I turned back to the lovers, Rosamund had snuggled into Rudy’s side like a dipster going for an inside pocket.
The crowd clapped again, but neither of them noticed.
“Accursed,” a rumbling voice murmured. If I’d not been standing at the base of the stair that led to the wide portico that fronted the town hall, I’d have missed it. Had the man’s diction been less clear, I’d have missed it anyway. “What have I done to deserve being cursed with a cliché like this?”
The speaker was a man nearing the end of middle age. Big and heavy boned, with gray streaking through his dark red hair, he looked more like a dockhand or a bouncer than an actor.
“It is a bit hackneyed.” I smiled at him, then dragged Michael out of his gloomy contemplation and up the steps. “Are you Master Makejoye? My name’s Fisk, and this is Michael Sevenson, Rosamund’s cousin. You’ve us to blame for bringing her here.”
He ran big hands through his rumpled hair and glared at us. “I’m Hector Makejoye,” he admitted. “And I ought to blame you! What under two moons do you think you’re about? She can’t marry him, he’s fool enough not to settle for less, and her uncle will accuse us of kidnapping the wench and have the skin from all our backs— if we don’t swing for it.”
“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Michael quietly. “Rosamund would never permit such a thing. And whatever our differences, my father will believe me when I tell him you had nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer, Michael Sevenson—by all means tell your father, as soon as you . . . Wait. We heard about you in Willowere. You’re the one who’s . . .”
“Unredeemed,” said Michael. “But my father will accept my word despite that, for he knows me well.” His expression was bleak, but his spine was stiff with stubborn pride.
“A knight errant.” Makejoye’s eyes brightened with interest. “I didn’t believe that, when I first heard it. And that’s not a story that’s been done before. I don’t suppose . . .”
“No!” Michael looked more horrified than when they had tattooed his wrists.
“But it would make a magnificent tale, Sir Michael. And we’d change the names. It’s not as if—”
“Master Makejoye, you make a play of my life, and my father is the least thing you’ll have to worry about.” But his lips twitched as he spoke. I made a mental note to work with my employer on the convincing delivery of threats.
“Don’t feel too bad,” I told Makejoye. “Even if you wrote it up, no one would accept it. It’s too farfetched.”
Makejoye looked thoughtful. “You may be right. Suspension of disbelief goes only so far. But my first question stands: What possessed you to bring her here?”
“Because my father has gone about this matter wrongly,” said Michael. “If he’d only allowed Rosamund to go with you . . .”
Barker and the other man who’d been with Makejoye drew near to listen to Michael’s explanation. The second man was a bit over middle height and near skeleton thin, though he moved like he walked on springs. He had a long, mobile face, which at the moment reflected the same worry as the others. I noticed that all the actors wore their hair middling long, in a way that could pass for a peasant who needed a haircut, or a noble who’d gone just bit short—no doubt so they could take on any role that came to them.
Makejoye’s expression became thoughtful as Michael spoke, though the thin man’s dismay deepened and Barker looked glum throughout.
“There’s something in what you say,” Makejoye remarked when Michael had finished. “But—”
“Hector, have you gone mad?” the thin man interrupted. “We can’t possibly take on a rich bas—”
“Ahem.” Makejoye glared him down. “But as I was saying, we can’t fight a man as powerful as your father, Sir Michael.”
“But—” Michael began.
“But”—Master Makejoye clearly had some experience
The crowd clapped again, but neither of them noticed.
“Accursed,” a rumbling voice murmured. If I’d not been standing at the base of the stair that led to the wide portico that fronted the town hall, I’d have missed it. Had the man’s diction been less clear, I’d have missed it anyway. “What have I done to deserve being cursed with a cliché like this?”
The speaker was a man nearing the end of middle age. Big and heavy boned, with gray streaking through his dark red hair, he looked more like a dockhand or a bouncer than an actor.
“It is a bit hackneyed.” I smiled at him, then dragged Michael out of his gloomy contemplation and up the steps. “Are you Master Makejoye? My name’s Fisk, and this is Michael Sevenson, Rosamund’s cousin. You’ve us to blame for bringing her here.”
He ran big hands through his rumpled hair and glared at us. “I’m Hector Makejoye,” he admitted. “And I ought to blame you! What under two moons do you think you’re about? She can’t marry him, he’s fool enough not to settle for less, and her uncle will accuse us of kidnapping the wench and have the skin from all our backs— if we don’t swing for it.”
“You’re wrong there, sir,” said Michael quietly. “Rosamund would never permit such a thing. And whatever our differences, my father will believe me when I tell him you had nothing to do with it.”
“I’ll take you up on that offer, Michael Sevenson—by all means tell your father, as soon as you . . . Wait. We heard about you in Willowere. You’re the one who’s . . .”
“Unredeemed,” said Michael. “But my father will accept my word despite that, for he knows me well.” His expression was bleak, but his spine was stiff with stubborn pride.
“A knight errant.” Makejoye’s eyes brightened with interest. “I didn’t believe that, when I first heard it. And that’s not a story that’s been done before. I don’t suppose . . .”
“No!” Michael looked more horrified than when they had tattooed his wrists.
“But it would make a magnificent tale, Sir Michael. And we’d change the names. It’s not as if—”
“Master Makejoye, you make a play of my life, and my father is the least thing you’ll have to worry about.” But his lips twitched as he spoke. I made a mental note to work with my employer on the convincing delivery of threats.
“Don’t feel too bad,” I told Makejoye. “Even if you wrote it up, no one would accept it. It’s too farfetched.”
Makejoye looked thoughtful. “You may be right. Suspension of disbelief goes only so far. But my first question stands: What possessed you to bring her here?”
“Because my father has gone about this matter wrongly,” said Michael. “If he’d only allowed Rosamund to go with you . . .”
Barker and the other man who’d been with Makejoye drew near to listen to Michael’s explanation. The second man was a bit over middle height and near skeleton thin, though he moved like he walked on springs. He had a long, mobile face, which at the moment reflected the same worry as the others. I noticed that all the actors wore their hair middling long, in a way that could pass for a peasant who needed a haircut, or a noble who’d gone just bit short—no doubt so they could take on any role that came to them.
Makejoye’s expression became thoughtful as Michael spoke, though the thin man’s dismay deepened and Barker looked glum throughout.
“There’s something in what you say,” Makejoye remarked when Michael had finished. “But—”
“Hector, have you gone mad?” the thin man interrupted. “We can’t possibly take on a rich bas—”
“Ahem.” Makejoye glared him down. “But as I was saying, we can’t fight a man as powerful as your father, Sir Michael.”
“But—” Michael began.
“But”—Master Makejoye clearly had some experience
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