Heir's Revenge

1 THERE WAS a light in the yard next door. Ellisandra stopped halfway through pulling the curtains shut and peered into the snowy dusk, where the grey buildings of the city faded into the murk of mist and falling snowflakes. The yard of her house was already covered in a good layer of snow, gilded by the glow from the windows downstairs. The wall that surrounded the yard had acquired a white cap, as yet undisturbed by the wind or the creatures of the night. On the other side of the wall, a snowy expanse stretched to the ruin of the house next door. In amongst the broken and fire-blackened walls stood a storm light, its flapping flame casting long shadows in the snow and on whatever remained of the walls. That was odd. There hadn’t been any activity at the Andrahar house for years. Why would someone come out to the ruin in the middle of this weather? Behind Ellisandra’s back, in the comfort of her upstairs room, the ladies of the theatre committee still chatted, accompanied by the c***k of spoons on porcelain. The smell of sweet cakes hung in the air. “Oh, no I don’t think we should do that,” Aleyo Hirumar was saying. “I think everyone will be quite upset if we change the ending of the play. I know I would be.” “How would you stage it then?” asked Tolaki Telimar. “As it is supposed to be. As it was written.” The indignation dripped from Aleyo’s voice. Ellisandra should go back to the group and help Tolaki convince Aleyo to be a bit more adventurous, but now she spotted a man in the Andrahar yard, a tall figure shrouded in a thick longhair cloak. The light glinted in his curtain of hair. It was typical Endri hair, past the shoulder, silver-white, sleek, straight and loose. He wore knee-high boots with a strip of fur around the top, all very traditional, and very upper class. According to the stories, the Andrahar family had been very traditional right until the moment that they decided to betray their home nation and leave. They had lived in Barresh since she was a little girl. Ellisandra was too young to have remembered the fire that destroyed the house or any of the riots and that treacherous trial that went before it, in which the family smeared Miran and tried to ruin the nation’s reputation by trying to implicate it in criminal activities. With his gangly appearance and fluid motions, this man next door was too young to be one of the four Andrahar brothers. Who in Miran still wanted to work for that family? No one she knew at any rate. No one local. But the hair . . . she had heard jokes that the first thing Endri did when going to live in Barresh was cut their hair. Long hair was a pride thing, especially for the men. There was a saying that hair symbolised a person’s ties with Miran. When a man moved away and kept his hair long, there was a chance that he might come back. Behind her, the ladies of the theatre committee had gone quiet. “Anything wrong, Ellisandra?” Tolaki asked. “There’s someone in the yard next door.” “Oh, let me have a look.” Aleyo pushed herself up and hurried to the window. She pushed her face to the glass, shielded from the reflection inside the room by her hands. “There is, too.” The window fogged up where her mouth was. Now Tolaki also came to the window, and peered into the darkness over Aleyo’s shoulder. “I see him. Probably just a groundsman.” “In this weather?” Ellisandra said. “Doesn’t look like a groundsman to me,” Aleyo said. “Look at his hair. That’s pure Endri. It’s gorgeous, too. And who would employ a groundsman for a ruin like that anyway?” Good points, both of them. Even Sariandra had come to watch. But Tolaki and Aleyo were blocking the window, so she stood further back, looking forlorn and lonely in that dour dress of hers. “Who do you think he is, then?” Tolaki asked, frowning at Ellisandra. “No idea. Never seen him before.” “Do people still come to look at that ruin?” “Very, very rarely. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone there for years.” The last time it had been a local surveyor. She tried to remember when that had been, but couldn’t. Long ago. Possibly longer ago than she thought, because she remembered Father standing behind her looking out of the window and Father hadn’t been able to do anything that remotely looked like “standing” unassisted for a long time. Aleyo put on her conspiratorial voice. “What if we discovered something? I mean, no normal person would be out there in the dark in the middle of this weather. What if they’re finally selling up but don’t want anyone to know?” That’s what everyone had thought last time, too. “No,” Tolaki said. “Last I heard, Isandra Andrahar said that they’d sell the house and office ‘over my dead body’.” “Maybe she died,” Aleyo said. “She has to be pretty old—” Ellisandra protested. “Not that old, I don’t think.” “Well, if she died, then those sons of hers wouldn’t care a bit about the house.” Aleyo stuck her chin in the air. “I mean, it’s not like any of us would want them back. I don’t understand why they kept the house like this for all those years. The office, too, right in the prime locality downtown. Has to be worth a fortune.” Ellisandra thought she had an explanation. “Maybe they never sold because they didn’t want any dirty Mirani credits for it.” There was not much they could do with those outside Miran, not legally anyway. Not that it had ever before stopped any rich family from selling their house and leaving Miran for good. Aleyo added, “Or maybe they were waiting for land prices to improve.” Tolaki laughed aloud. “Only to have seen the prices drop to a tenth of what they were when they left? Serves them right. We don’t do selling for a lot of money here. We don’t want foreigners to buy our houses.” Aleyo snorted. “Yeah, the Andrahars were arrogant, greedy pricks, even when they still lived in Miran.” This statement met with sage nods, even from Sariandra who had said barely a thing. Oh well, no time to dwell on it. Surely the guards would keep an eye on this stranger. And no doubt he’d be gone soon and she’d never see him