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Her husband similarly, it appears.’

      ‘Keep your filthy thoughts off my sister.’ We talked instead about de Lambant’s sister Smarana, whose wedding day, determined by a useful conjunction of constellations, was little more than five weeks away. The thought of three days of family celebration cheered us, not least because the two families involved, the de Lambants and the Orinis, had engaged Kemperer’s company to play on the second day. We should have work then, at least.

      ‘We’ll perform such a comedy as all will remember ever after. I’m even prepared to fall down the stairs again for the sake of an extra laugh.’

      He dug me in the ribs. ‘Pray that we eat before that date, or I can see us treading the boards in the Shadow World. Here’s the market – let’s run different ways!’

      The fruit market stood at the end of the Stary Most district. At this time of morning it was crammed with customers and buzzing with argument, gossip, and wasps the size of thumbs. De Lambant and I slipped among the stalls at a trot, bouncing off customers, swerving round posts, to arrive together at the other end laughing, with a good muster of peaches and apricots between us.

      ‘A day’s work in itself,’ de Lambant said, as we munched. ‘Why bother to go to Kemperer’s? He has nothing for us. Let’s make for Truna’s and drink. Portinari will probably be there.’

      ‘Oh, let’s go and see the old boy anyway, show him we’re alive and thin for want of parts.’

      He struck me in the chest. ‘I don’t want for parts. Speak for yourself.’

      ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to speak for what is doubtless unspeakable. How the women put up with those digusting parts of yours is beyond credit.’

      At the corner of a certain scrivener’s stair stood an ancient magician called All-People. All-People stood at the scrivener’s stair whenever the omens were propitious, and had done so since the days when I was taken to market on piggy-back. His face was as caprine as that of the billy goat tethered to the post beside him, his eyes as yellow, his chin as hairy. On his iron altar a dried snake burned, the elements sprinkled on it giving off that typical whiff of the Natural Religion which my priest, Mandaro, referred to contemptuously as ‘the stench of Malacia’.

      Standing in the shade of the scrivener’s porch consulting All-People was a stooped man in a fur jacket. Something in his stance, or the emphatic way he clutched a box under his arm, caught my attention. He looked as if he was about to make off faster than his legs could carry him. Always watching for gestures to copy, I recognised him immediately as the man who had come smartly off the trireme.

      Several people stood about waiting to consult All-People. As we were passing them, the magician threw something into the hot ash of his altar, so that it momentarily burnt bright yellow. My attention caught by the flame, I was trapped also by All-People’s amber gaze. He raised an arm and beckoned me with a finger, red and twisted as an entrail.

      I nudged de Lambant. ‘He wants you.’

      He nudged me harder. ‘It’s you, young hero. Forward for your fate!’

      As I stepped towards the altar, its pungent perfumes caught me in the throat, so that I coughed and scarcely heard All-People’s single declaration to me: ‘If you stand still enough, you can act effectively.’

      ‘Thanks, sire,’ I said, and turned after de Lambant, who was already hurrying on. I had not a denario to give, though advice carries a high value in Malacia.

      ‘Guy, what do you think that means, if anything, “Stand still, act effectively”? Typical warning against change, I suppose. How I do hate both religions.’

      He bit deeply into his peach, letting it slobber luxuriously down his chin, and said in an affected scholarly voice, ‘Highly typical of the misoneism of our age, my dear de Chirolo – one of the perils of living in a gerontocracy, to my mind … No, you turnip, you know well what the old goat’s on about. He’s a better critic of the drama than you suspect, and hopes by his advice to cure you of your habit of prancing about the stage stealing the limelight.’

      We were falling into a scuffle when my sleeve was clutched. I turned, ready for pickpockets, and there stood the old man with the fur jacket and the box. He was panting, his mouth open, so that I had a view of his broken teeth and chops; yet his general expression was alert and helped by blue eyes, which is a colour rarely met with in Malacia.

      ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, for the intrusion. You are young Perian de Chirolo, I believe?’

      He spoke with an accent of some sort. I admitted my identity and presumed that he had possibly derived some enjoyment from my performances.

      ‘I’m not, young sir, a giant one for performances, although it occurs I have myself written a play, which –’

      ‘In that case, sir, whatever your name is, I can be of no help. I’m a player, not an impresario, so?’

      ‘Excuse me, I was not about to ask for favours but to offer one.’ He pulled the jacket about him with dignity, cuddling his box for greater comfort. ‘My name, young sir, is called Otto Bengtsohn. I am not from Malacia but from Tolkhorm at the north, from which particular adversities what afflict the poor and make their lives a curse have drove me since some years. My belief is that only the poor will help the poor. Accordingly, I wish for to offer you work, if you are free.’

      ‘Work? What kind of work?’

      His expression became very severe; he was suddenly a different man. He regarded me as if he believed himself to have made a mistake.

      ‘Your kind of work, of course. Playing.’ His lips came together as if stitched. ‘If you are free, I offer you work with my zahnoscope.’

      Looking down on him, I formulated the resolve, not for the first time, never to become old.

      ‘Have you work also for my good friend here, Guy de Lambant, almost as famous, almost as young, almost as poor, almost as skillful as I, old Bengtsohn from Tolkhorm?’

      And de Lambant asked, ‘Do the poor help only one poor or two poor?’

      To him the old man said, ‘I can afford only one poor for my modest design. All-People, as well as my personal astrologer, indicated that the one should be Master Perian de Chirolo, according to the presentiments.’

      I asked what on earth his zahnoscope was. Was it a theatre?

      ‘I have no theatre, Master.’ His voice became confidential. Picking at one of my buttons for security, he edged his way between de Lambant and me. ‘I do not wish talking in the street. I have enemies and the State has eyes. Come at my miserable place and see for yourself what thing I am offering. It is something more than of the moment passing, that I will say. I stay not far from here, on the other side of St Marco’s, into a court off Exhibition Street, at the Sign of the Dark Eye. Come and see, conform to the forecasts.’

      A gilded berlin, lumbering too close, gave me the chance to move away from him without forfeiting my button.

      ‘Go back to your dark eye and your dark court, my venerable friend. We have other business, nothing to do with you or the stars.’

      He stood there with his box gripped firmly under his arm, his mouth stitched again, his face blank. No disappointment or anger. Just a disconcerting look as if he had me summed in a neat ledger kept in his head. He was indifferent to the people who jostled past him, going this way and that.

      ‘You ought to see what he has to offer. Never miss a chance for advancement, de Chirolo,’ said de Lambant, as we went on our way. ‘He’s bedraggled enough to be a wealthy miser. Perhaps he came away from Tolkhorm with the city treasure.’

      I imitated the old man’s Northern accent. ‘“I have enemies and the State has eyes …” He’s probably a Progressive or something equally shady. I’m a fair judge of character, Guy. Take it from me that that old eccentric has nothing to offer except a certain scarcity value.’

      ‘You

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