Myrmidon

[Ruby]

Market Square

Market Square predates much of the city of Rodham’s heart. Standing at the centre of the Noble district, it is the only place where the wealthy and privileged deign worthy of opening to the public. Only during the festivals of the moon and sun and stars are the iron wrought gates swung open and the guards leave their posts. Some say it is a way for the Royal Family to show they are at one with the people. Others say it is to concede just enough humanity to keep their place at the top of the city’s hierarchy. A fountain shoots water high into the sky from the mouths of cherubs and the fonts of flowers carved into pure white marble. The Restless Fugitive build their stage about the monument to long forgotten founders and hide its waters away behind a plinth atop which the stage hands and acrobats reveal their talents to the world.

“Places, places!”

Liza clapped her hands several times and watched the melee of the troupe erupt. Left and right, people dashed across the stage to add the finishing touches to the opening act’s design. At the heart of the stage the leading lady barked orders at the top of her lungs, fighting against the roar of the thousand-strong crowd crammed into the easterly half of the square. The sun crested the cliffs and cast fire over the palace and anticipation sparked in the air.

“It took for too long to get the curtains up but I reckon we’re ‘bout ready Liza!”

She turned her head skyward, to where the canopy of the stage tent touched the top of the plinth and the crow’s nest hidden away behind a hanging circular veil. She raised an eyebrow when she caught sight of who was heckling her.

“Duffy, you little scrote bag, get down here and do your damned job. You aren’t Malone!”

She wagged a finger at him and he disappeared. “Where is Malone?” She turned on the spot, trying to pick out the youngest member of the troupe’s stage department. When she saw no sign of a mucky face and buck teeth she began to tap her foot nervously.

“Liza!”

She rolled her eyes and turned slowly to whatever disaster came next.

Duffy, a scruffy youth old enough to know better approached her from the east side of the stage with a bundle of rope in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Though he was taller than most of the troupe, he was lithe and pallid and in desperate need of manners.

“I thought your job tonight was to keep the extras in line and work your little peculiar brand of magic on the crowd?”

“It is,” he stopped just far enough away to avoid Liza’s infamous backhand. “But…”

“Think very carefully about what you say next.”

“But, well, there’s a bit of panic running through the crowd and people are getting restless.”

Liza always expected the combination of theatre, alcohol, and revelry to disrupt at least one act of their performances. A huddle of children streamed past them in pinafore dresses and freshly pressed woollen suits, taking their places for the imminent threat of the curtains going up.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“They’re talking about the royal box…I, err, thought you should know.” Duffy took a step back.

“Let me know what?” She straightened her spine and glared.

“The Queen has a rather unusual guest. I, I think it’s the Grand Inquisitor.”