again. Ellisandra pulled the curtains shut and sat down, meeting the eyes and mousey face of Sariandra Bisumar, who, failing to get a glimpse of that strange man, had returned to her seat. She sat straight-backed, clamping both hands between her knees covered by that grey-pink dress that looked too dour for her young face. It was loose in the chest, too, as if the dress had been made with the hope that her womanly shapes would fill the flabby bits of fabric. But if she remained as shy as she had tonight and never touched any cakes, then that was unlikely to happen. Ellisandra addressed her now. “Sariandra, I haven’t heard what you think. What should we do about the ending of the play?” “Oh, I . . . um . . .” She averted her eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her cheeks grew red. “Do you think that if we perform this for the council, that people like your father would be upset with us for changing the story a little bit?” Sariandra nodded, her eyes wide. “You propose to change the ending of the play. That’s not a little bit.” Aleyo nodded sagely. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. Didn’t you hear that story that a councillor once walked out of the performance of The Redemption of Jilan Ilendar screaming because the lead actress wore a modern buttoned-up dress instead of a lace-up one? That’s the sort of attitude they have. It’s got to be historically correct.” Ellisandra let her shoulders slump. “Yes, but the other ending is terrible. It makes us sound like cruel barbarians. No one today would kill prisoners when they’re harmless. It makes me sick. And then the way all the councillors in the play sing while stepping over bodies, holding hands and singing of great glory. It’s awful.” Sariandra looked down at her hands. “But it’s the way the play goes. It’s traditional. You can’t just change it.” Aleyo continued nodding through all of it, her mouth kept in a prim line as if she knew everything. How annoying. Ellisandra said, “I wish the council had picked a different play for the opening of the Legislative year. We could have done Midwinter Fair, or The Days of War or anything, really. Why did they have to choose Changing Fate?” “To remind us of the glorious days of Miran,” Sariandra said. Everyone looked at her in a You-have-got-to-be-kidding way. But Sariandra wasn’t kidding, not even a little bit. Her young face was dead serious. “Um. Would you call it glorious to kill defenceless prisoners?” “They were enemies. They invaded us.” “They were captured and could not defend themselves. They had already been punished.” “Times have changed. People didn’t have much food back then, and they couldn’t afford to keep enemies alive. It was a normal thing to kill them. Good even, because if you killed them, they could never attack you again.” A cold feeling of horror crept over Ellisandra’s back. How could she say this with such a demure, detached voice? What was worse, how could she think that an attitude like that was even remotely acceptable? “Yeah, like they could kill all Coldi, all billions of them. The people back then couldn’t even put a vehicle in the air, let alone fly it to Asto to begin killing all of them.” She cringed at Sariandra innocent face—she really didn’t understand this, did she?—but seriously this type of attitude frustrated her so much. “We are not in those times anymore. There will be children in the audience for the performance. When I have children, I don’t want them to think that this is all right.” “My father will want the play to be performed as is written. Sorry if you don’t like it, but that’s what you asked.” There was a hardness in Sariandra’s tone that belied her shy appearance. An uneasy silence followed in which Tolaki looked at Ellisandra, wide-eyed in a You-said-what-to-the-High-Councillor’s-daughter? way. Ellisandra poured herself tea to cover up the embarrassment. Sometimes she wished she could shut her big mouth. Only sometimes, though. Then she continued, “I still can’t understand why anyone would choose this play, let alone for the opening ceremony of the legislative year. This play hasn’t been performed in the great hall for years.” “That’s probably why they’ve chosen it,” Sariandra said. “But why? The ending is horrible. Usually the plays have a message of hope or a new beginning. They’re telling the people, Your council is looking out for you and making things better.” Aleyo said, “Um, I don’t think the council consciously chooses the play for the message. It’s just that most plays do end with a message.” “Yes, it makes the people feel good. Why choose this one?” “Well, we can’t change that, it’s the council’s decision” Aleyo said. “And I agree with Sariandra. We should perform it with the original ending. It’s a very heroic play and the council probably had reasons to choose it, if only those reasons were that it hasn’t been performed for a long time.” And that’s what it all came down to. Reasons. The council always had Reasons, and everyone would run, and then when it was all done and someone said, “The way you wanted it done was so much work,” someone from the council would come back to them and say, “Really? I had no idea. Why didn’t you say so?” And the whole thing would have been so much easier if only people hadn’t taken the council’s Reasons as law. Ellisandra met Tolaki’s eyes, knowing that her best friend shared her abhorrence for the needless violence in that last scene. Tolaki shrugged, her eyes sad. Yes, it was probably too late to voice her objections, and she could think of plenty. There would be children in the hall, and it was not a play that showed either behaviour suitable for children or displayed morality suited to children. Times had changed. Many plays remained beautiful and poignant tales of love and war. This wasn’t one of them. And then to think that she’d been keenly awaiting the council’s decision on a play for what would be her signature performance, her last production before she married and possibly her last ever as stage director. And what had they given