I shudder, wondering what Player Parrish is doing to the spy. And for that matter, what the Players would do tome.
“But I think it best to cancel the cast party,” Sil goes on lowly. “Dorian rarely sends only one of his little assassins. Who’s to say there aren’t more lurking about?”
Anetworkof Player bounty hunters? Hope blooms in my chest at the thought as I try to school my expression.
Jude’s grin tenses at the corners. “The North already do their worst to keep our curtain closed. Why should we let their threats ruin a good party?” With that, he ushers me away and calls over his shoulder, “And tell Parrish to clean up the mess this time when she’s done with the spy.”
As soon as we’re out of earshot, Jude murmurs, “I saw your face. You know that name.”
“Of course I know it,” I respond smugly. “Dorian has killed two cast members.” I find that hard to believe, though—that one mancould assassinate two Players. A single Player has taken out entire armies. “He’s called the Playhouse Bounty Hunter.”
Jude frowns. “And he’s raising more of them. Sends one of his sheep into the Playhouse to be slaughtered every once in a while, pretending to be an auditionee or even a patron in the audience. One tried to attack Arius at the stage door not too long ago.”
We come to a set of steps that lies just beyond the dressing rooms. “Stop walking like that. They lead to the rooftop, not a guillotine,” Jude mutters after me. I walk even slower in response and hear a scoff as we climb the flight of stairs.
The rooftop glows silver in the moonlight. A great dome shades the terrace, braced upon a colonnade laced together by an ornate railing and gloved in emerald ivy. Torchlight dances between each set of opulent pillars, illuminating a gathering of plush armchairs and sofas.
Three Players drape over the seating like spoiled royals. Across the terrace, their respective auditionees have taken to picking at the feast off to the side like little birds. My eyes widen at the dishes piled with more food than I’ve ever seen in my life—sweet melons, fresh figs, and aged cheeses arranged on silver platters beside trays of roasted meat.
Four or so shadowy figures, clothed all in black, attend to another table, arranging luxurious displays of honey cakes and fruit tarts. But before I can glimpse any of their faces, they exit silently as ghosts, vanishing down the stairs. Stagehands?
I look to the tables and push off my hunger. It’s late, inching toward midnight. I need a plan.
Unless I accept his offer—
I wince, shaking off the thought.
“Jude.” I hate how desperate my voice sounds but push on. “What will it take for you to let me out of this?” My soul, probably.
Jude crosses his arms, armlets winking in the moonlight. “Interested in asecondbargain to undo the first?” He leans back onto the railing, looks at me. “There is nothing you could say to convince—”
A horrible wailing assaults the night, and my gaze jumps to the ledge behind Jude.
Down below, thousands of dismissed auditionees smother the gates, weaving their fingers through the bars like the dead reaching from their graves. Faces—so many—stretch with agony, like departing from the Playhouse is the most treacherous fate imaginable.
It occurs to me that I don’t know how the auditionees were selected while I was snooping around. Did they audition? I certainly didn’t.
TITUS: “Stopcrying!” The Player’s voice strikes the night like thunder. He leans back in his chair, drinks deeply from a gold chalice. “At least the lot of you can leave. Be grateful.”
I raise an eyebrow at the odd comment, but the wailing only grows louder at the acknowledgment of a Player, their voices searching for a way up to us like little monsters clawing out of hell.
Jude rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about them. They’ll get over it. Now, listen closely.” He gestures to the cast from afar, to where one of the auditionees is approaching the Players with the caution one might use to approach a vengeful god. Which, I suppose, the Players aren’t all that far off from being. “The other auditionees arenotyour competition. Worry about the Players. Andespeciallyabout Sil. The ones who go first are usually whoever he finds the least amusing.”
At Jude’s prompt, I study the cast as their searching gazes rake over the unnerved auditionee. One of them asks a question I can’t hear.
RIVEN: “Shouldn’tyoube over there?”
JUDE: “And leave you here to plot and seethe by yourself? Never.”
I scowl.
“Now, that loud one is Titus,” Jude murmurs as the burliest of the Players leans back into his seat, looking at the others like a king regarding his loyal subjects. Titus is frequently cast as such. His herculean arms stretch wide over the sofa, knees spread so as to take up as much space as possible. As if on cue, Titus throws his head back and laughs, a hearty baritone that pulses in the marble.
One hundred and ninety years in the Playhouse, if I remember right. Titus specializes in Tragedy, and the deathless arts with it.
JUDE: “Donotchallenge him. Doesn’t take losing well. And that there is Mattia—”
My gaze falls to the woman beside Titus, who casually stretches the longest legs I have ever seen over his lap. She’s all supple curves, wrapped entirely in jade diamonds that cling to her like a second skin. Her jawline might have been carved by the gods themselves. While the other Players favor their cosmetics, Mattia’s face is bare, save for a clean slash of maroon lipstick. Like anything more would only obscure her beauty.
