* * *
Pausert went through his limbering exercises as he had done so many times, although by now he was no longer nervous about that part of his role as Mercutio. His body knew every choreographed movement so thoroughly that he could have done his fight scenes blindfolded or drunk. So all that mattered was his own preparation, warming up his muscles so that he wouldn't injure himself.
Himbo Petey had confided to the thespians that it was getting to be time to move along, he knew the signs, and Cravan agreed with him. The advertisements would go out tonight: Last four days onplanet! See your favorites again for the final time! There were several potential problems, not the least of which was the possibility of developing jealousy between those whose acts had lasted past the novelty stage, and those whose acts had not.
But even the thespians were beginning to see signs of the contempt bred by familiarity. Early in the run, the audiences had been forgiving. But now, if someone fumbled a line or a prop, there was a subtle grumbling; even, on occasion, outright raspberries.
So there it was. Time to go. The announcement of last days would bring a final influx of customers and cash, and then they would lift. And now they would be heading in the direction where they needed to go. Hubwards. Towards the Empress, to deliver their message. And what then? Pausert only wished he knew. He could not imagine how even the Empress could do anything about the Nanite plague, but who was he to assume he knew anything at all?
He heard the start of the music for Act Three, and swaggered onto the stage as the curtain rose.
Benvolio fanned himself with his hand, and spoke the first lines of Act 3. "I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire: The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, and, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl; for now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."
Pausert made a face and waggled his finger in Benvolio's face. "Thou art like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, when indeed there is no need." He raised his eyes heavenward, as if asking for patience.
They traded jibes until Tybalt entered, Vonard Kleesp playing the role with his usual swaggering panache. Benvolio exclaimed: "By my head, here come the Capulets!" He flung himself down on the steps of a prop-fountain, right in their way. "By my heel, I care not."
And that was when Pausert relled vatch.
Not that Silver-eyes hadn't been around, quite faithfully. It was just that the vatch hadn't made its presence known during one of the plays for quite some time. It had been quite scrupulous, in fact, about not making itself a nuisance.
Suddenly, from the aura the vatch was emitting, Pausert realized that Silver-eyes had not come here in play or jest.
Trouble! Trouble! Trouble! shrilled the vatch.
A sudden commotion erupted backstage.
Vonard Kleesp's eyes narrowed.
* * *
There is one sound that no fencer every forgets, if he's heard it once. It is the sudden snap of the protected tip of a fencing blade being broken off. It is the sound that says: someone has a deadly blade in his hands now, a length of steel that can kill you.
It was the sound that Pausert—and everyone else—heard at that moment.
"Move, and you die," said Kleesp softly.
So, of course, Pausert moved.
He rolled out of immediate striking distance, desperately trying to get his own blade free at the same time. It got tangled up in his cloak, though, and as he shot to his feet, he saw Kleesp coming at him and he thought it was all over—
But like a miracle—vatch-style miracle, he realized—the cloak flung itself off his blade, wrapped itself around his free hand, giving him a "shield" of the sort that street-fencers would use.
And there was a lot more noise going on backstage. Pausert didn't have time to think much about it, but his initial assumption that Vonard Kleesp had simply gone mad due to the effects of his alcoholism vanished. This was foul play of some sort, not lunacy.
Kleesp lunged. The tip ripped cloth on his hose and Pausert felt warm wetness on his thigh. Then the blade licked across his upper arm. Penetrating, and being pulled free.
The captain tried to get into the most sensible position which a man with a buttoned foil can take when facing a murderer with a naked blade. That position was somewhere a long way off.
Unfortunately, short of jumping into the audience, Pausert had run out of space to go to. So, he parried the next lunge, wishing desperately it was really as easy to convert a foil into a live blade as the three-dee made it out to be. It wasn't, or there would have been a lot of dead fencers every year. Kleesp had obviously prepared his sword ahead of time. Pausert had no such advantage. Standing on the tip and giving it a sharp jerk upwards was a futile pastime—unless you had a handy metal vise under your shoes. The soft rubber sole on the buskins he was wearing certainly wouldn't do the job.
So he did what the sword could do—parry. He managed to force Kleesp's blade up, so he could grapple the man. Pausert dropped the foil, and, snatching at the base of the naked blade with his cloaked hand, clung to Kleesp's shirtfront with the other.
It was the last thing the murderous actor had expected.
"What in the name of Patham's Seventh Hell are you playing at, damn you?" Pausert hissed into his ear. "Drop the sword and back off."
Kleesp wrestled with manic strength. "I'm going to kill you and be a wealthy man, Pausert," he hissed back. "The Agandar's fortune belongs to me, since I was his lieutenant. You think I spent this much time tracking it down and setting my trap just to walk away? Not a chance."
He managed to wrench his blade free, but he was still too close to use it effectively. And before he could back away, Pausert had him in a bear hug. Whatever else, the captain wasn't letting his armed opponent go.
Kleesp tried to headbutt the captain, but Pausert had been in too many brawls as a junior naval officer. He met the headbutt with one of his own—harder and better placed. Kleesp grunted softly and, for a moment, seemed to weaken. Off-balance, they stumbled against the one of the prop pillars at the edge of the stage. The prop, never intended to withstand such impact, promptly collapsed.
They fell to the floor together. Kleesp's foil was jarred out of his hand when they hit the stage, skittering a few feet away.
Pausert felt a momentary surge of elation. Then—somehow—Kleesp managed to break the captain's bear hug and roll clear. The actor-assassin scrabbled for his foil and came back to his feet, weapon in hand. He lunged at Pausert in a single smooth motion. Pausert dove out of the way and landed, painfully, on another foil. He'd barely managed to take it in hand before Kleesp was onto him again.
The captain parried successfully and took a step back. And then he learned the lesson all good actors do: If you are retreating, don't do so towards the edge of the stage.
He tumbled over and fell against the front row seats.
With a leap, Kleesp followed him. "Give them space!" yelled someone. "Move the chairs!"
To Pausert's astonishment, the audience was cheering wildly. This was entertainment! They thought the play was still on!
The cheers grew to a deafening roar, as the captain's sword and Kleesp's clashed in a flurry of thrusts and parries. Alas, not all the chairs had been moved out of the way. Pausert stumbled over one, bringing it down in his fall.
Luckily, Kleesp fell also. The captain's sudden fall caused his lunge to miss wildly and the assassin lost his balance. Pausert snatched up the chair he'd fallen over and slammed it down on Kleesp's back. Unfortunately, it was one of the flimsy folding chairs used for the front seats of overflow crowds. It couldn't do any real damage—though it bought Pausert enough time to vault back onto the stage.