With the dinner hour approaching, Mardans hurried down the slanted streets of Palisade toward the eastern city gate. His mother, collector of all information, had informed him that his former troupe had parked its caravan near it and erected a large tent. Performances had already begun.
When he had left the company just over a week before, Mardans had thought he would never see them again, which had contributed to his dejection over his prospects. Traveling with the actors, acrobats, musicians, and other performers and hands, he had felt like a member of the family, something he had missed. He had made a few close friendships, found a mentor or two, picked up some skills, and learned a great deal about Osegra and its varied peoples along the way.
He figured the afternoon show would be close to ending, if not over, by the time he arrived. An evening performance would not begin for a few hours. Finding and speaking with those he needed to see would be best done during their downtime. They would be intent on getting food and drink before the next show, and some of them, perhaps a nap. If he could find only one member of the troupe, the one he really wanted to speak to, he knew she would not be sleeping.
As he exited the city, he walked past small groups returning from the show and congratulated himself on his timing. He could see the billowing red and gold cloth banner proclaiming, “Lord Huntsman’s Acting Troupe,” a furlong away. When he arrived there, the guard cum ticket seller at the gate recognized him and let him enter the small compound, telling him unnecessarily that the performers had all retired to their tents behind the big one. Arranged the same way at every stop, the individual tents formed a square in the back corner, leaving a small open space in the center where they prepared and ate their meals around a single fire pit.
Several of the actors sat around a smoldering fire, reviewing the performance. Upon seeing him, they all rose to greet him, several asking if he were back to stay. He disabused them of that idea; he was just visiting. They offered him a drink a tad cooler than room temperature and asked him to sit with them for a while.
“Thanks, guys,” he said after taking a long drink. “It’s good to feel wanted.”
“Nobody said anything about wanting you here,” said the troupe’s dwarf, a grizzled, red-bearded man who went by the name of Giant. “We figure if we treat you nice, you won’t get your feelings hurt.”
Mardans laughed. “Yes, I am so sensitive. But who cried at my performance of ill-fated Leonordo, eh?” The other men roared, pointing at the now red-faced Giant.
He chuckled, though it sounded forced. “I guess I’m a sucker for a well-played death scene. No harm in that.”
“Not in the least,” Mardans agreed. He continued, both hands on his chest, eyelashes fluttering:
“And your tears fell deeply upon my heart So that, should you ever be in need, love, No matter how far away, or years hence, I will come to your aid and raise you up.”
Laughing, Giant threw a handful of kindling at him. “You’re a git, Santinetta!”
“Actually, gentlemen and others,” Mardans continued more seriously, looking around the circle, “I am the one in need. I am looking for two things that can be found only here, I warrant.” The men looked at him expectantly. He put up a forefinger. “One, a fat suit for a job I have been contracted to do, and two,” another finger rose, “a certain redheaded woman who can vanquish whole crowds of men with one glance.”
Victor, the troupe’s strongman and a decent actor who often played a guard or a military man in their plays, rumbled, “The fat suit is available—for a fee, mind you—but the redhead ain’t.”
“Yeah,” agreed Fitalus, a handsome Aertellan actor who seemed to play either a besotted lover or a woman when an extra was needed. “The troupe has two fat suits, an old and new. We can sell you the old one. It’s still serviceable, just a little lumpy. We can get the seamstresses to make us a new one during the next travel.”
“That suits me fine, pun intended,” Mardans responded with a grin. Several groans rose around the fire pit, and he received another shower of kindling from Giant. He laughed at the expected response. “Now, the irresistible redhead?”
“Not available,” Victor said.
“Gone,” Fitalus confirmed, nodding. “Day after you left, she left. Said she had an offer to perform up in Blayne. According to her, it was too good to pass up, as she would get a good percentage of the take, like an owner.”
“It sounds too good to be true,” Mardans said, frowning.
“Exactly what we told her!” Giant chimed in, his voice higher than normal. “A couple of us offered to go with her to check things out, make sure it was legit, but you know her! ‘I can take care of myself!’ said she with more than the usual fire in those green eyes. We backed down like we always do and watched her walk away, swinging those hips like she does.” He grinned. “Who can blame us? We might never see her again.”
Mardans scowled. “That sounds like Dinae. Beautiful. Stubborn. Headstrong. Fierce.”
The others around the fire pit nodded solemnly.
After a moment, Victor stood and stretched. “I’ll get the fat suit,” he grunted and stalked to the back of the big tent where the company stored such things under the stage.
“And I’ll take your donation to the Poor Actors Relief Fund,” Fitalus said, holding out his palm in Mardans’ direction. He was the troupe’s treasurer.
Mardans fished in his money pouch and pulled out a coin, a mark, flipping it at the man. Fitalus whistled when he saw the gold bison head on its front side.
“Far too much, Mardans,” Giant said, shaking his head. “The fat suit is worth less than a hundredth of that.”
Mardans disagreed. “The Fund needs replenished,” he said. He gazed knowingly at the others. “I’m sure the fund’s members will find a use for it. Besides, my employer—who shall remain nameless—has opened his coffers to me most generously, so I merely spread his august benevolence to the unfortunates of the entertainment world. Perhaps you can purchase a house and set up a retirement home for washed-out, not-very-talented actors.”
“We’d need several more of those gold coins to live in the manner to which we are accustomed,” grumbled Victor, back from his errand. He held out the old, lumpy, sweat-stained fat suit to Mardans. “I don’t know what you need it for, but it has done good service over the years.”
“About a hundred years!” Giant quipped.
Mardans rose and bowed theatrically. “Many thanks, my friends! Enjoy whatever you do with that money. Well, I know what you’ll do with it. Drinks are on me!” They laughed. “Now I must chase the redhead to Blayne. I had to go there anyway, so it is not much of an inconvenience.”
“And there’s a reward at the end of the chase, eh, Santinetta?” Giant smirked.
Mardans shook his finger at the small man. “You know our relationship is not like that! It is entirely platonic and professional. I have a job for her if she wants it. And it pays better than her new one, I can assure you.”
They looked impressed. “Sounds like you lucked out,” Fitalus said, envious. “Any parts for us?”
Mardans shrugged. “Not yet, but you never know. I may walk down here in a week or two and offer some work. Maybe, but don’t count on it. My contract is for a short-run, one-man show with an attractive assistant to cover for my lack of talent and experience.”
“Well, if you convince the redhead to join you, you’ll get attractive, sure enough,” Giant said, “and a whole lot else that ain’t so attractive.” The others laughed again.
“I will offer my goodbyes then,” Mardans said, stowing the fat suit under an arm. “May you sell out every performance!”
They waved him away with insults and laughter, as touching to him as any tear-jerking death scene.
A few notes:
In Shakespeare’s day, there were several licensed acting troupes in Elizabethan England. “Lord Huntsman’s Acting Troupe” is a nod to these groups of actors like Lord Strange's Men, Earl of Leicester's Men, Chamberlain's Men, Lord Howard's Men, and King's Men. Due to the Sumptuary Laws, English subjects were prohibited from wearing any clothing above their social standing. Since many of the plays of the day focused on the nobility, especially monarchs, these laws severely restricted actors. Elizabeth I herself, enjoying such plays, ordered a clause added to the Sumptuary Laws exempting actors from prosecution. Thus, the acting troupes had to be licensed by the Crown to perform publicly.
Leonordo is an entirely fictional drama (or, as Mardans plays it, melodrama) about a chivalrous knight whose would-be lovers keep dying on him or becoming betrothed to faraway lords by their fathers. Then, when he finally finds “the one,” he takes a mortal wound in a tournament. Talk about unlucky in love!