The king’s inspector, whom the owner of Bardelbee’s Review knew as Sam Tinetta, strode down the red-carpeted right aisle toward the theater’s stage. For the town’s population and sleepy nature, the old but well-maintained theater surprised him with its size and relative elegance, perhaps a legacy of an earlier, more prosperous era of Blayne’s existence. It had adequate acoustics and sight lines and even boasted a pair of private boxes along each wall. He found little to criticize.
“You own an impressive theater, Mr. Bardelbee,” he said as he climbed the steps to the stage. “Everything is first-rate. I’m sure the citizens of Blayne appreciate having such a quality entertainment venue to attend.”
Raduan Bardelbee, a tall, thin man with a dark, receding hairline, long nose, and perpetually cross expression, merely grunted. He made no secret of the fact that he did not like the king’s inspector, the inspection, and perhaps most of all, being summoned from dinner. When the doorman had found him and explained his presence, Bardelbee had dawdled, finishing his meal and his glass of wine before following his anxious employee back to the theater, taking him to task all the while. But, because Mardans was the king’s inspector, he had been grudgingly civil to him, and cooperation could be lucrative, or so the doorman had told him. The promise of money always made him stand straighter.
Face stoic, Mardans made a show of verifying the firmness of the wooden stage floor and looked as well as he could into its “heaven,” the unseen area above the stage where ropes, pulleys, and counterweights could quickly lower or raise set pieces. Everything looked in order and in good condition. Walking backstage, he noticed it was neat and free of clutter. He nodded, actually impressed.
“I must say, Mr. Bardelbee,” he said with an almost imperceptible smile, “your theater is well-ordered and -maintained—better than any I have ever seen outside of Palisade, I think. That usually bodes well for the other areas of the theater business.”
“I assure you, Mr. Tinetta,” Bardelbee replied, his voice simultaneously smarmy and self-congratulatory, “from the entertainment we provide to our financial ledgers, Bardelbee’s Review is managed with care and precision.”
Mardans nodded. “I’m sure that is so. Nothing I have seen would contradict you.” He took a few steps as if to return to the house’s lobby but suddenly stopped and turned back. “But when I interviewed the actors, one had a disturbing complaint.”
“The redhead, I know,” Bardelbee admitted, exasperated. “She accuses me of failing to pay her wages, raging at me to fulfill the terms of her contract. But I am only holding onto her money for her good! Even walking to the bank here could expose her to some rather unsavory characters, of which this town does not lack.”
“So, her accusations have merit,” Mardans said flatly.
“Technically, yes, I suppose,” Bardelbee said, scowling. He recovered quickly. “But Blayne is not safe for a beautiful young lady like Miss Camara! I would hate to see her robbed or injured or kidnapped to some raving devotee’s basement! That would be horrible! No, I am doing her a favor, looking out for her like a father, but she just refuses to see it.”
Mardans again nodded as if agreeing with the theater owner’s reasoning. “She does need protecting,” he said after a moment of thought. “Do you mind my asking how much you’re holding for her? When she spoke to me, she implied you owe her a substantial amount.”
“Did she?” Bardelbee said, his laughter a strange bubbling sound coming from his throat. “She is an actress, not an accountant, right? She gets the standard wage for a prima, which is even more than the men because of her ability to draw a crowd, but her pay is not extravagant. If I recall the books, she has earned about two pounds over the past—what?—nearly a month? Which, if I may say so, is not bad for a former touring actress.”
“I see,” Mardans said, his face concerned. “And what about termination, should you or she want to end the relationship? I think she’s considering it if you fail to pay her soon.”
Bardelbee cackled, his version of a roaring laugh. “Oh, I see she did not dare mention that! The contract, like all my actors’ contracts, has an ironclad termination clause. She signed on for six months. She may not quit before the contract has expired! For my part, I can let her go for any number of reasons at any time.”
“And she agreed to that one-sided term?” Mardans said, incredulous.
“She signed the contract, did she not?” the theater owner retorted. “I include that clause to protect my interests. It is expensive and time-consuming to find good talent for my stage. I have high standards, I tell you.”
“Clearly,” Mardans said dryly. “What would you do if she simply walked away from the job, leaving all the money she’s earned with you?”
“What is with all the questions?” Bardelbee asked, his head cocked to one side. “You sound like her lawyer.”
Mardans’ brow narrowed. “No, I’m still the king’s inspector of entertainments. The questions have to do with how you handle your actors, their pay, their contracts—that sort of thing. Your business practices. The king is concerned about such matters.”
The theater owner waved a hand. “King Alfons has enough to worry about that he should not concern himself with business, in my humble opinion. This is a private matter between parties who agreed to a legal contract. That alone should satisfy anybody.”
Mardans did not answer, being too busy controlling his face and body to betray no sign of his desire to punch the smugness down Bardelbee’s throat. But that would not be professional, as a king’s inspector should be. “The king feels a responsibility toward all his subjects, not just businessmen,” he finally said flatly, brooking no further spouting of personal opinions, humble or not.
After a moment, he continued. “You have given me something to think about, Mr. Bardelbee. I will put your establishment on the list of potential palace entertainments and attach my report. I thank you for your time and apologize for calling you from your supper.” He made a slight bow. “Please leave a ticket for me with the ticket seller. I want to take in the show and the atmosphere here. And I’d like to sample Miss Camara’s talent, if she has any. Many attractive people cannot act, as you know.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Bardelbee agreed, snickering. “But she is quite good, I assure you, Mr. Tinetta. She makes the audience believe, if you know what I mean.”
Mardans gave him a one-sided smile that implied, “I’ll be the judge of that,” and left without further comment.
A note:
The theater, now called “Bardelbee’s Review,” had been built in the giddy optimism and economic boom after Margonne conquered Leitan a century and a half earlier. It had its glory days when Blayne’s population could support it, but after just a few decades, it was boarded up and laid empty for nearly a century. To give Bardelbee credit, he bought the theater for a song due to its almost-total rundown condition, investing much of his personal fortune in resurrecting it to its former grandeur. He had plans to improve its facade on the town square, but perhaps he needed to cheat a few other actors out of their well-earned pay before he had enough money for that project.