Aneshu

An eBook By L E Bryce.

Judging from the people crowding the corridor near the makeshift dressing room, the performance had been a success.

"You have yet another visitor," said Elami, rolling his eyes. "Should I let your admirer in, or let him languish outside?"

Aneshu glanced over his shoulder at the mirror, catching the reflection of the god. Ezru's gilt-edged mask still obscured his face, leaving only his jaw and painted lips visible, and he had not changed out of his sky-blue robe. At his shoulder, holding the mask of the goddess Shalat, his companion fluttered with nervous energy. Aneshu shook his head. "He can wait along with the others."

"Are you sure? This one looks like a nobleman."

Elami sounded like a bakti boy in a brothel, and no doubt would have behaved like one had the man come for him. If he wants to solicit sex he can go right back to Tahrun's bed where he belongs. "He wouldn't be the first nobleman." Aneshu regarded the cluttered space below the mirror, then the door, with disinterest. "Where is Abi with my water and linens?"

"He's trying to wade through the throngs of your admirers."

"I'm an actor, not a courtesan."

"You wouldn't know it, judging from the lovelorn look on this man's face. You aren't going to keep him waiting, are you? He might be fabulously rich."

Aneshu did not fail to catch the jealous note in Elami's voice. Elami wanted his share of the attention, never mind that it was too much to expect for one's very first night onstage. "They aren't going to see anything until I've changed and washed off these cosmetics." Some actors might receive visitors in costume, but long habit taught Aneshu to leave his role onstage. Tahrun expected his performers, even top-earning ones, to behave with dignity. He paid them well, tolerated their love affairs, and granted them privileges other slaves lacked, expecting professional conduct and profit in return.

"If he wants an easy lay," snorted Aneshu, "the man's looking in the wrong place. Now be a dear and go find that wretched boy so we can get out of these costumes. I know you want to go to the party and I don't plan to spend tonight trapped in a dingy dressing room."

High Prince Muhal and the court elite had been in the audience, as was the custom on the opening night of a major religious festival. Outside the temple-a massive silk tent surrounded by myriad lanterns like fireflies covered the plaza- and within, a magnificent fete was already underway. Aneshu had seen the preparations earlier in the day when he and the other actors arrived for the final rehearsal. Despite his exhaustion, he did not intend to miss the fine wine or company.

"Oh, you're impossible!" Through the mirror Aneshu saw Elami stick out his tongue, his crude manners an odd juxtaposition with the elaborate mask and costume of the goddess. "I'm going, but I expect you to tell me everything later."

Ezru's mask, specially crafted for an actor with different proportions, sat uncomfortably over his face. With his fingernail, Aneshu picked at the adhesive under the edge. He hated the stuff, how it itched under the heat of multiple lamps and his own exertions, and how it smelled ruined the skin of any actor careless enough not to employ costly ointments. Half my earnings, he thought bitterly.

If not for the possibility of injuring himself or destroying the elaborate paper-maché, he would have torn the mask from his face the moment he entered the dressing room. That stupid boy is going to get an earful from me when he comes. If he ever does.

The door creaked open behind him. At last. Aneshu turned in his chair, the cutting remark he meant to make dying on his lips the moment he saw the rich jewels and brocade of the man standing in the doorway. Aneshu did not recognize him. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you'll have to-" he began.

A lifted hand stopped his words. "No, do not speak," said the man, softly closing the door behind him. Aneshu tensed at the gesture. Greeting unfamiliar visitors was not something he cared to do alone, no matter how handsome, well-spoken, or wealthy they were.

Frustrated, he gestured to his mask. "It would be rude of me to meet with you like this."

"Not at all." Jeweled fingers touched his lips, urging silence. "You are as lovely as your statue."

Good gods, he thinks I am Ezru. Aneshu started to protest, falling still at the dark eyes that searched his face-no, the elaborately painted mask-not knowing what to do, or if he should do anything at all. A renowned actor he might be, but Tahrun never failed to remind him and everyone else in the troupe that they were still slaves who could be sold if they gave too much trouble.

Hands clasped his, raising them to full lips. "I know there is an actor under that mask," said the man. "But I also know that during these holy days the spirit of the god inhabits the flesh. I think you are still there."

Aneshu froze at the touch of those lips...

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