In my line of work a fellow gets used to lots of things- ear-splitting screams, daggers in the shadows, leering masks, wicked smiles, wailing widows, back alleys, bodies, and blood… lots of blood. I’d just never had to endure all of them in one night.
Opera’s what the Sembites called it. The word means “works.” Still, out of a cast of thousands, I was the only one working. Everybody else primped and bickered, pranced in patti-colored silks and grease paint, and gestured to a couple fat men who bellowed. Meanwhile, I stood there in the dark lee of a stage curtain and watched and listened.
That was work. Real, hard work. It’s tough for a man of action to stand around and watch something happen that isn’t even happening. Still, something real was about to happen. Death was in the air that night-real death and real blood-I could smell it. Murder was only moments away. I edged closer to the stage. The two fat men there were my responsibility. Usually a person doesn’t become my responsibility until he’s lying facedown in an alley puddle. But these two stuffed sausages were still very much alive, and it was my job to keep them that way.
I’m Bolton Quaid, watch captain-for-hire and, lately, bodyguard. I’d landed this particular job back in Waterdeep-my stomping grounds-when the opera had toured there. No sooner had it opened than death threats had started rolling in. Understandable. If I’d paid a handful of gold to hear this, I’d’ve been in a mood for murder, too. Still, the head of the company hadn’t wanted to take chances. He’d sought out the best bodyguard in the city and ended up with me. Five cities and ten months later, I was still along for the ride… and the death threats still rolled in.
From the beginning I knew most of the threats were sent by one tenor to the other. Singers are like that, I’m told. But a few came from somebody else, somebody who could’ve been sitting in the audience even now. I looked out past the bobbing heads of the chorus, toward the dour, jewel-decked crowd. They sat in the Grand House as still as statues. The best of the best. Everything about them shone-diamond necklaces, gold earrings, silver hair, bald pates, and glassy eyes. Mostly their eyes. Boredom, resignation, sleepiness. Not the usual motives for murder. Most of the crowd couldn’t even muster up interest, let alone malice.
Still, death was in the air. I could smell it. Somebody was planning murder.
It could have been one of the singers. While the crowd had no passion, the singers had too much-roaring, stomping, wailing, collapsing, trembling, swaggering, staggering, leaping, sobbing, fighting, swooning, and, of course, bellowing, bellowing, bellowing… They were mad with passion, lunatics capering and drooling and howling at the moon.
Tonias, the younger tenor, led the bedlam. He was a stout lad with golden hair and beard standing straight out in a ring around his head. The sheen of his hair was accentuated by the crown he wore, which designated him King Orpheus, conquering lord of Distalia. He wore a fat white ruff, a tunic of bright yellow silk, a stiff brown waistcoat, an ermine-lined cloak, and a yellow stocking that showed every line of his legs. On high notes, Tonias would loft his gleaming sword, giving everyone in the front row an intimate view of the effect of his tremolo. He seemed more a puff pastry than a killer.
The older tenor, on the other hand, seemed perfectly capable of murder. In this opera he played the villain Garragius, one-time king of Distalia. Displaced and outlawed, Garragius posed as a leprous beggar in order to sneak up to Orpheus and kill him. The animosity was not all acting, though. It was jealousy, pure and simple. While Tonias got to strut center stage, V’Torres had to lurk near stage front. The old tenor wore no finery, only black rags charred from encounters with the foot candles. His lines were full of growls, barks, and guttural threats. On low notes, he sounded like a rutting bull, on high notes like a cat in heat.
That hadn’t always been the case. He’d once been a young tenor sensation, the toast of Sembia. Then, he’d had the voice of a hero-high, pure, and crystalline. Bold but tender. Powerful but tragic. Especially tragic. His career had ended at its height, turning on itself like a snake swallowing its own tail. To escape ever-present fans, V’Torres had begun to drink himself unconscious. The problem was he would invariably wake up beside one of those fans. Eventually, drink rotted his liver, and pox rotted his brain. By the time he got dry on both ends he was empty in the middle, and had no voice left. V’Torres, now, was next to nothing, and jealousy consumed him.
Perhaps murderous jealousy.
Tonias was worthy of it. Occasionally, he would stop bellowing and actually sing something soaring and sweet. Then, even I could tell he was good. In those moments his voice held all of hope and fear, desire and devotion. The sound struck me in the breastbone and moved in waves through my ribs, into my spine, and up to buzz in the base of my brain. It was like my ears heard only the smallest part of that sound, most of it resounding directly in my bones. Even now he sang such a passage. Among a rapt and adoring throng of choristers, King Orpheus stood, belly thrust outward, head thrown back, and battle sword lifted high: