Part 3: Ladies of the Night

Chapter 19: The Death of the Blooming Rose

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” said Quentin, and not for the first time

“It’s not a good idea,” said Razia, grinning up at him. “It’s a great idea. This will work. Just trust me!”

It seemed to Quentin that he’d been doing a lot of trusting over the past few days. More than he had in the past ten years. He didn’t think he’d have much trust left after hearing just how many people wanted his new companion maimed or dead. Leading people right to his door had shaken him more than he wanted to let on. It would’ve been so easy to be on edge after that, or even throw her out.

He did no such thing. After dinner and escorting Samantha and her brother home, the night was quiet and it was just the two of them. They spent hours talking, picking each other’s brains about anything they could think of. Whether it was religion (she had faith to spare, he was a bitter worshipper at best) or the Colosseum (wherein she questioned him on his infirmary days) or even Razia’s clothes (he learned more than he ever intended to know about Orchisan fashion) they talked until the small hours of the morning, eventually going to bed after talking about plays.

It was that conversation, two days before, that led to Razia dragging Quentin out of his house and down to the Febrizzio Amphitheater on the east side of town. It was just after sunset, right before the evening show, and crowded. Quentin held his cloak against him, as if it would protect him from the hundreds of people pushing past each other to buy admission and get to their seats.

“Over here,” said Razia, tugging on Quentin’s arm. She led him away from the main entrance where the majority of the audience would sit wherever there was room. The Amphitheater was outdoors and built partially dug into the ground. The best seats were the balconies, hanging from the walls. That’s where not only the rich people went to see a play, it was where the well bred, important people went. Quentin had the money, but he would never be allowed in a place like that. Not without Razia’s plan.

“What happens when I get caught and they either throw us out, call the watch on us, or both? I only just recovered from my last fight. I don’t need the watch beating the shit out of me for trespassing and stealing.” Quentin pulled them to the side, letting people surge past them. While he was in his usual tunic, boots, and under his cloak, Razia was dressed to impress. She wore a vibrant, eye catching dress and bright blue make up around her eyes. Next to each other, they stood out horribly.

“Then we distract them and run like hell,” Razia said, shrugging.

“Is that seriously your solution for everything?”

“Nine times out of ten it works. Anyway,” she elbowed his side, “this is going to work. You won’t even have to do anything other than keep your face hidden and look vaguely threatening. The role’s perfect for you. Now stop fussing and let me show you a good time.”

That’s what this was all about. Or at least what she said it was about. Going to the Amphitheater was supposed to be a down payment on her promise to him. Though with each passing day, Quentin found himself wondering how the hell she was going to make him feel alive. At the moment, he was mostly just worried. Razia’s enthusiasm was infectious, and now that she had her mind on it, it seemed easier to just go along and do what she said and hope it all worked out.

So Quentin took a deep breath and let her link her arm in his and walked leisurely forward. He chanced a look up and saw the rooftops of the nearest buildings had people on them, catching the show any way they could. He looked down as they approached the stairs leading up to the balcony.

A well dressed young woman held her hand up to stop them. “I’m sorry, these are private seats, I’m afraid...Oh, it’s you.” She looked at Razia, scrunching up her nose as if she smelled something terrible.

“It is. So if you would kindly let me and the senator through, I’d appreciate it.

“The senator?” The usher scoffed, looking Quentin up and down. “Pull the other one.”

Razia theatrically rolled her eyes. “Senator Barbus has a prior engagement he is supposed to be at. He’d rather spend the night showing me a good time, but being seen would cause him some...Difficulties. C’mon Demi, you know the difficulties men like him face.”

Demi narrowed her eyes, looking at Quentin, who started sweating. Did his profile look anything like the senator’s? Not many people were as tall as him, even with the way he hunched. “Is that true? Senator?”

He didn’t dare look to Razia for what to do. Even Quentin knew that would give the game away. Then he thought about the night they met, and how quickly he’d played along. Drawing himself up to his full height but keeping his hood down low he let out an emphatic, impatient sigh. “What part of I don’t wish to be seen do you not understand?” He hissed, just loud enough to be heard. “If I miss my favorite play because of you…”

Demi cringed. She got out of their way, bowing and motioning with her hands for them to go. “Of course. Please accept my apologies, Senator. Just trying to be careful.”

