to the ceiling, where the fat paper lamps hung in two straight lines, bisecting each other at the center.
The entire place was full of the scent of food and sweat and, my very favorite, anticipation. We were all as one, every member of the audience, leaning forward as we waited for the moment that the lanterns were lit: And then we were bathed in the golden glow of atmosphere, the perfect, supernatural experience just before smoke began to roll across the stage, and a howling voice began its narration.
“What’s he saying,” Alcibiades hissed, as the cheers and cries quieted and the audience fell hushed with momentary reverence. From what little I already knew of the Ke-Han theatre—Lord Temur had warned me against going due to all this vulgarity—that silence would not last.
Fortunately, where my knowledge failed in the common slang, I was quite capable of a rough translation of such formal language.
“‘Long have I traveled this dark road,’” I translated. I kept my words no louder than the barest of whispers. “‘Long have I searched for a port in the dark storm. But I am cast out from my home—who will be loyal to me now?’”
I was given no further opportunity to continue, for with a sudden explosion—miniature fireworks, how utterly exquisite!—an actor appeared on stage, body frozen in a sharply angled pose. He looked more like a statue than a man, so still and so expressionless. His robes were made of the deepest cobalt blue and I caught on his back the three golden diamonds I’d seen before.
My fingers twitched at Alcibiades’ sleeve, and he was so distracted by the glorious display he even patted the top of my hand.
“‘My lord calls,’” I whispered, wishing I did not have to translate for the general. Nonetheless, it wasn’t particularly unexpected that he wouldn’t know this, the most formal dialect of the Ke-Han, reserved now only for the classics and performance scripts. “‘I hear him upon the wind. Who needs now the presence of a man loyal when the world is not? It is I, noble warrior! We fight as one!’”
The actor’s face began to change, but not through any motion he made. Rather, it was through the subtle changes of emotion. I knew at once that he was the loyal retainer. Even I, stranger that I was, could feel the purpose behind his performance.
“Uncanny,” Alcibiades muttered.
The cheering from the audience began.
“‘Never shall we be separated,’” I continued, savoring each word. “‘I have pledged my life to thee, and thine it is, no matter who chases us down.’”
“I know who chases you down!” someone shouted from the audience. He was followed by such a chorus of hooting and jeering that I wondered what sort of training the actor must have had to ignore it completely—to carry on as though he were alone in the world. Indeed, alone like the prince and his retainer upon the high mountain.
“‘Is that you, Benkei?’ That must be the prince, offstage,” I said, as I leaned closer to the stage. “I wonder how he’ll appear—I wonder if he’s as beautiful as the one we were so lucky to see for ourselves—”
“Shh,” Alcibiades hissed. “You’re being rude.”
My cheeks were hot with amusement and pleasure, and the close atmosphere of the theatre, the heavy air made damp and close by all the bodies pressed together, waiting for the prince to arrive.
“Benkei, my sorry ass,” said a man sitting next to us, before he settled back to scratching the back of his neck as though he might have had fleas.
“‘My lord, I have brought you your sword,’” I whispered. “‘By your side I shall be as your sword. We shall fight as one, and safety under the gods will be ours.’”
“A little bit much, isn’t it?” Alcibiades murmured, shifting uncomfortably. It was either because he’d finished his dumplings or because the emotions of the people there had finally caught up to him. “A little bit queer, too. In Volstov, he wouldn’t be such…” Alcibiades trailed off, chewing the words over while he observed the actor, imposing and fierce and lit with glowing lamplight. “Well, such a damn hero.”
“Unless there was some good reason for his change of loyalties,” I added.
“Ch’. Foreigners,” the man sitting next to us said, casting us a disapproving look.
“My sincere apologies,” I said. It meant only that I had to settle myself closer to Alcibiades so that we would disturb no other patrons of the arts with our commentary and with my translation, which I