The Players of Luminesco Chapter One

Halfway through the last verse, I nearly stumble over the words when I’m startled by a flash of light. Cristiano glances up from his guitar to give me a questioning look, but I shake my head slightly and force my mouth to smile as I sing the last note and the audience bursts into applause. I can see now that it was only one of Ignazio’s torches flung into the air, not the start of an attack. Telling myself to relax, I take a bow.

The performance is going well, with only the finale to go, and I feel confident we’ll come out with a decent profit tonight. That’s good; business has been slow since soldiers raided that performance by Armando’s players. Honestly, I don’t know what they expected. You simply don’t perform that close to a city, even at night. Armando always was a bit of an idiot.

Still, no one deserves what he got.

I’ll explain. My name is Niccola Parici, and I am a member of Ajani’s Players. We are musicians, fortunetellers, fire-eaters, strongmen, dancers, actors, and storytellers. We are young and old, men and women, and a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes, with an assortment of backgrounds. We are sinners and saints and we are all, every one of us, criminals. Guilty of a crime punishable by hanging or worse. Our crime? Playing.

Sixteen years ago, when I was nothing more than a baby, our beautiful country of Lyrona, the Land of Songs, was invaded by the Hochster Empire. The new regime wanted nothing of our old lives, our culture. They announced that everything, our music, our art, our stories, our history, our kings and our pride, everything that made us who we were, was to be forgotten, all for the sake of breaking our spirits and keeping control. They destroyed our books and paintings, and covered up the frescos. They forbid our celebrations. They frightened the people into silence.

Except for the players. Of course, there were many who pretended they had swallowed their tongues, but there were a very heroic few who kept singing. They could not be silenced. They kept on with the old songs and tales, and worse, they made up new ones. They mocked and ridiculed our new government. They called on the people to rise up against their assailants. They even dared question that the royal family had, in fact, been killed in the coup as King Dierck told us.

They were brave; valiantly, admirably, tragically brave; and valiantly, admirably and tragically was how they paid for it. Even as they walked to their very deaths and the nooses were slipped around their necks, their sweet tones could not be stilled. They say that no one heard the reading of their alleged crimes over their song of a brighter day to come, and that even when every body hung still, the eerie hum of music continued. And still it continues. The music comes from us, Ajani’s Players, and the few other troupes that still dare to play, Isabella’s, Adamo’s, Marcello’s, and until a few weeks ago, Armando’s. Few others. We, Ajani’s Players, the Players of Luminesco, are the best.

Even we, though, do not play in daylight. The Players of Luminesco have not played in Luminesco in sixteen years. We do not play closer than two miles to any city. We do not play at all but carefully, carefully –  for if we are caught, it will be us with the nooses around our necks, and one of Adamo’s little singers saying Ajani never had much sense and why, oh why did we ever think to play so near to dawn?

Thinking of dawn, I look to the east, and sure enough I see the slightest lightening of the sky on the horizon above the mountains. Perhaps you would not notice it, seeing only the velvet blackness of the dome above, but to me, the sky is a timekeeper and herald of danger.

The crowd is dispersing now, wandering away to catch the last couple of minutes of the few acts still playing. I see the flickering orange lights of Ignazio’s torches just beyond a nearby stand of trees; hear his audience’s collective gasp. I grin, imagining him passing the bright, hungry flames across his bare chest and arms and smiling, never feeling the bite of the fire because of the protective oils he smears on his skin before each show. Across the clearing we’re using as our makeshift square, I see a gnarled, shrunken hand sweep back the faded purple curtain over the entrance of the covered wagon that carries our supplies from village to village, as a gray haired old farmer leaves and a young woman with a toddler on her hip takes his place in Signora Ventituli’s fortune telling act.

