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Chapter 38. The Performance |
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an’t sleep?” Armand sighed after a long restless silence. In the close confines of their little caravan the slightest movements made the wagon creak in protest. The world wobbled and shuddered around them as she rolled onto her side to face Armand. Brigit was trying to lie still, but the thin down mattress they shared might just have well have been made out of stone for all the comfort it gave her. “Do you ever dream that you’re naked and everyone else around you isn’t?” she murmured, keeping her voice low. The other caravans of the traveling troop were nearby, their homes in a close protective circle. It always alarmed her how much she could overhear on a still summer night. She did not like to think how many might have overheard their sometimes boisterous lovemaking. “Everyone has that dream at some time or another,” Armand replied unable to hide his irritation at her squirming. “I feel like that all the time on stage,” she replied. “You’ll get used to it.” “Doesn’t it bother you that other men are whistling and making cat calls at me?” “If they didn’t, I’d suspect they were undead.” Brigit laughed and she saw the sardonic smile on his shadowed face as warm lantern light flowed in through the little window behind her. “You’re not jealous?” “Jealous?” he snorted, “Why should I be jealous when I’m the one who actually gets to go home with you at night after the show? Let them fantasize about you, poor fools. I get the real thing.” Brigit felt her heart swell with love for him as she grinned in the darkness. She stroked his face and shoulder, shivering with desire as he clasped her wrist and lightly kissed her fingers and palm. “Now please, my love, get some sleep. We have two performances tomorrow and I’m exhausted.” “Can I hold you?” He laughed and rolled over, his back smooth against her belly as they spooned beneath their thick pile of quilts. Brigit nuzzled his nape and shoulders, kissing him softly as he relaxed in her arms. “Are we really going to Cantha after tomorrow?” “Mmm hmm,” he murmured sleepily. “I don’t really like Cantha.” “Mmm?” Brigit chuckled apologetically and lay still, breathing in the sweet musky scent of him, his corn silk hair warm against her cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, imagining herself drifting down into his dream to join him. He squeezed her hand tenderly where it rested against his belly and she finally dozed off in a warm haze of contentment. It seemed only a moment later Armand nudged her awake. The mealy smell of porridge and wood smoke was carried upon the cold mountain air. He had already done his morning ablutions and was half-dressed, no doubt deciding to let her sleep while he was busy. There was precious little room to maneuver inside of their little home. Brigit smiled tiredly at him, scooting out from her place near the wall while bent nearly double beneath the low rounded roof. “Good morning,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn. Their show had run late with several curtain calls. Of course, it was nearly impossible to go straight to bed after the exhilaration of performance, so the two of them had stayed up late to drink and chatter with the other performers despite Pirunel’s protests that they should all sleep. Now she was regretting it as she flopped to the wooden planks of the floor and fumbled with the wash bowl and ewer. Armand was busily doing up the mother of pearl buttons on the cuffs of his blouse. There was a rap on the door and Armand carefully turned around in their cramped quarters to open it. Brigit drew a blanket around herself as Armand greeted Pirunel. “Can you be ready within the hour?” came the dwarf’s gruff voice. “Are we late for the afternoon performance?” “No… not as such. It’s just we have enough guests lining up for a noon performance.” “I see. Busy place for a mountain outpost.” “There’s a great deal more dwarves living here than meets the eye,” Pirunel said. “So… dwarves find me attractive?” Brigit laughed. “We like powerful womenfolk,” Pirunel chuckled, “Although without a beard, most of us would find you only passing attractive and much too large.” Brigit blushed while Armand and Pirunel laughed. “So, can you be ready for a noon show?” Pirunel asked, a pang of pleading in his voice. Armand glanced at her and she nodded. “Of course.” “Excellent. I already have the starting acts ready and we’re just letting people into the big top.” “Three shows in one day?” she murmured once the door was closed, “and then we’re off to Cantha?” Armand shrugged. “I suppose he’s making up for lost time on the performances where we floundered.” “What if people in Cantha hate it? There’s not a huge population of horny dwarves who like women in scanty armor over there.” Armand grinned knowingly. “You’d be surprised. I’m fairly certain we’ll be a hit with the Kurzicks at least.” “Guess I’d better squeeze into my costume, then,” Brigit grumbled. She donned what she could of it on her own, trying not to think of it in light of her actual armor. The shimmering overlapping scales that rode over her hips and breasts were little more than bits of leather studded with faux glass jewels. The leggings were an embarrassment and she tried not to think about why the crowds howled more when she had her back to them. From a distance they were meant to look like chain mail, but unlike real chain mail, the close-fitting silk with its patterns of silver