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Leg Irons, the Bitch,
and the Wardrobe

Laura Frankos

"Your Highness, you've missed your mark again!" snapped Cammek.

Princess Louizza of Leffing glanced at the stage. "Oops," she giggled, and hopped backwards. "Sorry. Let's start at Jeckie's line about the costume ball, all right?"

"No, it's not all right!" Cammek said, throwing the script to the ground with such force that the princess' bodyguard emerged from the wings, her hand tightening around her sword hilt. "I am the director here and I shall decide . . ." Cammek let his voice trail off, not so subtly reminded of his position by the bodyguard's steely glare. Barking at King Pennilvath's favorite daughter was Not The Thing To Do. Louizza wasn't really a bad sort. She was trying. Often very trying.

Cammek ran his hands through his curly, prematurely graying hair—which undoubtedly would be grayer still assuming he lived to see Away We Go debut at the Combined Kingdoms' Dramatic Festival. "Break time," he said at last. "We'll resume at the top of scene three."

The actors scrambled to the rear of the theatre, where the king had assigned two flunkies and a cook with a magic hot cart. Having a royal in the cast gave certain advantages; Cammek had never eaten so well in all his years in the theatre.

Jeclyn, the male lead, obviously agreed. "What's on the menu today?" he asked in a resonant baritone. "Yummy! Stuffed mushrooms!"

The princess chuckled. "I've seen you in a dozen plays, Jeckie, reciting wonderful lines, but somehow 'Yummy! Stuffed mushrooms!' was never one."

"Well, Princess," said Polsiee, the second female lead, "even actors have to eat."

"Especially actors," said Clim-bor-pon, heaping his plate.

Polsiee turned to Clim-bor-pon. "I'd have thought you would have said actors had to drink, not eat."

The comic from Leffing's far western border did like the bottle. But Polsiee should have known better than to try trading barbs with him. Cammek waited for the sky to fall. Clim-bor-pon licked chopped green onion from his thumbnail. "It is said some wine and some dine. And some whine and dine." Clim-bor-pon's western accent made the "h" all the more noticeable. "Speaking of that, my dear, aren't two mushrooms plenty for a figure like yours? Got to watch the waistline."

Everyone laughed, even Polsiee, though Cammek was convinced it was merely good acting on her part. Princess Louizza laughed the loudest and helped herself to more mushrooms, neither action designed to endear her to Polsiee's heart.

A sudden crash made everyone jump. The princess' bodyguard rushed to her side, sword drawn. A flunky peered cautiously from behind the lighting tower. "Sorry," he stammered. "I dropped the tea tray."

Louizza put a hand on her defender's armored shoulder. "Calm down, Tipsy. I'm not under attack from teacups. Why don't you help the fellow clean up?"

The bodyguard's eyes raked the cast members standing near Louizza, searching for trouble. Finally she muttered, "Very well, Princess," and went to assist the flunky.

"Isn't it absurd calling such a sober young woman 'Tipsy,' Your Highness?" asked Polsiee.

"Her full name is Tip-lea-pon," Cammek said. "From the west, obviously."

"Of the Pon clan," said Jeclyn. "Relative of yours, Clim?"

The comic shook his head. "Maybe a distant cousin."

"She's never talked about her family," said the princess, "and she's been with me for years. Cammek, I'm off to the necessary before we resume."

Clim-bor-pon murmured, "Even actors have to eat, even royals have to . . . "

Cammek watched Louizza walk towards the privy. Tip-lea-pon saw her, too. She immediately abandoned the servant to his teapotsherds and followed her charge.

Polsiee shuddered. "It's creepy. She's always watching the princess. I couldn't live like that."

"It's her job," Cammek said. "I've gotten used to having her around. In fact, if it weren't for Tip-lea-pon, I suspect I'd be in hot water—literally—for spending so many hours alone tutoring Louizza." He sighed. "Hours and hours."

"Don't you enjoy late evenings with a beautiful, young, thin woman?" Clim-bor-pon said, with a wicked side glance at Polsiee, who, while still beautiful and female, could no longer lay claim to the other two adjectives.

"Two beautiful women," Cammek corrected him. "I find Tip-lea-pon stunning."

"Even though she could break you in two?" asked Jeclyn.

"Maybe because of it," Cammek said. "Not that I'm likely to find out. She never takes her eyes off Louizza. Besides, I'm not her type. The only sword I've ever brandished is a stage prop."