Also nearby, Ajani will be telling stories to a hushed group of wide-eyed children, his huge brown hands doing as much of the story telling as his mouth; Alexei will be performing juggling feats of wonder with various knives and swords; Nazario will be astounding an audience of swooning women and envious men with his amazing strength; and Rossada will no doubt be helping one or the other of them, dancing and acting out Ajani’s stories, or possibly singing and playing her guitar and captivating a group of spectators with her own lovely voice.

Turning away from the clearing, I walk back to Cristiano, who is crouched over the gaudy red hat we use to collect tips and the lockbox that holds our profits. His heavy brows are furrowed over his dark eyes as he carefully counts each coin and drops it in the box.

“Not bad,” he says to me, glancing up and tossing his dark brown curls out of his eyes, “Better than we’ve made since Armando – ” He cuts off and shakes his head.

“Yes, the turnout was good,” I say quickly.

“How are we looking tonight? They seemed a fair audience,” says Nadia, bouncing over with Marigold on her sleeve. Nadia is a cheerful girl, a dancer of around my own age, seventeen. She has light blond hair and green eyes, and her skin is fair with an enormous number of freckles from the long days we spend in the sun.

Marigold, another dancer, is also fair, but with creamy white skin, dark red hair and impossibly blue eyes, she’s so beautiful that men and boys often run into things, so distracted are they with staring at her. I am told that my own sea green eyes are a rare beauty, but to me they seem not to fit with my brown skin and dark hair, and they always look out of place, rather than mysterious and alluring like Marigold’s.

“Not bad,” says Cristiano, absorbed again in his counting.

“It’s nearing dawn,” intones Aria, sounding nervous. She is sitting beside Cristiano, and hasn’t noticed that her wavy black hair is escaping from the loose bun at the nape of her neck to hang around her face. Her sharp black eyes are on the horizon, and her fingertips tap rapidly on her knee. Following her gaze, I notice again the slight lightening of the sky just above the trees. It must be near four in the morning, and dawn will arrive within two hours.

“Quite right,” says Cristiano, finally looking up from his counting. He glances over toward the wagon, and I see that the young woman is just leaving and Signora has placed a sign in the entrance. Closed.

“Right.” Cristiano announces. “Set up for Nocte Ans Orora, the others will be arriving soon, I’m sure . . . Marigold, if you would fetch the crowns, Nadia, the other costume pieces, Niccola –“

“Ho there!” calls a cheerful voice as Alexei skids to a halt between tiny Daniela Ventituli and his sister Nadia, throwing an arm around the latter. “How goes it?”

“Well enough,” says Cristiano, frowning slightly at the younger man, who is not listening, but laughing loudly at something Nadia said to him. “But we need to keep moving; dawn …”

“What’s this?” Alexei interrupts again, feigning shock. “Not yet ready for the finale, and with dawn’s swift chariot approaching? How unlike you Cristiano! What are we all doing, standing around gaping at each other like buffoons, while we should be preparing? Really, I thought you were more responsible than that,” he announces, wagging a remonstrative finger under Cristiano’s nose.

“Well we were trying …” Cristiano tries again, vainly, to capture Alexei’s attention, but his voice is drowned in Alexei’s booming shouts.

“Marigold, The crowns! Nadia, The costumes! Niccola, The swords! Let’s move, shall we?”

“Yes, that’s what I …” But Alexei is already happily heading off toward the prop chest. Cristiano shakes his head and laughs a bit, in spite of himself. “Well, you heard him,” he says to us. “Hurry, please.”

I go to the wagon to gather the swords. Alexei is already there, with his curly golden head stuffed in the prop chest, digging around for goodness knows what, propping open the lid with one large shoulder. He has his sister’s green eyes, freckles, and wide smile, but unlike Nadia, his face, shoulders, and hands are tanned brown by the sun, rendering his freckles visible only from up close.

“Now, Alexei,” I teasingly admonish him as I join him in the prop chest and begin searching for the swords. “You know you shouldn’t goad Cristiano so.”

