Elf Defence (Adventures in Aguillon #2) - Lisa Henry Page 0,78

be good. He might have found his calling.”

Loth could see that Quinn was losing the battle to keep his grin in check. His husband was such a little shit. The kicker of it all was that it only made him even more attractive to Loth, who had always been partial to an arsehole, in more ways than one.

“Is Dave coming?” Calarian asked, craning his head. “I’m saving him a seat. Well, I’m saving him this whole bench. I think he’ll fit on it. What about Ada?”

“It’s her date night,” Quinn said. “With Ser Greylord.”

“Oh,” Loth said. “So they get a romantic evening far, far away from this torture, but here we are–”

“Here we are supporting the arts,” Quinn said firmly. “As we should.”

Loth grumbled and sunk lower in his seat. Benji leaned past Cal and shoved the peanuts under his nose. Loth grabbed a handful, hoping he was allergic. At least the sweet release of death would spare him having to sit through this. Because Scott had written it? There weren’t words enough to convey the horror.

Quinn nudged him. “Cheer up,” he whispered. “I mean, how bad can it be?” He leaned in closer. “Besides, if you behave I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Did you really just ask how bad it could be?” Loth asked, gesturing at the stage. “Because this is Scott.”

“I’m sure it won’t...” Quinn trailed off. “Hmm. You may be right.” But then it was too late to do anything but endure, because the lights were dimming and people were settling in and there was that whole pre-show rustling and muttering signalling that it was time to pay attention.

Loth knew it was going to be bad when a guy in stripey clothes and a silly hat bounded out onto the little stage and started jangling around some bells. And then there was the chorus: five people who couldn’t carry a tune between them, attempting to sound sombre and serious as they sang something about praising the gods for delivering Aguillon from the tyranny of Lord Doom. The dramatic effect was spoiled somewhat by the one on the end who kept grinning and waving to someone in the audience, possibly his mum if the way he kept mouthing hi mum! was anything to go by.

And then the chorus and the guy with the bells cleared the stage, and two actors wearing terrible red wigs took their place.

“Prithee,” the first exclaimed.

“Prithee?” Loth asked. “Who the fuck says prithee?”

He might have said it a little too loudly, because the actor glared at him before loudly clearing his throat. “Prithee, tell me thy name, fellow prisoner, and what terrible misfortune forces our meeting.”

“That’s not how that happened,” Loth muttered.

Quinn elbowed him sharply, but his face pinched down into a frown when the other actor let out a giggling falsetto and simpered, “For I am the lost pwince Tarquin, twapped in pwison. Will none rethcue me?” And then he fell down in a dramatic swoon.

“I don’t sound like that! And I don’t lisp!” Quinn sounded so deeply offended that Loth’s night immediately improved. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Now, now,” Loth said. “We’re here to support the arts, remember?”

A quick drum tattoo signalled the destruction of the cell wall—in case it was too subtle, one of the actors also helpfully exclaimed, “Oh! Look! Someone is breaking through the cell wall!”—and then pushed over two wooden boxes. It was all very dramatic.

The audience cheered wildly as Dave the orc appeared on stage. Actual Dave. He beamed widely, his tooth-tusks gleaming, and waved at Loth and Quinn. Then he announced loudly, “There are two of them!”

Mad applause and the stamping of feet followed. Dave bowed repeatedly before finally clambering down off the stage and squeezing onto the bench beside Calarian.

“I’m in the play!” he declared happily. “I’m the star!”

The play had started badly, and it only got worse from there. When Dave didn’t appear inclined to go back on stage, his role was taken over by two men sharing a green trench coat. It might have almost worked, except one of the men was about a foot and a half taller than the other and for some reason he was the one on top, so every time ‘Dave’ moved across the stage, the actors weaved and wobbled like a drunken sailor and were in danger of falling arse over teakettle. Dave didn’t seem to mind, pointing excitedly and saying “It’s me!”

Calarian and Benji had already collapsed into fits of laughter, periodically throwing peanuts