"Leaving aside the romantic predilections of western warrior women," Polsiee said with a sniff, "do you feel your tutoring is paying off?"

"What do you think?" Cammek countered. "Louizza's not . . . impossible. Her timing's improved. Knows the play cold."

"She's good in the funny bit she has with me," said Clim-bor-pon.

"But she's not cut out for the romantic lead, is she?" Polsiee asked bluntly.

Cammek sighed. "No, she's not." Of course, Polsiee wasn't right for it, either, no matter what she thought. Twenty years ago, certainly. But that was neither here nor there. "We'll keep rehearsing. If I truly feel we shouldn't go on, I'll tell the king. I'll resign."

The others stared. "You're mad," Jeclyn finally said. "Pennilvath will never stand for it."

Cammek drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much. "King or no king, I have a reputation to uphold. Meanwhile, back to work."

* * *

Ten days later, Cammek scrawled his signature across the bottom of a paper that had taken him longer to write than some one-act plays. It expressed, in rather oblique terms, why he felt Away We Go could not open in time for the Combined Kingdoms' Dramatic Festival and was therefore resigning. He mentioned Louizza's hard work and that he sincerely hoped her eventual stage debut would be the success she deserved. That done, he summoned a delivery boy. "Take this to the palace," he said.

"Quick as a wink, sorr." He tucked it in his pouch.

"Um. Take your time with this one. Really. Here's a tenner. Have a drink first. Maybe two. It's hot today."

The delivery boy stood at attention. "Can't do it, sorr. Delivery in thorty minutes or less. If one of my supervisors saw me downing a cool one with a hot message in my bag, I'd be out on my ear."

"Gods above, I should have packed first," muttered Cammek. "Tell you what: hand the message over and I'll call you again, in an hour."

The messenger's hand moved to the pouch. "Against regulations, sorr. You entrusted this message to our services and it is now officially the property of the re-cip-i-ent. If I gave it back to you, I'd be interferin' with the post." He pulled out his watch and exclaimed in horror. "Twenty-seven minutes to go! Good day, sorr!"

Cammek hastily packed a satchel. His cherished possessions were few: his two Perrie awards; two miniatures of his parents; the collected plays of Ghoti; and a cravat that had once belonged to his idol, famed director Father Abbot Jorj, who left a monastery for the theatre. Nearly everything else was replaceable. He wouldn't have an entry in the C.K.D.F. for the first time in seven years, but better no entry than a ruinous entry.

Twenty minutes later, he was on the coach heading for Ruspecalton. A uniformed guard threw open the door at the border and snapped at him: "You are the award-winning director, Cammek? You are under arrest, sir."

A bevy of guards—well, a half dozen, anyway—escorted him back to the palace. "What's the fuss?" he asked. "I'm not a criminal. Shouldn't you be chasing ax murderers?"

"Some would say cutting the king's favorite daughter out of her chance to debut at the Festival is worse'n cutting off somebody's head," the head guard said. "Like, the king himself would say that. He did say that, in the message he broadcast over the crystal links to all the border stations. So I guess that puts you with the ax murderers, now don't it? Logical, like."

Cammek assumed he would be tossed into a dungeon, but the guards dragged him to the throne room. They dumped him in front of Pennilvath, Louizza, and Tip-lea-pon, who stood at attention behind the princess. Let's work on that entrance again, Cammek thought. The audience is not amused.

Pennilvath scowled ferociously; Louizza was teary-eyed and red-nosed; but was that a hint of sympathy in the bodyguard's gray-green eyes? Nah, couldn't be. 

The king tossed a parchment to the floor in front of Cammek's nose. Cammek caught a glimpse of his own handwriting before Pennilvath pointed his scepter at the parchment. The air filled with magical energy; the parchment burst into multicolored flames.

"Resignation denied," the king snarled.

Louizza stepped forward, evidently afraid her father planned to toast a Perrie-award winning director next, and not with the best bubbly. Like a shadow, Tip-lea-pon moved with her, making sure the royal skirts did not come in contact with the burning parchment. "Daddy, don't hurt him," Louizza said. "He's a genius."

"Why was this 'genius' sneaking across the border?" asked Pennilvath. "I should flame him now. He is guilty of bringing anguish to a royal personage."

"May I explain?" Cammek asked.

"No, you may not. I am issuing a royal decree. I, Pennilvath of Leffing, hereby order the prisoner, Cammek, son of Orrnun, to eight weeks' hard labor."

