Intermission Scene VIII
“Thank Dionysus!” Jude announces, throwing open the doors to a dark, run-down tavern with only a few patrons and even fewer lanterns.
I wonder what type of person finds themselves in such a place first thing in the morning. Though given that I’m one of them, who am I to judge?
“Your best wine, I thank you,” Jude declares, sliding a few gold pieces to the bartender, then collapsing onto a peeling stool that’s seen better days.
His disguise is thinner than I think it should be: hair cropped short in a honey-blond color, eyes farther apart and masked in shades of blue.
He’s either too tired or too lazy to bother disguising his frame and height.
I take the disguise as a comfort, because I don’t have a clue how to face the Jude I was arguing with an hour ago. Even though my mind has been replaying and overanalyzing it from fifteen different angles since then.
None of them make sense. None of them work with the pieces I have of who Jude is.
Worse, I’m not sure I want them to.
The man on the other side of the bar raises an eyebrow at the coin, and I don’t have time to ponder where on earth Jude even got that money before it’s plucked off the counter and replaced with a wooden cup filled with a deep-red hue.
“And one more thing,” Jude adds. “You wouldn’t happen to know where we are, would you?”
Before suspicion can etch into the bartender’s face, I gesture to the wine and mutter, “It isn’t his first.”
“Cartonia,” the man replies with a thick accent and moves away before Jude can ask for a golden chalice instead.
I drop my head in my hands, the answer digging into my pride. We made it to Syrene, but I failed so extravagantly at delivering a Player to the council that I didn’t get us halfway to the meetup point.
“Well, Alistaire,” Jude says, swirling his cup. “We have quite the journey ahead of us. Four days’ walk, I’d say. Three if we’re lucky.”
“And I wish you the very best on it,” I say, ashamed by my complete and utter failure. “We’ll be parting ways shortly.” I know when to cut my losses.
Jude raises an eyebrow at me, and I avert my gaze to the torn scarf I used to wrap around his injured arm before we came in here. It does little to stanch the golden blood but at least hides it.
“In for a nasty surprise, those monsters…”
The words catch our attention, muttered from one man to another at a nearby table. My eyes fall on the newspaper between them. It’s the same headline Dorian shoved in my face. The one proclaiming my faceless fame and Jude’s mysterious disappearance.
Jude’s eyes narrow at the paper, catching up.
“How can they be sure you’re missing?” I whisper to him. “Just because you didn’t show at the stage door last night?”
“A bit more complicated than that,” he says lowly. “Sil and I were to meet with the council this morning to begin to discuss the terms of our new reentry. You can imagine they might have noticed when I didn’t show.”
“Heard he was sighted near the border just yesterday,” the man with the beard goes on. Guess we were seen. “Could be anywhere by now, but gods. A Player on the loose…”
Another man laughs cruelly. “Hell of a show, once they catch him. They’ll have to find themselves a new Lead Player after that trial, I tell you.”
“Little point in a trial,” challenges the third. “It’s in the godsdamned law. They’ll be in their rights to execute him. Now there’s entertainment I might pay to see.”
Jude sets his drink down on the table, hard.
“Can’t get far. If he really came this way, they’ll catch him before long. They’ve finally started confiscating the mirrors the damned Revelers brought in.” The man taps the newspaper on the table. “Imagine that. Executed in his own city.”
“Watch them try and replace him with this faceless bitch the papers keep going on about.”
My hackles rise, and Jude slowly turns a look over his shoulder.
That anger will be the death of you.
Before I can think better of it, I place a hand over Jude’s, as if to plead, Don’t. Do. Anything.
His hand is ice-cold. We found a creek for him to wash the blood off his hands, but I can still imagine the stains there, an unsettling reminder that he isn’t all vanity and stage bows. Which is something I’d really prefer not to witness in this tavern right now.
“Is that true?” I say under my breath. “That if you leave the Playhouse, they can—”
“Yes,” he says. “That law is signed in Eleutheraen gold. I’m not supposed to leave—I’m not supposed to even be able to leave—but that’s between me and my contract with Sil.” He presses his fingers to his temples, like his head has started aching. “You can thank the damned Peacemaker for that.”
