‘Ah, that makes more sense,’ said Martin, settling into his seat again. ‘I was finding it difficult to imagine you as a soldier. I have no love for fighting myself, particularly in what seems to be a losing cause.’ His gaze flicked to the window. ‘Yet I am not ready to surrender to the Empress, either. Perhaps…we can help each other.’
‘How?’ asked Rhosmari.
‘We can look for the rebels together,’ he said. ‘I know Rob well enough to guess where he and his people would be most likely to hide. I know how to get almost anywhere in this country by train, which is a good way to stay ahead of the Blackwings, or anyone else who might follow us. And we each have magical skills that the other does not, so the two of us can protect each other better than either of us could do alone.’
He did have a point, Rhosmari had to admit. And he was in her debt, so he had good reason for wanting to help her. ‘And once we find the rebels?’ she asked.
‘Then I’ll go my own way,’ said Martin. ‘As I said, I have no interest in martyrdom. But if you need an escort back to your home Wyld…’ He gave a shrug that was not quite indifferent. ‘I would be glad to do that, too.’
Now she understood. He must be thinking that if he helped Rhosmari, her people would give him refuge from the Empress. But the Elders would never allow a thief and a deceiver to set foot in the Gwerdonnau Llion, unless they were certain he had repented of his ways.
‘All right,’ she said at last, ‘it’s a bargain. But no more tricks. If we need food, or lodging, or transport, we pay for it honestly.’
‘Then you’ll have to pay for both of us,’ said Martin. ‘I have no money at all. But if it means so much to you…’
‘It does.’
‘Then I accept your terms.’
The train station at Cardiff was the noisiest, most confusing place Rhosmari had ever seen. Humans hurried in all directions, laughing and arguing and embracing one another, shouting into little boxes they held in their hands or bobbing their heads to rhythms that they alone could hear. Though most faeries – Rhosmari included – were chary of touch, she was grateful for Martin’s steadying hand on her elbow as he steered her through the commotion.
‘I know this city,’ he said, as they emerged into the brightly lit hall at the end of the corridor, a place lined with booths selling food and merchandise and swarming with people of all colours and ages. ‘I have friends here, and I know a place we can stay.’
His confidence surprised her. Faeries did not often speak of having friends, even on the Green Isles. ‘Where?’ she asked.
‘This way,’ said Martin. He plunged through the crowd to the station entrance, dodged a pained-looking human couple with a trio of squabbling children, and led the way outside. ‘Cardiff,’ he announced with satisfaction, spreading his arms to the looming buildings and the darkening sky.
Rhosmari had never been in a large city before, and ordinarily she would have been fascinated. But right now she was too tired to do more than squint and nod.
‘Come on,’ said Martin. Unlike her, he was practically springing with energy – but then, he had slept on the train. Before Rhosmari could protest he caught her hand, fingers snaking through hers in a way that made her shiver, and dragged her towards the street.
As they came out onto the main road, Rhosmari winced and shielded her eyes. Everything hurt to look at: signs blazing above shop windows, streetlights glowering overhead, the headlamps of vehicles blinding her as they rumbled past. ‘Is it far?’ she asked. ‘I—’ Then a wave of smog assaulted her and she doubled up coughing, unable to finish the sentence.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Martin told her, looking more amused than sympathetic. ‘And we’ve a few streets to go yet – but we’ll be there soon enough.’
Minute after dreary minute they walked, while the night closed in and the air turned from cool to cold. Rhosmari was numb all over by the time they stopped, in front of a narrow door whose painted sign read BARDHOUSE THEATRE COMPANY. There was a button beside the doorway; Martin pressed it and waited.
‘Shh,’ warned a hoarse voice, as the door cracked open and a tousled head poked out. ‘They’ve already started. If you want to audition, you’ll have to—’ The man straightened up, eyes rounding with surprise. ‘Mad Martin! I thought we’d seen the last of you! Who’s this, your girl?’