Cammek glanced up, barely believing his good luck. Eight weeks' breaking rocks. He could survive that. Better him breaking rocks than guards breaking his bones. Then Tip-lea-pon shook her head ever so slightly. Pennilvath wasn't done.

"The labor shall take place within the confines of the Royal Theatre, where the prisoner shall direct Her Royal Highness, Louizza, in the play, Away We Go, and open that play at the Combined Kingdoms' Dramatic Festival. Furthermore, sirrah, you shall make my baby a star! A star the likes of which the C.K.D.F. has never seen!"

Cammek privately reflected that the king's dialogue got noticeably undecreelike there at the end. "If I fail, Your Highness?" he asked.

The king loomed over him. "If you think you've been savaged by critics before, you ain't seen anything yet!"

 

Cammek looked around his prison. Leg irons let him roam most of the building, but he couldn't get to the exits. He'd been told someone was coming later with bedding and that he could dine on leftovers from the cook's hot cart. When the cook arrived for morning rehearsals, he would bring a supply of Meals Recently Ensorcelled for Cammek to eat; prisoners don't deserve palace cooking.

Cammek had been too busy fleeing to grab lunch, so he investigated the hot cart's contents. The glacial unit held leftover mushrooms, meatballs, sliced carrots (what Polsiee usually ate, except when the chef tempted her, which was fairly often), and a rack of beer bottles. He assembled a plate and stuck it in the slot for the micro-dragon to heat. The puff of heat that radiated from the cart gave him an idea. He opened the hatch and removed the micro-dragon, which blinked at him.

"Here, boy, blaze that for me," he said, pointing its snout at his chain. "Come on, heat it up, that's a good boy." The micro-dragon stared in perplexity.

"That won't work, you know," said a voice from the doorway. "They only blaze inside their carts. Safety-sorcery—so children won't burn their houses down. Besides, even on that little fella's highest setting, he couldn't do much more than toast bread. You need hotter flames to melt iron links."

Cammek peered into the darkness. "Tip-lea-pon? What are you doing here? Is Louizza here, too?"

"No. I'm off duty. I brought your bedding. My apartment's nearby, so I offered to deliver it. Where do you want it?"

Cammek put the micro-dragon away and picked up his dinner. "Doesn't matter. I won't be sleeping anyway. Care to join me in a bottle? I'm tempted to drink myself into a stupor."

"I don't advise it," Tip-lea-pon said. "You have no idea how much pleading from Louizza it took to let you keep your head. That was really inept, you know, sending your resignation before you were out of the kingdom."

"I never dreamed Pennilvath was so blasted efficient, even if he did win the last two wars." Cammek studied the warrior woman as she opened her own bottle. "Something . . . seems different about you. What?"

"You're used to seeing me glued to Louizza's side."

"Must be. I didn't think you ever got time off."

Tip-lea-pon snorted. "Since the rehearsals started, I haven't had much, but that's my own choice. I'm officially on from dawn to dusk, but when Louizza's stayed late here, so have I."

"Why? Can't be much fun for you."

Tip-lea-pon's muscled shoulders shrugged. "I'm . . . interested in the theatre." She finished her bottle. "Well, I must go. But I thought you could do with a cheering word. Things will work out. I'll burn an offering at the temple of the gods of drama for you."

"Thanks, but to get out of this, I'd probably need to build them a new temple."

After she left, Cammek arranged his bed on a couch from Act Two. As he drifted off to sleep, he realized why Tip-lea-pon looked different: she wasn't wearing her armor.

She looked good without it, too. Cammek had pleasant, if wildly improbable, dreams.

* * *

Unfortunately, Tip-lea-pon's offering must have offended the gods. The morning rehearsal was ghastly. The veteran actors were furious with Cammek for abandoning them, and Louizza had cried herself into a bad cold.

Cammek ate his M.R.E. accompanied only by his leg irons. Suddenly, he heard a faint whisper. "Cammek. Listen; and don't be alarmed. I'm here to help."

He whirled, trying to see who was talking to him. No one was nearby. Tip-lea-pon stood about ten feet away, but she was staring, tight-lipped, at the princess, who was blowing the royal nose.

"Don't say anything," the voice continued, allowing Cammek to determine where it was coming from. The ground? No, his leg irons were talking to him. "I shall explain my plan in full tonight, but you must cancel the evening rehearsal."

