The night had arrived. A night of what should’ve been celebration and festering excitement, the opening of his greatest masterpiece. The greatest play ever written, to be followed with the greatest after-party ever had.

But it was hard to find joy with the situation. With what was supposed to happen.

Hon Jia thought back to the day he’d brought the manuscript to Peterson’s print shop three months beforehand and been robbed of his greatest possession, and with it his pride and driving purpose.

The original copy of his work, the manuscript pages stained in some places with quite literally his own blood, was priceless. Sure he could compile the piecemeal copies of his masterpiece which the actors and actresses who would perform tonight possessed. But the sum of all those parts, imitations of the original pages, would never be enough to outweigh the loss of that original piece.

The worth of those pages not only Hon Jia himself—but surely the theatrical world, was without equal.

He damned the cruel fates that had divined a scheme of such treachery, that the night he would go to have his manuscript put into production would be the same day a band of scrupulous thugs would hang the work over his head like a guillotine. He’d left the print shop with his body intact, but his mind a ruin. The only way he would regain possession of his original manuscript, the original parchment into which he penned a lifetime of emotion and reason for life, would be to play the game of these underhanded scum. A reminder note had been pinned to his desk, by his hand, stating simply: Opening night. Door. Peterson’s.

Once their deed was done and the Queen and King were expiring in their own blood, he would find his original work—his most prized possession in all the world—stacked neatly on the counter of Peterson’s shop.

Let’s hurry this night along, shall we?

Hon straightened himself before his workroom’s mirror, examining carefully the formal gown he wore for only the most important of occasions—namely the opening nights of his creative works. It was beginning to fit a little tighter around the mid-section than he would like to admit. Too much boozing and feasting, not enough whoring to keep the physique, he chided.

“Master Jia.” Tinbyc knocked lightly on the door before allowing himself to step inside momentarily. The squat little thing barely came to the height of the doorknob. Hon Jia regarded Tinbyc with an expression slightly above contempt. Had it not been for the rather submissive and obedient nature of gnomes in comparison with the other diminutive beings of the world, and low cost of care and employ, Hon Jia would’ve done away with the thing ages ago.

“Yes?” Hon regarded the silk cuff of the robe carefully. It fell just below the wrist when he stretched his arms to their full length.

“I think you—”

“—does this fit right to you?”

“I think so, master.” Tinbyc’s face scrunched up. Poor thing was probably using whatever meager mental power it possessed to process what it’d been asked.

“What would you know about that anyway,” Hon scoffed. “Anyway, what is it? Out with it now.” He twirled his finger. Hurry up, you little shit.

“It’s a full house, master! It’s packed!” Tinbyc grinned broadly, his chest swelling with pride. “I think you—”

“Less thinking, more getting ready. Do you have my seat prepared?”

“Oh, right. The box is clean ’n ready. Saw to it myself. Right by the Queen and King.”

Hon stared expectantly.

“Master,” Tinbyc added.

“Not many would tolerate your casual manner of address, Tinbyc. But I do. Remember that.”

“Th-thank you master, my mistake. I’ve your box ready, the royal family should be arrivin’ soon they should. Oh, and the door to the bell tower, I made sure that was unlocked as you had asked.”

“And no one saw?” Hon Jia said.

“No one, master. I was sure of it. Sneaky as a fink I was. Although I can’t tell why we need i—”

“It’s not your place to think, Tinbyc. You’ll hurt yourself. Let me worry about that. We do all in the name of art and the glory of the creative mind.” Hon waved the gnome off.

“Right, master.” Tinbyc receded. “I’ll get you when the royal family arrives.”

“The royal family … Just use the bell to summon me.” Hon Jia stared off into the darkness beyond his window, the silhouettes of the surrounding cityscape barely distinguishable against a somber haze. What good would the bell tower do them? He’d spent many sleepless nights wondering that.

Hon was startled from his thoughts as the bell suspended in the corner of his room jingled twice. The string it was attached to ran down to the stagehands’ corral, where they waited dutifully to move props into place and lower backdrops into position.

Ten minutes to curtain, or the royal family has arrived.

Hon gave himself a final look over in the mirror, sighed, and headed for the stairs.

***

A hush befell the crowd as the lamplight in the auditorium was extinguished and then re-illuminated. The trick came from a complex series of pulleys and other techno-wizardry that Hon Jia never bothered to learn about. What was the point of wasting valuable writing time on learning irrelevant information—he’d never have to build or maintain a system like that. That’s what the goblins, engineers, and the creatively-daft of the world are for.

“Never fails to impress me, that,” King Williame muttered as he eyed Hon Jia approvingly.

Hon returned a polite smile. “I often marvel at the feat myself. It’s what sets the Magister’s Theater apart in this world, your majesty.”

