Deep Shadow

III

 Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, we have nightly performances in the town square. Fire-breathing, baton twirling, acrobatic acts, comedic skits. Each of us in the Troupe cater to our unique talents. Anything goes, just so long as it keeps the audience’s attention fixed upon us, not the pickpockets sifting through their valuables.

Knife throwing was my specialty. Give me a target, any kind, and I could hit it in a blink. I’d been practicing since I first became a street urchin, with very few other talents and little other things to occupy my time. Years later, I was possibly one of the best. I could tear straight through a playing card laid flat with one throw, impale a small insect on a wall.

“Des.”

I lowered my arm, fingers curling tighter around the arrowhead-shaped blade in my hand. It was Dario, our surveillance expert, his mask pulled up atop his head. His codename was Scarramuccia, and I had a feeling, from the grave expression on his face, we were about to be using it.

“Who is it? How many?” I said, lightly tossing the knife onto my desk, brain already leaping into action.

“Presidential Guards, two. It looks like Ratchett and Cimorello.”

“Again?”

He shrugged. 

“How far?” I said, grabbing my mask from the hook on the wall where all the masks were stored. 

“They just crossed the bridge. They’ll be here in minutes.”

I patted him on the shoulder, smiling tightly. “Battle stations.” He disappeared through the supply closet door to wait in the Theatre. I stepped up onto a chair, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Troupe. It’s go time. Let’s move.”

Within seconds, all the strays and wanderers pushed their way into the Theatre, each grabbing their mask as they passed. Emilio was the last to go through, waiting by the door for me. “Who is it?” he said.

“Dumb and Dumber. Again.”

He sighed, gesturing for me to go through first. His mask was probably one of the most terrifying of all, covering his entire face, except two eye holes. The mask of Il Dotore. It was grey, leathery, and made him look decades older. High, sharp cheekbones were sculpted into the mask, giving his face the appearance it was much longer than in actuality. He wore a wide brimmed top hat, casting harsh shadows over the already off-putting features. The only way I knew he was smiling at me were the little crinkles around his eyes, making them squint so small they almost appeared to be closed.

Everyone was already making themselves busy. Practicing their acts, polishing the props, interacting with each other as if rehearsing for a play. By the time the two Presidential Guards reached the door and knocked, it was almost as if we’d been there the whole time. Ratchett and Cimorello had a habit of not waiting for someone to answer the door, waltzing in uninvited. When they didn’t that time either, it was no surprise.

“Did we catch you at a bad time?” said Ratchett, looking the least bit unconcerned. “We won’t be long, I promise. Just stopped by to wish you luck and let you know we’ll be watching you.”

“You’re gonna be watching?” said one of the performers, Arlecchino. He was dressed in a harlequin suit and cartwheeled around a table. His mask was simplistic, white. It matched the white face paint he caked over every inch of visible skin. “Now I might get stage fright.” He made an exaggerated sad face and crossed his arms over his stomach. The only ones who didn’t laugh were Ratchett and Cimorello.

Instead of trying to play off his embarrassment with a snide remark, Ratchett turned his attention to Il Dotore, who was tapping his foot on the floor. “What are you doing?” he hissed. Dotore looked surprised.