"Cancel it?" Cammek hissed. "It's eight weeks until the festival!"

"Cancel it," the irons said firmly. "If you make Louizza sick through overwork, the king won't stop at putting you in chains."

"All right," Cammek said. "I didn't have much enthusiasm for working late myself. Are you a magical spirit?"

The irons hesitated. "Yes, it must be magic. Or something," they said finally.

Cammek began walking—clanking noisily—to the stage. He paused as he passed the warrior woman. "Did you, er, hear anything just now?"

"Hear what?" she asked.

"Never mind." If people knew he was hearing voices, he'd be in more trouble. "Listen, folks, I'm canceling tonight's rehearsal."

Scattered applause and rude cheers met his announcement. "Big of you, Cammek," said Jeclyn. "Most generous." Sarcasm dripped from his dulcet tones.

"Let it be, Jeclyn," Cammek said wearily. Of all the professionals, Jeclyn had given him the most grief over his aborted resignation. It made sense: he was best suited for his part, no matter what kind of reviews the rest got, his would be good. Clim-bor-pon was doing his usual outstanding work in the comic role, but there wasn't much to it, and Polsiee was, in Cammek's opinion, definitely inadequate as the second lead.

After everyone left, Cammek ate his dinner and waited for the magical spirit or whatever it was to return. Hours passed in silence. He even tried talking to his leg irons. They didn't answer. Disgusted, he opened another beer.

"Cammek!" came a harsh whisper from backstage.

Chains in one hand, beer in the other, he hurried behind the curtains. "I'm here," he panted, "Where are you?"

"Nowhere and everywhere. Isn't that the conventional answer?"

"Uh-huh," he said. "So why does it sound like you're coming from the wardrobe?" He flung open the door, revealing nothing but costumes.

The voice continued to come from inside the wardrobe. "Shut up and listen. You have to produce a successful play in two months or die. Moreover, you must make the princess a star. You can, if you'll take a chance."

Cammek coughed. "I'm under a death sentence. What's chancier than that?"

"Good. We think alike," said the wardrobe. "I've known this for some time. Now, what would you say Louizza's main talents are? You must capitalize on them."

"She's too funny for the part. And though she's pretty, she doesn't act it, if you know what I mean. Not the type heroes fight over."

"She can also sing and dance splendidly. She started at the age of three."

Cammek swigged his beer. "So? This isn't opera."

"Bear with me," said the wardrobe. "Now, what's wrong with the play?"

"The king's cousin wrote it. It's a sweet frothy piece about the opening of the frontier province and whom the local baron's daughter will take to the costume ball: the handsome dragonrider or the evil minister. There's a funny subplot with one of the ladies-in-waiting and the captain of the pegasus cavalry. Not much to work with, considering my competition. I mean, Prince Harrold puts on bigger productions every year. His budget for magical effects is ten times mine."

"I agree, it's too bland. But you don't need gimmicks like wyverns swooping out of the sky. Here's what you do: put every major dramatic or comic scene in Away We Go to music. Have them sing and dance."

"That's crazy. I told you, this isn't opera."

"Of course not. It will be something new. Not quite an opera, not quite a revue. If people accept that a bard or an opera star can sing of love, why not a dramatic actor?"

"Because it's never been done!" Cammek drained his beer and wished for more. Maybe if he drank enough he'd see pink mastodons and stop hearing voices.

"You admitted the play needs pumping up. By making it into a musical play, you emphasize Louizza's best skills. Recast her as the lady-in-waiting; build the part up a bit to play off Clim-bor-pon better."

"What?" Cammek yelped. "She's supposed to star. How can I bump her into the second lead?"

"Because she'll shine there and she won't as the dreamy daughter. Trust me, she'll get rave notices, far better than Polsiee would have. Polsiee's getting too long in the tooth to play man-hungry flirts, no matter what she thinks."

Cammek began pacing, no easy task in leg irons. "But . . . singing actors?"

"Clim-bor-pon's a natural—he started out in the western theatrical revues, doing eight shows a week. Put him in charge of the dance numbers, too. Jeclyn's got good pipes. Did some bardic concerts for charity in Ruspecalton. The only problem's Polsiee. She can't sing and she's way too old to play the lead."

"Oh, she'd just love seeing the lady-in-waiting role increased and lose it to Louizza! But what could I do with her? Cast her as the baroness?"