“I’m sure other places of performance have similar feats. But it doesn’t diminish the moment,” Queen Jessimond said. She waved her hand in the pretentious, condescending way that all stuck-up royals had a penchant to do.

Hon Jia held his tongue. I’m sure other places do. Then go watch a play there.

As focused light was directed to the stage, and the curtain roiled like the surface of a calm sea, the attendants selling sweets and other snacks headed out of view. Hon Jia leaned forward, lightly gripping the cold metal of the gold railing that rimmed the theater box. The crowd below stared fixedly ahead, fidgeting in their seats with what was surely unbidden anticipation and angst at the performance that was about to unfold. No other play had ever had such promotion and advertisement put behind it, Hon was sure of that. The presence of the royal family, as well as a few famous generals on a visit from the fields up north, only helped to amplify the hype that had built over the few months prior.

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It was a shame that the rules who had been such great patrons of the arts would have to die for the sake of art.

Unwitting martyrs for the most important cause.

The sword comes for the benevolent and the tyrannical alike Hon thought.

The orchestra in the pit began the overture—a stirring string composition meant to evoke the whimsical qualities of the winds over a valley. A quartet of flutes joined in. Hon felt a smile spread across his face, the curtains rolling back to reveal a masterfully painted backdrop of wheat fields and rolling hills. Perfect. He checked on the King, Queen, and other court orderlies sitting around him as inconspicuously as he could. The King too was smiling—a good sign, and from what Hon heard about the King, his smile was quite permanent. The Queen, however, had an indifferent expression which Hon hoped was leaning toward the positive. A bit much on the makeup there, he noted.

But what of the door in the bell tower?

Despite himself, his eyes wandered from the rapt faces of the row behind them up to the entryway of the box. One of the Royal Guards stood a tense vigil in front of the curtain that led to the passageway outside. Despite his official duties taking priority, his sword hand rested complacently on the jeweled hilt of the weapon, and he seemed as focused on the stage as anyone else. He didn’t have any armor, instead wearing a more formal uniform with a frilled collar and slits of color cut into the blouse that still allowed for a decent range of motion in a fight.

A laugh arose from the room below as Chantry—a butcher’s boy and the hapless protagonist—stumbled across the stage and sprawled out in a mighty crash underscored by clanging cymbals.

What was that? Hon stared up through the skylights above. With the thick black clouds blotting out the stars above, it was difficult to see anything past the reflected light of the auditorium which glared off the glass panes. Any passing shadow could be one of villainy arriving to fulfill their wretched task—or, as seemed to be the case, could simply be a bat or night owl spreading its wings. Hon shook his head inwardly. Paranoid. Paranoid, paranoid.

The sooner it happened though, the sooner the hostage the criminals held—his metaphorical love child of words and world-changing wisdom coming to life before his eyes—would be released.

“How did you get the depth there?” the King pointed.

“Well, your majesty,” Hon leaned in to say, “it’s a series of optical illusions you see. I know a craftswoman who does marvelous work, magic! She made a translucent fabric using—”

“Do you two mind?” the Queen snapped.

“Sorry, dear.” King Williame winced and, once he was sure the Queen had refocused on the play, rolled his eyes in a shared moment with Hon.

Queen Jessimond glowered. “Do you think I can’t see when you do that?”

“S-sorry. Dear.” This time the King kept an apologetic expression.

“Excuse the in’ruption,” a gruff, unfamiliar voice interjected, “but could anyone use one’a these ‘ere fancy drinks?”

Hon Jia snapped his attention to the man who had appeared at the top of the box holding a tray of glasses filled with a plum liquid. He wore the formal jacket and bow tie of the theater attendants—but Hon had never seen him before. His skin was the leathery scarred quality of a laborer, but otherwise he kept the neatly trimmed beard and short hair of polite society. Sunken eyes too dark to distinguish the color of in the faint light studied the King intently. The Royal Guard was eying the attendant as well. Who’s this?

“Ah, yes, here please.” The King waved the man down.

“Right away, one for you and one for the missus.”

The Royal Guard’s lips parted in protest, and he reached for the attendant's shoulder all too slowly. The attendant stepped down toward the royal couple and handed off a drink to each, then bowed as if an afterthought.

No “your majesty,” Hon noticed. The attendant’s eyes met Hon’s in an intimate, knowing way.

“Delightful, thank you. Stay nearby for refills, if you would.” The King smiled.

“You can be sure I will.” The attendant bowed slightly again and retreated up the stairs.

“Let me try a bit of that, your majesty.” One of the orderlies seated directly behind the couple reached for both drinks and took a sip of each. The occupants of the box watched expectantly for something to happen. Hon half expected the man to keel over dead—but surely the assassins knew that poison wouldn’t work, right?