Quentin huffed and walked past her, all but dragging Razia with him. “Send us up your finest wine and some lamb,” Razia said as they passed. “The senator’s gonna need his strength.”

It took Quentin everything he had to hold in his laughter. He made it to the top of the stairs before he broke, trying to cover it as a cough. They rushed forward, Razia now leading them as she skipped the first three nooks and took them to the fourth, pulling a cloth curtain closed behind them.

“Oh my gods,” Razia said, fighting for breath as she laughed. “Not gonna lie Quentin, I wasn’t expecting that. Where did that come from?”

Quentin’s cheeks heated up. “Well,” he said, “it’s gonna sound crazy but...when I was a kid, I wanted to be an actor. My mother used to transcribe plays and bring them home to read to me, doing her best to make each voice unique. I always thought I could be good on stage, and that if I wore masks and costumes no one would know the difference.”

“That was your dream? Huh.” Razia’s smile grew. “I was wondering why you played along so fast at Maggie’s. And having gotten to know you a little bit better, you’re a completely different person when you’re...working. If you think of the arena as a stage, I’d say your dream came true and then some. All of the glory, none of the hassle of being famous. And maybe a little bit riskier to your health.”

Quentin snorted and looked at the private box they were in. To his surprise and amusement, he could sum it up in a single word: luxurious. The seats were made of sturdy, polished wood and covered with plush red cushions. Above them the building dipped out, providing just enough of a roof to protect guests from the elements without making the balcony feel claustrophobic. There was enough room there to seat an entire family, but it was just the two of them. They were at an angle to the stage, off center enough to be able to see the performers in the wings, getting ready. Or for Quentin at least, a bunch of dark shapes he assumed to be the performers. They took the front seats.

“Isn’t this nice? Hold on,” Razia stood as one of the theater’s servers came up with a bottle of wine and two cups, along with a basket full of breads, grapes, cheeses, and lamb kebabs. She took them from the server with a playful wink and brought them back. She popped open the wine, letting the cork fly off the side and poured them a couple of drinks. She held her cup up. “Ahem. Isn’t this nice? To us, to Orchrisus, and to the theater.”

“It’s nothing I’d have done on my own,” Quentin admitted, clinking his cup against hers. He let himself relax. This was a private balcony for the Senator, who was obviously not here tonight, and probably wouldn’t inconveniently show up mid-show. Quentin took a sip and then made an appreciative sound. “Is this how you usually live?”

Razia sprawled herself out in the chair, making herself comfortable. If anyone were looking at them, they would be horrified at her posture. “When things are going particularly well, yes. I find a date for the evening, he or she takes me out someplace nice and I get to enjoy the good life while enchanting them and making sure they enjoy themselves just as much.

“Rich men give better perks but are more demanding and want...everything, really,” Razia snorted. “Poor or middle class people can’t pay as well but they give of themselves more.”

“And which do you prefer?” Quentin asked.

She took a deep, contemplative breath, thrown off by the question. “I think,” said Razia after a delay, “I prefer it with the poorer ones. This right here is fantastic, but powerful men are more dangerous while pretending to act more civilized. I prefer an honest bastard to a liar. Poor men appreciate me more. Ooh, look!” She pointed at the stage.

All around the amphitheater the lights went out in twos and threes and the stage lit up. The rich red curtain pulled away to reveal...A single white blob Quentin knew was a person. From this far away, Quentin couldn’t make out what he was wearing, or any of his features, or anything other than he wore white. It made sense. White was the color of death and mourning. Stringed instruments played a chord, and the pale figure, a woman, sang.

“The Daystar flares hot with rage

Fire becomes ice as her light fades

Into darkness, the Blooming Rose falls

Only to rise the Darkstar”

The curtain opened further and others walked onto the stage, each wearing a different color. The music began in earnest then, woodwinds and strings and a small choir mingling together. Together they swelled and the lead woman sang on in a crystal clear, haunting voice.