"Yes, and cast little Benasbiee as the lead. She played opposite Jeclyn in Prosciutto, and she can sing, too."

"They'll never buy it. They'll walk out, led by Polsiee."

"They can't. Check the fine print on that decree—your 'death sentence.' It endows you with all powers, fully backed by the throne, to make this play a success and Louizza a star. If they squawk, throw 'em in the dungeon for disobeying a royal decree. All legal."

"Ooh, when I think of the actors I wish I could have jailed in past productions! But you're forgetting something." He peered into the wardrobe, still hoping to find a living presence among the sequined gowns. "I can't direct a musical play without music! How about that?"

The wardrobe chuckled. "Oh, I've been thinking about that for some time. You'll have your music."

Cammek yawned. "Listen, spirit, it better come soon. There's not much time."

"Go to bed, Cammek. You'll need your strength."

Late in the night, a soft noise woke Cammek. He clanked backstage to find a sheaf of papers bound with a silk ribbon and adorned with a single red rose lying in front of the wardrobe. "My angel of music!" he cried. The wardrobe didn't answer. Cammek glanced heavenward—presumably the best direction in which to address angels, even if they did speak from leg irons and wardrobes—and noticed the covering on the skylight was ajar. Angels didn't need to use skylights, did they?

* * *

Cammek spent half the night poring over the music, the other half rewriting. When the cast arrived, he bluntly told them of the changes. As he predicted, some immediately wanted out. Polsiee was the noisiest, especially upon learning she'd been recast as the baroness. "This is demeaning to an actress of my stature," she said.

"You'll play it," Cammek said. "Or you can reprise your role in that tawdry women's dungeon drama. In a real dungeon this time."

Clim-bor-pon, however, waxed enthusiastic. "This is exactly what this play needed. We of the west have a tradition of musical revues. In fact, a couple of these songs have a distinct western air, especially that one of Jeclyn's about the carriage with the tasseled trim. I like it. And I'm going to like playing opposite you, Your Highness."

Louizza, Tip-lea-pon at her side, was studying one of the songs. The angelic spirit had been right: the princess could sing. "This one's so funny: 'I'm Just a Maid Who Can't Say Nay.' What do you think, Tipsy?"

The bodyguard stifled a yawn. "Promising. Palace scribes should make copies of the songs and rewrites, and arrange for musicians."

Cammek clapped a hand to his head. "Of course!" He scribbled a note, had the princess seal it with her signet ring, and sent it off with a flunky.

That first day, Cammek spent a lot of time with Clim-bor-pon, discussing dance in the show and how to use other traditions from the western provincial theatre circuit. The cast, accompanied by a royal pianist, began learning the songs. By day's end, everyone felt much better about the play—everyone except Polsiee, who kept shooting Cammek deadly looks.

"I'll make sure everyone in the Combined Kingdoms knows what you've done," she said as she left.

Cammek shrugged. "I had no choice. Either I try this or I die."

"You've ruined my career! No one will ever see me as anything but a matron after this!"

"At your age, wasn't that inevitable?" Cammek asked bluntly.

"I had a few more good years, but no more, thanks to your stupid musical play!" She stormed off, brusquely passing the princess and Tip-lea-pon, who came on guard the moment the older actress approached.

"She's upset," Louizza observed.

Tip-lea-pon said, "I can't blame her, but the play is definitely better."

"Er, yes," Cammek said. "Tip-lea-pon, might I have a word with you? Alone?"

The bodyguard looked to her mistress for permission.

"Go on." Louizza giggled. "He doesn't bite. I'll wait at the hot cart, with Jeclyn."

"Very well, Princess," Tip-lea-pon said. She still kept one bloodshot eye on Louizza as she walked away. "How can I help you, Cammek?"

Cammek pointed to the rose he'd been wearing in his vest pocket. "You already have. Where'd you learn to write songs like this?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Clim-bor-pon's been telling me about the traveling shows in the west. Said the players rarely specialized, but learned a host of skills. Acrobatics, fencing, composing, and . . . ventriloquism." Cammek had the satisfaction of seeing six-feet-one of fighting woman warrior blush. He pressed on: "These songs are western in flavor—just what we need, given the setting of the play—and you're from the west. Only a palace insider would have known about Louizza's singing ability and the details of the decree that locked me in these chains—and you're a palace insider. Finally, only somebody in great shape could scale this theatre to speak to me from the skylight." He looked her over, most appreciatively. "Baby, that's definitely you."