My heart drops as I school my features at the mention of my father. Of course, I know all of this—ensuring the Players stay caged in the Playhouse is a legacy tied to my family name.
But for the first time, the odd nature of it hits me. “Why would Sil sign into such a thing? Trapping his own Players.” It doesn’t make sense.
Jude is staring at his wine like it owes him money. “That,” he says, tone hardening, bitter, “is a great question.” He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly waiting for me to do the math.
But I think I know. “Because the law was never for the benefit of mortals,” I breathe. “It’s for Sil’s. He doesn’t want any of you being able to leave. Under threat of your lives.”
I reach desperately for the part of me that hates Jude. The hatred instilled since I was young. The part of me sharpened and ready to drag him before the council in exchange for leverage and my freedom.
But my anger and hatred are crushed under the weight of knowing that Jude could have run back to the Playhouse after escaping me. He could have made it back last night, before the council could file his absence. He chose to track my kidnappers and me in the opposite direction instead.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, “for coming back.”
He must have done it because he wants out of the Great Dionysia. Wants to use me. To exploit me to get through the casting call. He’s a selfish Player and that’s how—
“Loath as you are to admit it, Alistaire, you are one of us now.”
I’m not sure what startles me more. That it didn’t occur to me Jude could have his own moral code or the implication that I’m a castmate to be looked after.
Players kill for three reasons, I remember. A blow to their ego, a threat to their cast, or, on rare occasion, for pure spectacle.
“Right,” I say, amused and maybe a little unnerved by the idea. “You won’t leave a castmate behind.”
Jude watches me. “I won’t leave you behind.”
I narrow my eyes. “Because we’re linked.” He must want his power back.
He shakes his head once, refusing to break his gaze. “No.”
For a moment, a bright, delicate fluttering warms my chest.
I shove it down at once, horrified.
“And some might say you now owe me a debt, given that I’ll be paying for it with my life,” Jude says. “So, please, Alistaire.” He looks pleadingly at me. “Come back to the Playhouse. Come back, and I will release you from our bargain.”
“What?” I snap in a whisper. “Why? You just said yourself, going back will get you killed.”
“Alistaire.” Jude pulls his hand from mine, turning away from the bar to ensure no one sees. He brings two fingers to the collar of his shirt and tugs it down toward his shoulder, and my blood turns to ice.
That golden gash I’d noticed before has spread to his chest, peeling up to his throat.
He conceals it again and leans toward me. “I have to get back to the Playhouse.”
Something is wrong with Jude.
At first, I think he’s just run out of witty remarks and biting comebacks.
Then, I think he’s run out of words altogether.
Sometimes I feel his gaze on my back as I walk, and I throw a look over my shoulder.
Three times, I’ve caught him wiping his eyes, smudging the kohl beneath his lashes.
Other times, he just watches me back, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
Mile after mile, I never do.
“Green!” he proclaims once and pales a little when I ask what he means. “My favorite color,” he explains sheepishly. “It’s green.”
I have no idea what’s happening to Jude, but he’s right. He needs to get back to the Playhouse.
A deer in the woods startles us both. We’re on edge still. “Do you think there are more of them?” I ask, watching the deer leap across the nearby creek and retreat into the hills. “Those hunters?”
“Were I to wager?” Jude stumbles again and catches himself on a thin tree trunk. That’s the third time in the last few minutes. “I’d guess there’s a thousand of them for every one that died. There’ll be hell to pay for it, dear—”
I wait for the lilting pronunciation of my alias that sounds more like Ah-li-star. It doesn’t come. Jude is staring at me, open-mouthed, still leaning on the tree trunk and blinking in confusion. His arm has bled through the scarf I tied around it.
“I’m sorry—your name is—” He swallows, frustration pinching his brow. “I know it; your name is…”
“Alistaire,” I offer.
“Alistaire!” he shouts and shakes his head. “Of course. Alistaire. Say, Alistaire,” he goes on, pausing to cough into the snow. “As fun as this little adventure has been, I think it’s far past time we get back.”
He pushes by me. I follow, telling myself he’s tired. We haven’t slept in two days. That cut on his arm could be infected. Something is clearly wrong with his left leg. Or maybe he’s just too self-absorbed to remember a name other than his own.
I glance back, and my excuses fall short.
A smattering of gold stains the snow.