‘Not so much, I’m afraid,’ said Martin. ‘We met on the train. Good to see you again, Toby. Mind if we come in and watch for a bit? I thought Rhosmari might enjoy—’ his voice dropped into a mocking drawl— ‘a unique cultural experience.’
‘Oh, you’ll have that here, all right,’ sighed Toby, pushing his hands through his hair until it stood on end. ‘I’ve never seen such a dismal lot of amateurs, and Lyn’s been carving them up like Christmas geese. But if you’re up for the punishment, I won’t stop you. Watch the ladder—’ and with that, he backed inside.
Rhosmari stared after him, weariness forgotten in the astonishment of discovering that Martin’s friends were human. But she had little time to dwell on it, because Martin had already stepped over the threshold, and she had to follow.
They emerged into a narrow entryway, with a paper-littered study just visible to their right and a staircase heading upwards on the left. A battered stepladder stood to one side of the corridor, with a striped cat sleeping underneath. Martin slid past it without so much as a glance, but Rhosmari crouched to look at it more closely. There were no cats on the Green Isles, and this was her first encounter with one. Was it tame? Would it let her touch it?
‘Come on,’ Martin hissed over his shoulder, and reluctantly she rose and joined him. They stepped through a curtained arch into a deep, windowless room half lost in shadow. Rows of chairs filled the space from top to bottom, angling downwards to a starkly lit platform at the front. With a nod to their human guide, Martin slipped into a seat, and Rhosmari sat down beside him.
‘What is this place?’ she whispered. But Martin only pointed to the stage, where a drab-looking woman stood clutching a book to her chest. Her gaze was fixed on someone in the front row, her expression full of nervous hope as she asked, ‘How was that?’
‘It was bloody awful,’ said a laconic female voice. ‘Not this time, love.’
The woman wilted and slunk off the platform. ‘Next,’ said the bored-sounding woman, and a girl with frizzy brown hair scraped back into a knot climbed up to take her place. She gave a wavering smile, cleared her throat, and began:
‘The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes…’
Unlike the woman who had come before her, she held no book in her hands; she seemed to be reciting the speech from memory. Unfortunately, she was concentrating too hard on getting the words right to put much expression into them, and Rhosmari felt an unexpected flash of sympathy. She leaned forward in her seat, willing the girl to relax and not be afraid.
The result was startling. At once the girl stood taller and began to speak with more confidence, investing the speech with such passion that it almost seemed the words were her own. Her eyes shone and her gestures became eloquent as she urged her unseen hearer to consider her argument, examine his heart, and choose compassion over the letter of the law:
‘I have spoke thus much, to mitigate the justice of thy plea; which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice must needs lay sentence ’gainst the merchant there.’
She finished with a little bow, then stepped back and waited. The stark lights picked out the freckles on her skin and the flush in her cheeks; she was breathing quickly, and Rhosmari felt her nervousness as though she were on trial herself.
‘Well, now,’ came the pronouncement from below. ‘That was more like it.’ With an energy that belied her languid tone, a short, steely-haired woman leaped up from her seat and seized the girl’s hand in an approving shake. ‘Good work, Lucy. Come back tomorrow. Next!’
‘I
t seems you don’t need me to teach you to appreciate theatre,’ Martin murmured to Rhosmari as another human made his way onto the platform. ‘But who would have thought an honest faery like yourself would take so readily to an art built on trickery and lies?’
‘Lies?’ Rhosmari was taken aback. ‘But I thought that girl was giving a speech – an argument—’
‘Of course she was. But in doing so, she was also playing the part of a woman disguised as a man, pretending to be a lawyer in a court that never existed,’ said Martin, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. ‘That was from William Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice.’
A play. Rhosmari knew that humans sometimes put on disguises and acted out stories to amuse an audience, but she had never seen it done before. ‘That’s not a lie,’ she protested. ‘How can it be, when no one is really deceived?’