If anything, Tip-lea-pon blushed more deeply. She also wasn't watching Louizza, Cammek noted with pleasure. Wow, I've distracted her! 

"I grew up in one of those western troupes," she said at last. "I've made it a hobby to take scenes or plays I've enjoyed and write music for them. I've got about a dozen scores in my apartment."

"If I survive this —" Cammek shook his leg irons "—I'll want to see those."

Louizza skipped over. "Jeclyn says you have to try the fried tomatoes. Whoops, am I interrupting something?"

Tip-lea-pon coughed delicately. "Master Cammek is trying to invite himself over to my apartment."

Louizza grinned. "Hey, that's a great notion! Take him up on it."

"I may, Princess," Tip-lea-pon said, "if you shine brightly enough to get those chains off him."

"Aw, leave them on," Louizza said. "Sometimes it's fun if they can't get away."

As she walked off, Cammek fixed a quizzical gaze on Tip-lea-pon.

"Royal Bodyguards are sworn to secrecy," she said. "And a good thing, too."

* * *

Pennilvath didn't trust Cammek, for the director remained chained (muffled with velvet cloth to prevent clanking backstage) on opening night. But by intermission, they felt as light as a feather: the audience had cheered every song and the cast oozed confidence. The princess, in particular, got a huge hand. Pennilvath bellowed delightedly from the royal box: "Sing out, Louizza! Smile, baby!"

Then, just before the second act curtain, a worried Tip-lea-pon approached him. "Polsiee's disappeared. I'm afraid she may be out for revenge, since Louizza's stealing the show. Find the understudy; I'll keep an eye out for Polsiee."

"Gods save me from temperamental actresses!" muttered Cammek.

Act Two opened with the costume ball, a romantic exchange between Jeclyn and Benasbiee, then a comic one between Clim-bor-pon and Louizza. The audience was roaring with laughter when a creaking noise drew Cammek's eyes to the flies above the stage. A great enameled ostrich, emblem of the western province, hung over the actors. It swayed slightly, once, twice . . .

Before Cammek could shout a warning, one of the tall noblemen in the chorus, Sir Borstler, plucked Louizza out of harm's way as the bird crashed to the stage. The cast members stood, stunned. The audience watched in confusion, unsure if the action were part of the play.

Sir Borstler peered at Louizza through his helmet. "You're not my gel," he ad-libbed in a terribly snooty eastern accent. He handed her back to Clim-bor-pon. "Terribly sorry. Thought that buzzard was about to smash me best gel to bits. You know, I'm only visitin' here, but I thought your ostrich-birds were flightless."

"And that one proves it," Clim-bor-pon ad-libbed. "We of the west need a new emblem, something more aerodynamic. An albatross would be dandy, if only we weren't a land-locked province. Meanwhile, let's clean up and get back to dancing!" He gestured frantically for the curtain.

"Get Louizza's understudy!" Cammek said as the crew swept away the debris. "She's not going back out there while Polsiee's on the loose."

"Oh, yes I am!" The princess writhed in the protective grasp of the nobleman. "Let go, Tipsy! My big number's in the next scene."

"Your father would never permit it if he thought you were in danger," said Tip-lea-pon, tugging at Sir Borstler's ill-fitting stage armor.

"If I cower like a rabbit, I won't get any notices, and my father will fry Cammek," Louizza said. "Besides, if you try to stop me, I'll have you arrested for violating Father's decree ordering Cammek to make me a star. The show must go on!"

Cammek and Tip-lea-pon gazed at each other in confusion. Clim-bor-pon clapped the princess on the back. "That's the spirit. Gods, you're a born trouper. I'm sure Polsiee's long since fled, but to be safe, we won't go on until we've searched backstage and alerted the guards at the doors. Sound good?"

"Yes!" Louizza said enthusiastically.

Tip-lea-pon waggled a finger at her. "I'm sticking to you like glue, even if we have to rewrite scenes so 'Sir Borstler' is onstage every time you are."

The search turned up nothing. Polsiee had vanished. Knots in his stomach, Cammek prepared to resume the second act as soon as the enameled ostrich fragments were removed from Louizza's gown. Tip-lea-pon kept guard at the dressing room door. Cammek whispered to her, "This is madness. If Polsiee tries again, Louizza will be dead as an act of revenge; I'll be dead for not following the decree; and you'll be dead for not protecting the princess."