A minute passed to no result.

“Thank you, Minsk.” The King took a swig of his own and let out a satisfied sigh. “Delicious.”

Hon Jia watched the couple. They joined hands and seemed to be absorbed back into the play below. Hon glimpsed down at the stage.

Ah, yes, this was a good part. Any moment, Chantry would discover the mule in the attic and—

The laughter from the crowd hit at the exact moment it was supposed to. Hon allowed himself to sit back in the plush cushions of the box seats and relish in the delight radiating throughout the auditorium.

In what could have easily been mistaken for thunder, a violent crash rocked the auditorium. Hon stiffened in his seat, as unaware as any of the guests as to what was taking place. A few of the audience members, it seemed, thought the clamor was part of the act—before the glittering cascade of glass from the skylights above dispelled that. Three lifeboats—a common accessory to large skyships—fell toward the auditorium floor, set ablaze and trailing thick black smoke. Unguided missiles.

Hon stumbled from his chair.

“Your majesty!” The guard behind them lunged forward. “Ah!”

Hon whirled around to see the attendant from earlier choking the guard with what looked like…a barbed garrote? Regardless of what it was, Hon watched in a sort of curious horror as blood pulsed from open wounds across the man’s throat.

The hollow thuds on the box floor of the men rappelling from above were the only warning before Hon’s collar tightened around his throat in a brutal choke.

“Shss,” Was all Hon could manage as a burly man clad in black heaved him to his feet. Hon couldn’t see what was happening, but the King’s gasps and Queen’s shriek from his right were horrific enough to tell him he was better off for it. What have I done? Hon’s vision was starting to fuzz as airflow was cut off, and then the choking was unexpectedly lessened and he was thrown back into his seat.

“Don’t move,” Hon’s assailant warned.

Hon convulsed in his seat, sucking in as much air as his belabored gasps would allow. An odd mix of fear and nausea afflicted him.

“Please! What do you wan—” King Williame began. He had been brought to his knees.

“We will never stop fighting until our people are free! You carry yourself as benevolent, yet you choose to associate with neighboring despots and supply them with the means to oppress.” The masked attacker who stood above the King brought a knife up—the wicked blade glinted in the light—before plunging it into each of the King’s eyes. “Now hear her die.”

The Queen’s sobs were hardly audible over the roar of King Williame spewing profanity. Hon watched the Queen’s last plea before she was thrown over the box’s railing to the auditorium below. The three lifeboats that had broken through the ceiling had crashed into the rows of seating below, mangled wrecks of burning timbers. The King shouted a final defiant, yet unintelligible remark before the dagger which had blinded him was thrust into his throat.

“For the Yaznani Peoples!” the lead attacker declared. It was then that Hon recognized the voice as the man who’d been in Peterson’s back office so many moons ago. Yaznani separatists. “You, playwright.”

Hon tensed as the other separatists systematically executed the court officials cowering below their seats. The acts were as repetitious as a butcher slicing up fresh livestock. “Y-yes?” Hon’s own voice sounded distant to him.

Distant and small.

“Your papers are where I promised. By Jiana’s blessing we spare you, and the Yaznani people will remember your aide to us.”

“Th-thank you.” Hon felt a bit of his resolve returning. His manuscript was safe, the separatist thugs were good for their word. The pair studied each other for a moment before the leader barked an order and gestured in a quick circular motion above his head. His comrades joined around him and they vanished through the box’s curtain out into the passageway.

That was the last Hon Jia saw of them. Fatigue set in, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t bring himself to move. The convulsions from before now manifested as minor trembling. Hon looked around the box, lifting his dress slipper off the ground as blood pooled down from the second row to the first. Smoke was billowing from the auditorium floor, and he followed it with his gaze up and out of the jagged holes in the ceiling skylight. The only discernable sounds were crying, the shouts of responders, and the distinct crackling of fire, which—to Hon’s dismay—had reached the stage.

He was the only one left alive up here.

“Master Jia?” Tinbyc—beautiful Tinbyc—poked his round face through the curtain. He stared for a moment at Hon, eyes wide. “I-I hid in the shadows and they passed by. They are heading for the bell t-tower.”

“Tinbyc, come help me up.” Hon Jia waved the squat gnome over. “We must get down to the print shop at once.”

“But, master…” Tinbyc looked perplexed. “The fire brigade and King’s Guard are coming. Won’t they—”

“Tinbyc. What have I told you about—”

“Sorry, master.” Tinbyc’s face wilted into a crestfallen expression. Tinbyc knelt next to Hon Jia and lowered his head.

“And don’t interrupt, either.” Hon slapped his hand down on the top of Tinbyc’s head and pushed himself up. “Now, let’s be off, and quick about it.”