“Oh, he likes it,” Alexei says dismissively. He pulls his head out of the chest and holds the lid open until I emerge, my arms full of five or six mismatched prop swords.

“If you say so,” I say, rolling my eyes but grinning.

“Anyway, we all need a laugh,” Alexei continues, his tone more serious. “Especially Cristiano. He’s been so worried since … you know.”

“I do.” I nod. “You’re right. It’s been hard for everyone, and him in particular. I think he worries about Bella.”

Bella is Cristiano’s adopted daughter. She is one of the many foundlings we have collected, like Marigold and her brother Aiden. Really, most of the troupe has joined in this way, since after the coup when playing became a last resort for the desperate.

When we found Bella, she was only four. A lonely, tearful, blue-eyed baby, her blonde curls tangled and her pale face dirty, her starved little body thin as a rail. Unlike some of the children who come to us, she opened up right away, vulnerable and sweet and craving love. She fell almost immediately into Cristiano’s care. They seemed to fit together so well: he, having just lost a baby sister, and she having lost everyone. Eventually, people began to think of them as a pair, a family, and now they are inseparable. Cristiano looks after her almost too well, always worrying that something will happen. I think he fears that he will lose her like his sister; no one was ever able to convince him that her death was not his fault.

Alexei nods his agreement. “We all worry.” His eyes are downcast, and I know he is thinking about Nadia.

“But we’re safe for now,” I say bracingly, rubbing his arm. “Let’s get set up, shall we?” Alexei looks up, shaken from his thoughts, and smiles at me.

“Yes. Yes, let’s get set up.”

We walk out from behind the façade and back onto the main stage, which is nothing more than a collection of worn wooden boards, hurriedly hammered together before each show to form a small platform, maybe six by ten feet, and torn down to be packed into the wagon and taken on to the next location. We use the platform and the areas on either side and in front of it as our playing space, and the audience gathers around to watch. The façade, which is a flat background, also of haphazardly clapped together boards painted wild blues, yellows, purples, reds, and greens, stands about ten feet wide and eight feet tall, and is used to hide actors, props and costumes waiting for entrances.

The rest of the actors have assembled, and Nadia and Marigold are already handing out the props they were sent to fetch. Remembering Alexei looking in the prop chest, I turn to ask him what it was he was looking for and whether he found it, but realize he is no longer beside me. Confused, I look around and catch sight of him talking to Ajani.

Ajani is a big man; over six feet tall and well muscled with skin as black as night. He is the only one of us in the troupe who comes close to Alexei’s immense height. He is frowning slightly, head bent to listen to whatever Alexei is saying, and as I watch he nods and takes something from Alexei’s hands. I recognize it at once as Signora Ventituli’s donations envelope and my heart skips a beat.

Now Ajani has placed one big hand on Alexei’s shoulder and is saying something to him, his brow furrowed and very serious. Alexei’s eyebrows go up and he looks quickly into Ajani’s face, and Ajani nods in seeming conformation. Alexei shakes his head hard, lips moving fast and I’m sure he’s swearing, then he looks one more time at Ajani, who nods and waves him off and Alexei dashes back toward the façade.

Ajani moves to the lip of the stage and holds up his hand for quiet.

“I have just received troubling news.” His deep dark voice is smooth as velvet, but now it is troubled, and slightly tense, though I can tell he is trying to hold it back, almost as if to prevent a panic. “A detachment of Hochster soldiers is riding in this direction.”

Several people gasp and an uneasy muttering moves through the crowd. I feel my heart drop low into my stomach as my suspicions are confirmed. Both of Ajani’s hands go up and he raises his voice. “They are still on the main road. They may not be coming after us at all, but I need you to disperse. Please gather your families, and either return to your homes or find someplace to hide, whichever seems safest to you. Unless you have a convincing reason to be there, please do not take the main road. We appreciate all of you taking the chance in coming out tonight, and wish you the best of luck. May good fortune be with you.”

He turns back to us, and his voice drops. “You know what to do.”