"But you can't argue with Louizza's logic," Tip-lea-pon said. "If you put in the understudy, you're a dead man anyway. And frankly —" she looked down on him fondly "—I'm damn glad Louizza's got guts. I've gone to a lot of trouble to save your hide. Wouldn't want it to go to waste. Besides, if the princess chickened out and her father zapped you, she'd feel guilty forever and end up a rotten queen."

"So the future of Leffing is at stake. That makes me feel worse." He kicked at his chains. "None of this would have happened if I'd managed to leave the kingdom."

"Hey," she said softly. "It hasn't all been bad, has it? Some things are worth taking a chance on."

He gulped as she slid an arm around him. "You're right. But in the meantime, I'm still the king's prisoner and we've got to get through the second act without anyone getting killed. How can things get worse?"

Tip-lea-pon grimaced. "Guess who I saw in the sixth row?"

"A frustrated, homicidal actress?"

"Worse. It's that renowned scribe, Creek, son of Attkins. Isn't he one of the judges for the Perrie awards?"

"Swell. Pennilvath might as well blast me now and save all the bother. Creek's hated four out of my last five festival entries." Cammek rested his head against Tip-lea-pon's chest. True, it was covered with Sir Borstler's pasteboard armor, but Cammek always had great powers of imagination.

Louizza opened the door of her room. The pair jumped apart, Cammek falling backwards over his chain, Tip-lea-pon instantly at attention. "Come on, Cammek," the princess said as she swept past him, her bodyguard hot on her heels. "Time for me to go out there and knock 'em dead."

"Let's hope that's all," Cammek said weakly.

* * *

Much to everyone's relief, the second act went as smoothly as the first, in spite of "Sir Borstler" popping up at odd times. Cammek dared to peer out at the audience a few times. Pennilvath thumped his royal seat with glee every time Louizza appeared; even dour Creek was seen grinning.

The only hint of trouble came during the curtain calls, when the enchanter in charge of lighting botched the spotlight several times. Louizza got a standing ovation, but didn't stay on stage to enjoy it very long; Tip-lea-pon whisked her into the wings as soon as possible.

Cammek stepped out to deliver a few closing words. He normally would have relished the resounding cheers he got—especially those from the royal box—but he was unconscious of any other feelings than profound relief. Then something whooshed by his head. He hadn't had an audience pitch things at him since that brilliant but unpopular thriller he did about the demon Berber and his companion, the mad cook. A second whoosh and his chained legs were yanked out from under him and his face slammed into the stage. He heard screams from the audience and caught a glimpse of Tip-lea-pon slashing at the curtain ropes. The curtain fell with a thud.

Dazed, he slowly sat up. His nose was bleeding all over his best shirt and Abbott Jorj's cravat. Clim-bor-pon knelt by his side and offered a hanky.

"Whad happened?" Cammek said.

The comic spread his hands. "If I had to guess, I'd say Tip-lea-pon just saved your life. Somebody—care to wager who?—started shooting crossbow bolts from the lighting tower. Not to worry: our multitalented composer is storming the tower even now."

Cammek struggled to his feet, intent on following. Clim-bor-pon stomped on his chain with his heavy boots and brought him to a complete stop. "Stay here, you twit," he said. "Let the girl handle it. She's the expert. Listen: I think things are settling down."

The ear-splitting roar of confusion in the house was indeed dimming. Jeclyn, among the tallest in the company, was peeking out and delivering a running commentary: "Tip-lea-pon's coming out of the tower. She's got Polsiee. There are guards everywhere. The king's standing in his box, shouting and pointing. Polsiee's screeching. Gods, here come the scribes! I don't know about you, but I'm not going to wait for the chronicles to record what she has to say. Maybe I can get quoted a few times myself."

Following the male lead's lead, the cast stampeded in search of publicity. Cammek wearily trudged after. Polsiee, in the grip of three guardsmen, held forth on her injustices, with the scribes hanging on every word. When she saw Cammek near, she hissed, "He had it coming! He had it coming! The Festival is no place for wild innovations!"

"Don't know about that," said Prince Harrold. "I've been quite inspired by the novelty of Away We Go. I'm considering an aquatic musical for my next entry. My kingdom has many sea legends, and I have this fabulous merman with a big brassy voice for whom I haven't found a spot in a traditional play."

