the king’s inspector of entertainments said a cheerful goodnight to the others and accompanied the doctor down the stairs. Parting amiably with the older gentlemen in the town square, Mardans disappeared into the night.
A note:
In calculating what Bardelbee owed Dinae, neither she nor Mardans thought to add a cut for Red’s after-performance meet-and-greets with theater patrons and those wealthy or besotted enough with her to pay for the privilege of a one-on-one with the star attraction. Bardelbee pocketed another several pounds a performance from these lucrative, private meetings. In truth, he owed her at least an additional gold mark (ten pounds) or perhaps two.