threads, emphasized her rump and the shapeliness of her legs in a way even nudity could not match. She smoothed the fabric down and knelt to attach her greaves and open-toed boots. Armand grew still behind her and she glanced back to see that he was currently transfixed by the sight of her. She wiggled her rump at him only to laugh when he blushed and tried to hide the fact that he was aroused. Not that it had stopped them on prior occasions, it was just there was so little time and they could ill afford to tarry. “Later,” she whispered. He snorted in amusement and donned his magician’s attire with its shimmering ornamentation of glass jewels and metal studs. The watered silk had an oily sheen and was a mysterious shade of green and purple that captured the glow of the stage lights so that it seemed at times he was afire or wrapped in an aura of ice. Their clothes had been left to air out over night but the smell of the smoke pots and sweat still clung to them. She finished putting on her shoes and turned to help straighten his collar and dust off his back. “You look gorgeous,” she told him, “I can hardly wait to capture you again.” Draped in a long concealing robe, she squeezed past him and rushed for Tawn’s caravan. The circus elder was surrounded by a teaming parade of performers hurrying to perfect their costumes and make-up. When she saw Brigit she waved her over with an arthritic hand and a big welcoming smile. “Come, dear, we have a lot of work to do and so little time!” Tawn’s daughter, Agatha, rushed to help and the two them worked on her hair and applied the requisite grease paint. They never allowed her to see what they had done in the mirror, but a great deal of it was applied around her brows and eyes. There were also little flecks of glass that they glued to her cheeks before they placed the horned helmet on her braided locks and attached it firmly to her head, disguising the straps with more paint. The jeweled tin sword they gave her only served to make her feel more ridiculous. If she were to charge into combat like this she would be slaughtered. Pointing this out to her new friends only made them laugh uproariously. By the time they were done, it was nearly time to make her entrance. She was giddy with adrenalin and excitement, almost as if she were entering battle, only worse. Brigit knew how to fight. Waving around a tin sword and pretending to fight was not her forte. As she ducked behind the tent, once more wrapped in her concealing robe, she heard the first strains of their music. She hardly saw Pirunel reaching out to guide her to the right of stage to make her grand entrance. Amid the blare of trumpets and the pounding of drums she rushed up the wooden steps and emerged in a burst of light and smoke. Now she was play acting with Armand, the jewels flickering over the edges of his mask and rich attire. It was the duel scene and the audience was hushed as the cornered magician gestured at her and fell back amid the flat depictions of broken columns and walls in ruined Ascalon. A cascade of shimmering magenta glitter fell down from the supports high above the stage and she feigned agony as the fake spell bit into her. Now she let fall her concealing cloak and drew her sword, her majesty supposedly stunning him into submission. The whistles and catcalls started on cue as she stalked toward Armand kneeling before her. Now she called for her assistants who came onstage and she made a show of putting him in manacles and tossing the key down her cleavage which drew more hoots of delight from the audience. Armand winked at her though his mouth was unreadable as he lifted his hands and the bindings clattered away with a flourish. Pretending to be vexed she then procured shackles and made him kneel. He made a show of trying to escape, flexing his arms and turning to and fro. She strode away from him to gloat, awaiting her cue to round on him in rage when he stepped free, his arms outspread in victory and summoning applause. The tempo of the music picked up as she gestured to her lackeys and a sturdy chest was procured. Now she wrapped him in chain and he made a show of resistance as they forced him into the box and she applied three heavy locks to the hasps on the lid. She hated this part, imagining how uncomfortable he must be balled up in chains. Part of her wanted to open the lid a crack and give him air, but the danger of this maneuver was what made it interesting, as he often pointed out. The music died down to a tense drum roll and she paced, pretending to delight in her cruelty. For many long agonizing moments she glanced at the box, alarmed when it did not move or give any indication how he fared within. Then his fingers emerged through a small crack in the lid and the first of the three locks clicked open and dropped to the stage with a loud thump. Now she feigned shock as the next and final locks followed suit and the lid slammed open with Armand standing boldly at its center, free and gasping for air. Now it was her turn to be dazzled by his prowess and once more the shower of magenta glitter billowed down around her and she staggered back, his voice fierce and commanding above the swelling tide of music. She backed away from him, finding her place above the trap door, dreading what happened next. He made his incantation and flames shot up around her. She felt the sudden gasp of heat as she fell into darkness and balled up on a thick mound of pillows as the trap door shut behind her. The muffled roar of cheers and applause flooded the tent and the