“The first of the gods to fall

Paving the way for an ever after

For even though the eternal gods may die

We are never truly gone

Tonight we sing praise to the Darkstar

We sing of the first winter

Dark, cold, and full of despair

Of grief and madness

And a promise of more

In the land of the Darkstar”

Razia leaned forward, eyes wide and excited. “This is one of the last performances of The Death of the Blooming Rose,” she whispered. “And we’ve got some of the best seats in the house. The lead actress, the Darkstar: she’s gorgeous. Isn’t she stunning?” She rapped her knuckles on Quentin’s knee.

Quentin thought about lying and going along with it. If she knew she would only feel bad. But he wasn’t much of a liar. She’d probably want to know, he decided. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t see much from this distance. She looks vaguely white and person shaped. It’s better now than outside during the day. I can pretty much only see shadows when it’s too bright.”

The look on her face made him want to burst out laughing. Razia looked crushed. “You really can’t see the play?” She turned towards the stage, where the actors danced together as the opening song wound down. “The other day. When you scared those assholes off, you said you couldn’t see a thing. I thought you were just exaggerating how tired you were.”

This time Quentin did laugh. “No, I wish. My eyesight’s just garbage. It’s mostly fine up close and in average light, but gets worse as things get further and brighter.”

“I am so sorry Quentin, I --”

“You couldn’t have known.” He shrugged, settling into his chair. “I’m not upset at all. I know this play very well anyway.” The corners of his lips twitched.

Razia cocked her head to the side. Quentin held up a finger and turned his ear towards the stage, looking directly at Razia. As one actress finished her line, Quentin nodded and recited, “A fine gift, sister,” in a faux deep voice as the actor on stage did the same. “You make my heart warmer and my world brighter.” Lights flared on the stage. “Always weirded me out a bit,” he added, “that they’re twins and lovers.”

“It’s different for gods,” Razia shrugged.

“My mother used to read me this play often as a child,” said Quentin. “She’d do different voices for each character and everything. I think she wanted me to feel better about myself.” He grimaced. “My birthday is the first of winter, the day the Blooming Rose was murdered in the story. She...She believed in the Moonkissed shit. She believed in a good version of it. Kind of like you.”

“Is that so bad, though? To believe that your child was a special gift?”

Quentin didn’t know how to answer that. He nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I don’t think too much about parenthood. For obvious reasons.”

“For obvious reasons,” Razia intoned gravely. She elbowed him in the side. “Yeah, I can believe you wanted to be an actor. You’re very dramatic. Lighten up some.”

His face burned, but there was little of the sting of humiliation Quentin normally felt when being mocked. “My point remains. I don’t have any idea what it’s like to have kids or want anything for them. I barely have people to want things for. But you’re not wrong, I guess. I suppose it’s not such a terrible thing that she wanted to believe I was special instead of cursed.”

Razia filled their cups with more wine and raised hers to that, winking. Quentin smiled and relaxed, settling back to really focus on the show once more. His eyes were so great, but his ears worked just fine. While the majority of the play was a mixture of spoken verse and the cast’s elaborate dancing sequences, spread throughout were beautiful songs, sung by the people who played the gods. For all of his bitterness, these were the parts of the play that stuck with Quentin.

It was hard not to sympathize with them, feeling their first loss and thinking back to his mother’s death. Or maybe it just hit him harder, now that she was gone and this play was one of a handful of things he had left of her. Quentin wiped at his eyes during the Blooming Rose’s death scene, peeking out the corner of his eye to make sure Razia didn’t see it. Her eyes were on the actors, captivated.

The death aria marked the close of act one. The lights came back on and the curtain closed so the actors could catch a breath and so the Blooming Rose could costume change into the Darkstar. Quentin stretched in his street, enjoying a mild buzz and a contentment he hadn’t realized was there until the amphitheater woke up, taking his dream of peace with it.

“I still feel really bad about bringing you here when you can’t see it,” said Razia, turning to face him. “Has your sight always been this bad?”

Quentin shrugged. “It wasn’t as bad when I was a kid but it was never particularly good. It doesn’t feel like it’s getting worse any faster, so there’s that.”

“Have you ever tried to do anything about it?” she asked. “Like see if healers could look at it, or maybe try spectacles?”

He made a face. “I don’t like going around the temple much. And I don’t know much about spectacles. Seems like it would be hard to be active when I have to worry about breaking them. I’m probably fine the way things are.”