‘Ah, but they want to be deceived,’ Martin replied. ‘And the closer an actor comes to making them believe that the emotions he pretends are real, the better they love him for it. Watch.’ He nodded at the stage as a dark-eyed boy who moved like a candle flame stepped forward and began to speak:
‘I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions…?’
By the end of his speech, Rhosmari was blinking back tears. The earnestness with which the young man delivered his lines, the pride and despair alternating upon his face, communicated his yearning for justice with a power that made her ache. When he spoke of wanting revenge on those who had wronged him, it made her uneasy – and yet she understood why he might feel that way. And when she glanced at Martin and saw how his eyes had narrowed and his hands tightened upon his knees, she realised that he too was moved and trying not to show it.
When the boy finished there was silence, tense as a held breath. Then—
‘I knew it!’ bellowed the woman in the front, spinning around to jab a finger at Martin. ‘It’s you! I should have known you were back the moment this rabble started performing like real actors. But what’s the good of having a muse who won’t stay put?’ She strode up the aisle, seized Martin and gave him a resounding kiss on both cheeks.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,’ said Martin with dignity, scrubbing his lip-printed face.
‘No, of course he doesn’t,’ said the woman, turning to Rhosmari. ‘He only likes to hang about the smallest theatre in Cardiff because we’re cheap. As if I don’t know the Tylwyth Teg when I see one.’ And with that startling pronouncement she barked back over her shoulder, ‘Steven, I want you back. Tomorrow at seven.’
The boy’s face blazed with a smile. He snapped his heels together and bowed, then leaped off the platform and vanished through a door at the foot of the stage.
‘Lyn has this delightful notion that I’m some sort of faery benefactor,’ Martin told Rhosmari, so casual it made her blink. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d be going senile at her age, but you never know with these theatre people – ow!’ He clutched his arm where the woman had pinched him. ‘Careful, now. If you make me angry, I might put a curse on your box office receipts.’
‘They couldn’t be much worse than they are already,’ retorted Lyn. ‘Just ask Toby, he’s been weeping over the books for weeks. Why do you think we’re casting Shakespeare with spotty-faced adolescents and the cleaning woman’s second cousin? We certainly can’t afford anyone better.’ She let out a sigh. ‘But a few of them show promise, and those last two had a real gift. At least we’ll have something to work with this season.’ She eyed Martin critically. ‘So how long are you going to hang about? A few days? A week?’
‘It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,’ said Martin. ‘Rhosmari and I are only here for the night. Do you think you could spare us a corner?’
‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re skint again,’ said Lyn. ‘I thought your people had gold lining every pocket. You’re a very disappointing sort of faery, you know.’
‘Try Rhosmari,’ said Martin. ‘She’s a much better one.’
Lyn looked Rhosmari up and down and snorted. ‘Oh, that’s likely. All right then, both of you, come with me. I’m sure we can find a bed for you somewhere.’
‘There you go,’ said Lyn a few minutes later, flopping a mattress onto the floor of the study. ‘Sorry about the paint stink, we’re still cleaning up after the upstairs toilet flooded last week.’
‘All part of our usual charming state of chaos,’ added Toby, shoving a box under one of the desks. ‘Though I’ll get this office fixed up eventually, I promise. You never know when some random bloke and his girl will come through and want to use it as a hostel.’ But he spoke cheerfully, with a nudge at Martin’s side and a wink for Rhosmari. ‘Right, Lyn, are we done for tonight? Sure these two aren’t going to murder you in your sleep?’
‘Reasonably,’ said Lyn, in a dry tone. ‘Off you go.’
Toby grinned and kissed her cheek, then sidestepped the ladder and disappeared. Lyn stood a moment, surveying the room – the two desks heaped with papers, the glass-fronted machine displaying dizzying patterns in the corner, the mattress taking up most of the floor – and said, ‘Not exactly the Lanesborough, is it? But there’s sheets and blankets in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can at least offer you a fry-up in the morning, if you bestir yourselves around eight or so. Not that you’ll likely have a choice, with that fat lump crawling all over you,’ and she jerked her head at the still-sleeping cat.