her? Changing Fate. Really? Someone must hate her very much. She’d seen a performance of it when she was young and the only thing she remembered was how in the last act the soldiers on the stage killed everyone. She didn’t understand the reason and, having read the play later, she’d seen that the reason was weak, except we hate foreigners, and that was a sentiment that Miran was very good at these days. She remembered that a family friend was in the play and had lain face down on the stage. Only she had been too little to understand that it wasn’t real, and she’d started screaming. Her mother had to carry her out of the hall, to the great annoyance of the surrounding audience. She sighed. There was nothing she could do except accept the inevitable. “All right then. Who and what do we need?” She put the sheaf of paper with the play’s text on the table. “Let’s have a look at the notes.” Tolaki picked up the cover sheet and read aloud. “Changing Fate is the story of the two lovers, who are on the eve of their betrothal—seriously, who wrote this? This is ancient. Who even says ‘betrothal’ anymore?—when the Invasion occurs. The play starts on the eve of the delayed ceremony, except Mariandra has second thoughts. She has become tempted by the sweet-talking Rana, the leader of the Coldi negotiators who demand the return of the soldiers that were taken prisoner after the Invasion.” Most importantly, there were three main roles. Jihan Ilendar and Mariandra Tussamar made up the central couple, with Rana the antagonist. Typically, Rana did not come with a last name, or clan name as Coldi used. Though having been a negotiator, it would have been something high, like Palayi. “Ellisandra, what do you think of giving the part of Jihan Ilendar to Keldon Nirumar?” “Sure.” Keldon was one of their few male professional actors. A golden boy, suitably vain and self-conscious to qualify as a lead performer. He’d love the role. Tameyo Harumin was suitably infatuated with him to be cast as Mariandra. Liran Telimar usually took the role of the antagonist. She disliked the thought of having to “kill” him, even in theatre. She liked Liran. He was neither vain nor self-conscious and very down to earth. The other lead parts were easy to allocate. The Endri class paid for the theatre, and it supported a small group of full-time actors who took the main roles. Any roles underneath those had to be assigned in a certain order according to the seniority of the actor within the theatre. When that was done, they could look at filling the places of lesser roles with volunteers. While discussing names, all Ellisandra could see was that final scene where Mariandra is rushed “to safety” by her fiancé while the body of her lover is on the ground amongst those of the prisoners he tried to free. Ellisandra had never left Miran, and had seen a Coldi person maybe once or twice, but she couldn’t imagine that they would be impressed with this retelling of events. As far as was known, an event like this had happened, and it had marked the end of the Coldi attempt to invade Miran. That in itself was a miracle, because Asto had both the vast population and the technology to wipe Miran out within a day. They didn’t see Miran as an enemy, even if Miran saw them as such. They discussed costuming and stage props, which she would have to get built. They had teams of builders for that, and it was Ellisandra’s task to deal with those. Through all this, Ellisandra felt increasingly uneasy. There were some plays that she didn’t like as much as others, but the more they talked about it, the more she knew that she hated this one with every fibre of her being. Unable to change that horrid ending—and Sariandra was right about it, the council would object—she could only do one thing to show her displeasure. And they wouldn’t like it. Tolaki said, “You’re very quiet. What are you thinking?” Ellisandra licked her lips. She spoke thoughtfully. “I’m thinking that if the council wants Changing Fate produced faithfully, we give it to them faithfully.” Aleyo smiled and nodded. “What do you mean?” Tolaki asked, because Tolaki knew her a lot better than Aleyo did, and she would know that there was a different meaning behind those words. Ellisandra continued in that same slow voice. “That last scene in the play is a blood bath. Blood baths are not heroic or glorious, or in this case, even necessary. But the council wants a blood bath. So we give them a blood bath.” The girls all frowned at her, and it seemed to be dawning on Aleyo that she wasn’t going to like this. “When all those prisoners are killed, ‘in the name of the glorious nation,’ that must have been a horrific scene. Dead and dying people everywhere, screaming, and blood everywhere.” Now Aleyo’s face displayed a I’m-not-quite-sure-I-like-where-this-is-going expression. Good. “So, let’s have blood. We’ll use dye, or we’ll go to the abattoir and get real blood and we’ll put it in little bags that the actors can burst when they’re ‘fatally injured’ and fall on the stage. By the time Jihan and Mariandra join hands over the bodies of the dead prisoners, there will be blood on their clothes, on their hands, on their shoes. There will be blood on the blunt swords that the actors will be using. There will be blood dripping from the stage.” “Eew. That’s disgusting,” Aleyo said. Ellisandra was happy to see that her face had gone pale. “The play is disgusting. It’s full of death, most of it unnecessary. The council wants death? We’ll show them so much death that their stomachs will churn. They want the play performed as it was written, historically accurate? Let’s give it to them!” She spread her hands. Aleyo said, “I’m not sure if that sort of thing was intended. It’s about heroics and glory in battle.” “There is nothing either heroic or glorious about that scene and we should not depict it as if it is.” And that was maybe why the council wanted it performed: to show how the times had changed. All three girls looked at her with wide eyes. No one said anything for an uncomfortably long time.