The Players of Empire (short fiction): when their subsidized propaganda plays end, what does a troupe of second-rate actors do for an encore?
“And so the Emperor said unto me, go forth, Maestro, spread the tales of my deeds to the far corners of my empire.”
Rikhart Chanley paused. A great pause. A dramatic pause. A pause fit for the greatest stages in all of Eskalon.
The tousled child looked up at him, eyes wide with wonder. Rikhart’s booming voice stilled the chatter of the few patrons of the shabby alehouse.
“And then–”
“Take no notice, child. We never even met the Emperor. He sent a warrant and a purse of copper coins. Not even silver; copper. Cheap bastard.”
Grissa shuffled between them, a clutch of ale mugs in both her hands. Over three decades she wilfully sabotaged his plays, his reputation, his stories. Some stage manager. If she wasn’t so cheap herself–
“Grissa, you’re spilling the ale,” Jaketh called impatiently. The young pretender. The boy who would be king of Rikhart’s stage, with his manifesting and meditation and his method.
What’s wrong with simply acting?
A high-pitched giggle carried across the room. Tiffania sat on some fat old merchant’s lap and tossed her blonde locks like some siren out of legend. The leading actress who couldn’t act, simple or otherwise. Achingly petty. The groundlings could stare at her for hours. Little did they know their angel hid the venomous tooth of the viper.
Tomas and the bit-players sat outside, with the wagon that carried their stage and their props and all their worldly belongings.
This is my company. My troupe.
The players of Empire. The players of misfortune.
What do we do now?
Ten years. Ten years under the Emperor’s warrant. Three performances a day, plus special appearances at festivals and Empire Day. A permanent pitch in the busy Lower Ward. The Players’ Square, named for Chanley’s Company; the Emperor’s Company.
A name no one remembered.
Just as well. What’s an Emperor’s Company without an Emperor?
Never mind silver, without the Emperor’s paltry supply of copper, there wouldn’t be a company.
No empire, no Serpent Throne, no emperor. Grissa free to call him a cheap bastard. She’d have joined the Vanished, or sentenced to the mines, back in the day.
The Emperor’s name, once whispered in hushed tones of awe, now spat into the gutter.
Villain. Tyrant. Murderer.
One stab of an assassin’s blade and all the Emperor’s great victories turned to cinder and ash.
And Rikhart Chanley’s plans for a glorious retirement gone up in smoke.
Ten thousand performances.
Ten thousand great speeches.
Ten thousand ovations. In Rikhart’s mind, at least.
With one slice of the rope, the curtain falls.
We are but players on life’s stage, until we tread on the one loose board that flips and smashes us between the legs.
No more purses of copper. No more Imperial warrant. No more Emperor’s Company.
No more of the Emperor’s schlock, the melodrama, the endless wars, endless praise. Back to the old plays; myths and legends. Brooding young heroes and blonde sirens.
No great parts but old men in their dotage, kings without kingdoms.
An Emperor of the stage no more.
Just a rickety wagon, cold nights on the road, and far off towns where no one knew the name of Rikhart Chanley. Collaborator. Sycophant. Ham.
That one hurt the most.
Rikhart raised his mug of ale. Empty.
“Shall I tell you, child, of the Emperor’s great victory against the Horse Clans of the East?”
But the tousled child had gone. The alehouse patrons returned to their chatter.
Years ago, Rikhart’s teacher almost broke his heart.
What’s worse than an empty theatre, boy? A full one, where the audience ignores the player.