Razia shook her head. “I’ll see about finding something that helps. Just you wait.”

Behind them the curtain rustled. A portly man with a reddish beard poked his head through. “Roan? Aha, there you are! I thought I saw someone in here and...Oh, I didn’t know you had company!”

Razia jumped to her feet. Her eyes flicked over to Quentin and said, silently, she’d do the talking. “No one’s supposed to know,” she said, holding up her finger. “The Senator is officially four miles away, at a --”

“Yes yes, we’ve all been there,” He let out a belly laugh and stepped onto their balcony. “Where’d you find this one, Roan? She's pretty.”

Quentin’s fingers dug into the arms of his seat until they hurt. What was he supposed to say? This man clearly knew the senator and there was no way Quentin could fool him. He opened his mouth, preparing to tell Razia to run when she turned on the charm.

“Oh, you think I’m pretty?” she asked, voice rising and sounding a little more girlish. “That’s so sweet of you.” She put herself between Quentin and the stranger and did a little twirl for him. “Do you like what you see?”

The man’s wide, guileless face gave everything away. He went from an indulgent smile to really taking a look. His eyes darkened a little as he said, “Yes. Quite a bit. I don’t mean to poach from my dear friend Roan young lady, but…” He took her hand in his and stroked it.

Razia placed her hand over his and squeezed it. “Oh, I think something could be arranged.” She leaned forward and the man bowed his head so she could whisper in his ear. Quentin had no idea what was actually said, but he’d been on the receiving end of that move and knew firsthand how likely it was the man’s brains would be leaking out his ears.

His face reddened the more she whispered, until it reached a shade that clashed horribly with his beard. Razia pulled away and shot Quentin a smug grin. ‘See that?’ the grin said. ‘I’ve got this handled.’ It turned to horror when he pushed right past her and took her seat next to Quentin.

“Where did you find this one? She’s filthy!” he chortled, slapping Quentin on the back. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the Blooming party this year, and...you can take off the hood my friend, I’m not going to tell anyone you’re here.”

It was the kind of disaster that happened slowly, like an inexorable storm on the horizon. Razia had tried and failed to bail him out and now Quentin couldn’t think of anything to do. So he forced a smile on his face and lowered his hood.

“What in the…” Surprise turned to fear. He scrambled backwards out of his seat, looking between Quentin and Razia. Fear turned to realization, and then anger, all in the span of a few glacial seconds. “Thought you’d come and use my friend’s box? Oh, you two are screwed.” He took off through the curtains.

“Time to run like hell?” said Quentin.

“Time to walk like hell. Get your hood up and follow me.” Razia scooped up the wine and motioned for him to hurry. He scrambled after her, head spinning. The buzz had been pleasant, up until now. Arm in arm they peeked their heads out. Razia nodded towards a line of people down to their right that looked frayed. They headed left.

Everyone’s eyes were on them. They knew, and when guards came they’d give them away. Quentin swallowed down his fears and took short, unhurried steps. His heart pounded like he was running a marathon. Beside him, Razia looked serene, like she was just enjoying a nice night out and hell wasn’t about to come down on them.

By the time they reached the stairs and no one had screamed for their detention, Quentin thought she might have a point. When they passed through the exit and were back into the early Orchrisan night, he let himself relax. Razia pat his hand.

“I’ve done a lot of running lately, but this is what I prefer. Just walk away casually and no one will think you did anything wrong. We get away with it with zero consequences.” Razia looked pleased with herself.

Quentin scoffed. “Not sure you’ll ever be able to go back there without being thrown out. And we only saw half the play. Well, you saw half the play. I heard half. No, I’m joking,” he said as Razia winced. “I had a good time. And we’re safe.”

A chill went down Quentin’s spine when she said nothing. He looked around them. They were on the nicer side of town. He stood out like a sore thumb among the dozens of people dressed well, but nothing else seemed odd. Then he saw one of them, walking parallel to them. He craned his head and caught the other. They made eye contact and she nodded. She looked familiar, but Quentin couldn’t quite place her.

Razia gave an apologetic shrug as she tugged on his arm and led him away from the main streets and to an alley. “I promised you I’d talk with Mr. Cicero as soon as I could. Well, ready or not, here’s our chance.”