"I agree: a most impressive experiment," said Creek. "I shall give it my highest approval, especially the debut of a new comic star." He actually smiled at Louizza.

"Your Highness!" Tip-lea-pon dashed to the princess, sword drawn. "What are you doing out here, unprotected?"

"Mingling with my public," Louizza said. "You've caught Polsiee. What do I have to fear?"

The naiveté of her question, offered up in a crowd of often-vicious scribes and fellow actors (many of whom were known backbiters), made Cammek laugh, though it hurt his nose. The princess had a lot to learn about show biz.

A fresh group of royal guards cleared a space in the mob for the king. Everyone bowed, which set Cammek's nose off again. The king pointed at Polsiee. "I'm not sure what went on there at the end, but I hear you had something to do with it. I never did like you; always posturing instead of acting. Take her away, men, and we'll get the details later."

A group of scribes chased after her, intent on getting further details now. The rest waited to hear what the king would say.

"Well, Cammek," Pennilvath said, "tonight, old man, you did it. My Louizza was a joy to behold. Loved the play. A glorious victory. Can't wait for the Perrie awards." With regal nods to everyone, he departed.

"Uh, he does realize that we mere directors have nothing to do with the award process, doesn't he?" Cammek asked. "It's up to esteemed judges like Master Creek here. Otherwise, I may never get out of these leg irons."

Louizza frowned. "You should be out of them right now! Silly daddy, always leaving others to tidy up after him. I'll send word for the dungeon officials to unlock you."

Tip-lea-pon reached into her boot and withdrew a small leather pouch. "No need. I came prepared."

"Lock-picks!" Clim-bor-pon exclaimed. "Another talent you developed while touring in the west?"

Tip-lea-pon nodded while she manipulated the thin lengths of iron in the locks. "I can escape handcuffs, leg irons, and a locked trunk while submerged in a glass tank in less than two minutes. There, Cammek, you're free."

Cammek looked at her equipment. "I can't imagine a pouch like that is standard gear for Royal Bodyguards."

"No," she said. "I must confess I brought it in case the show flopped. I wasn't going to leave you in chains to await your death."

"What?" Louizza cried. "You'd desert me for him?"

Tip-lea-pon looked from the princess, still resplendent in her sequined costume, to Cammek, rumpled and blood-stained, with his nose feeling (and no doubt looking) three times its normal size. "Yes," she said in tones that permitted no arguing, not even from royalty.

Louizza clapped her hands together. "Wonderful! How fabulously inspiring! You ought to make that the subject of your next musical!"

"Too controversial," Cammek said. "Only members of a royal family can get away with writing about real royalty, the way my colleague Hal did."

Prince Harrold grinned. "Dad wasn't too pleased about my portrayal of him in The King and Me, but as I'm next-in-succession, he couldn't do much without bringing the family line to an abrupt halt."

"Still," Cammek said, "this evening was certainly full of dramatic tension. I keep thinking about that falling ostrich. Naturally, an ostrich is too absurd. But if you had something more elegant, more romantic . . ."

Tip-lea-pon caught on. "Yes, something hanging up there that you wouldn't expect to put the characters in dire peril. And then—boom!—it crashes and scares the audience out of its wits."

"A jeweled clock?" suggested Louizza.

"A famous painting?" said Jeclyn.

"An anvil?" said Clim-bor-pon.

"A crystal chandelier?" said Tip-lea-pon.

Cammek spun around (so easy without leg irons) and caught his new lady love by her strong, capable hands. "A falling chandelier? Hmm . . ."

As one, they turned to look at the stage, all their fertile, creative imaginations working feverishly. Then Cammek shook his head. "Nah, it would never work. Might be a good effect, but what possible reason could we have for one character to drop a chandelier on another?"

Tip-lea-pon nodded. "No motivation."

 

"On the other hand, I'm motivated to see the other scores you've written," Cammek said. "Thanks to you, I can do that." He shook his unchained leg for emphasis.

Tip-lea-pon put her arm around him. "Yes, indeed. I'm looking forward to . . . collaborating with you. Come on, let's go home."

 

Since she's the author of Xena: All I Need to Know I Learned from the Warrior Princess, by Gabrielle, as Translated by Josepha Sherman, I was rather relieved surprised by the one-word title on this tale of rescue, romance, and horsing around. She is also known for Merlin's Kin, Son of Darkness, Vulcan's Heart (with Susan Shwartz) and forgiving puns. 

 

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