dimness below the stage. A couple stage hands reached out to help her crawl free and she was lead back to the steps at stage right to re-emerge and take Armand’s hand so that they could bow and smile into the shadowed crowd. As before, the crowd would not let them leave without one more trick, so they summoned the sturdy rope that was used by the trapeze artists and soon had Armand trussed while dangling dangerously above the stage by his ankles. She made a show of spinning him slowly so that the audience could see how completely she had bound him in a sleeve of leather and buckles. Although she had spent hours assisting him during his long practice sessions, she still had no clue how he managed to escape so easily. The audience held its breath as he wriggled slowly, finally getting one arm out of the sleeve. With a single hand he worked loose of the leather restraints and they dropped to the stage. Now his light frame folded upward so that he could work on the locks around his ankles. In moments, his legs dropped earthward and he dangled gracefully by one hand from the silken cord, the other outstretched to encourage applause. After another round of bowing, they were finally allowed to leave the stage so that the intermission could proceed and the stage could be cleared away for the finale. They emerged at last into the sunlight and crisp mountain air and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her fiercely. “Brigit?” Cut short by the strangely familiar and unnerving voice, Armand ducked at the last moment to avoid the horns of her helm as she turned to face the speaker. “Father?” she rasped in disbelief, “Mother... Bluard?” The three burly figures stared back at her in shock. Her father’s dark eyes seared into Armand, clearly uncomfortable with looking upon her but equally unhappy with her choice of company. “So it’s true,” her mother gasped, “My daughter is a tramp.” “I’m sure she can explain,” Bluard said, his pale beard bristling in the early afternoon light. She had not seen the old dwarf since she had left home nearly six years before. He was her axe trainer, a master warrior whose prowess she could barely emulate. “Ye ne’er come home, an’ when ye’ do, it’s like this,” her father rumbled. He was not as tall as she remembered, but his frame was still thickset and powerful. He had the barrel chest of a dwarf but the fine graceful build of a human. His thick black hair was drawn back into a silver-streaked braid capped with silver. His heavy leathers were edged with silvery fur. He did not carry his customary axe as he had come for the entertainment, not for war. “I’m sorry, Father,” she blurted, feeling suddenly small in his presence. Her mother’s sturdy figure stepped closer. She had shorn her fiery hair short and had but a single tail near her nape, no doubt to make wearing her war helm easier. She was dressed much as her husband, in warm leathers and furs. Her eyes were the color of a frozen lake and equally as cold as she took in her daughter’s attire. “I didn’t raise you for this!” she raged, “And who is this man? Please tell me you are married! You had better not be impugning my daughter’s honor and virtue.” “He’s the escape artist,” Bluard said. “Well, he’s not escapin’ from me,” Brigit’s father roared angrily. “No!” Brigit shouted as her father balled up his fists. Armand had not moved and she clasped his hand tightly behind her back, “He is my husband.” Her mother burst into tears. Behind her, Armand tensed like an animal preparing to run. Brigit glanced back at him, noting the mixture of horror and bewilderment on his face. “You married and never invited us to the wedding?” her mother wept, “How could you?” Brigit felt like she had just fallen into quicksand and every attempt to escape was only making it worse. Armand cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Gaenor, I love your daughter, but we are not married.” “Army!” Brigit gasped. “I should kill the fop where he stands,” her father roared. Without thinking, Brigit drew the tin stage sword with a fierce roar. Her father paused and stared at the weapon as it bent harmlessly against his breast. A few of its faux glass gems fluttered to the ground. The tense silence that followed was then broken by Bluard laughing uproariously. Armand squeezed her hand as her mother and father joined in. Then, freeing himself from her grasp, he removed his mask before stepping forward with his hand extended to her father. “Armand Leblanc,” he said calmly, meeting the old warrior’s eyes. Her father cursed before shaking it grudgingly and signaling that his desire to kill Armand was gone for the nonce. Brigit looked on in shock as he then took her mother’s hand followed by Bluard’s. “Anluan Gaenor,” her father announced brusquely. “Neave Gaenor,” her mother said when it was her turn, “At least he has manners, but why did you never tell us?” “I’m sorry, Mother… it all happened so quickly and I’ve been so busy.” “We could visit with your parents for a few days after this evening’s show,” Armand said to her as he returned to Brigit’s side, “The two of us have been to Cantha and I’m sure Pirunel would not mind if we traveled by sigil and met them there.” Brigit smiled at him, realizing that by this simple gesture he had already won over her mother. Her father would not be so easily placated. “I’ll get the guest rooms ready,” Neave said, unable to hide her enthusiasm. Brigit nodded, hoping Armand could pull it off. She loved him all the more for it.
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