‘Bless you, Lyn,’ said Martin, without a trace of irony; it was the closest most faeries ever came to saying thanks, and Rhosmari was startled to hear it. ‘We’re in your debt.’
‘That you are,’ Lyn replied. ‘I’m going upstairs to cuddle with Burbage – just knock if you need anything.’ And with that she stalked up the staircase, flicking off the corridor lights behind her.
‘Is Burbage the cat?’ asked Rhosmari, when the woman had gone.
‘Actually, I believe Burbage is her laptop computer,’ replied Martin. ‘The cat doesn’t have a name, as far as I know.’ He leaned back against the desk, hands splayed casually on the pale wood. ‘And I’ve a feeling she’s not quite sure what to make of you, either.’
Rhosmari glanced around the room, uncomfortable with his steady gaze. ‘You seem to know her quite well. I thought the Empress didn’t want her people being friendly with humans?’
‘She doesn’t,’ said Martin. ‘But even when I belonged to the Empress, just because she could control me didn’t mean that she always did. And I was careful not to give her reason to think she might need to, either.’ He pushed himself upright and walked out into the corridor, adding over his shoulder, ‘You’ll want some bedsheets?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Rhosmari.
Martin returned with an armful of linens, snapped out the bottom sheet and began fitting it over the mattress. It was a servant’s task, yet he did it without self-consciousness – and with an ease that suggested he’d done it many times before.
‘You still haven’t told me how you met Lyn,’ Rhosmari said, watching him. ‘How did she guess you were a faery?’
‘Lyn is remarkably perceptive that way,’ said Martin. ‘She doesn’t trust her instincts enough to admit it’s anything more than a joke, but she recognised what I was the moment I first walked into her theatre. I suspect there’s faery blood in her somewhere.’ He tucked in the top sheet and turned it down, adding, ‘She would have recognised you too, if she let herself. But you didn’t fit her idea of what a faery should look like, so she dismissed it.’
Rhosmari frowned. How could she look any more like what she was? It was true that her ancestors had come to Wales from a far-off country, so she was one of perhaps fifty faeries in all the Green Isles who did not share the bland colouring most common to the Children of Rhys. But why should that matter? She was no less magical than the others, and no less loyal to her homeland. It made no sense that anyone would compare her to Martin, and think she was not a true faery.
; ‘In any case, Lyn is just one of several humans I’ve come to know since I discovered theatre,’ Martin continued. ‘Most of my acquaintances are in London, where there are hundreds of acting troupes, and a play is born every minute. But whenever the Empress gave me liberty to travel, I took the chance to broaden my horizons.’ A little smile played along his lips. ‘And I have to admit that of all the theatres I’ve visited, this little place is my favourite.’
Rhosmari gazed down at the mattress, now neatly made up with sheets and blankets. ‘What I did earlier, when that girl was giving her speech…I didn’t even realise that was possible. I know our people make humans more creative just by being near them, but I could feel the difference. And now I wonder if I did her more harm than good.’
‘You wanted to help her,’ said Martin. ‘And you did. But the ability to deliver Portia’s speech came from within her, not you. All you did was take away her nervousness and give her a chance to prove herself. And it is intoxicating to see your power affect them, isn’t it?’ He yawned, stretching both arms above his head and arching his back so far she could see his hipbones. ‘Anyway, I’m going to sleep. Good night.’
Rhosmari tensed. Surely he didn’t mean… Of course he had made up the bed, but he couldn’t really think… And there was no way she would even consider… She would just have to tell him—
But before she could find the words, Martin turned and walked to the door. And then, with a last mocking glance over his shoulder that told her he knew exactly what she’d been thinking, he transformed himself into a tiny black and white bird and fluttered away.
five
‘You’ll be coming back next time you’re in Cardiff,’ said Lyn after breakfast the next morning, giving Martin a pointed look as she unlocked the front door. ‘We’re doing Merchant in June and Much Ado in August, and I’ll want to see you at both.’