Free Arrow (Knife) by R. J. Anderson

slunk off the platform. ‘Next,’ said the bored-sounding woman, and a girl with frizzy brown hair scraped back into a knot climbed up to take her place. She gave a wavering smile, cleared her throat, and began:
    ‘The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: it blesseth him that gives and him that takes…’
    Unlike the woman who had come before her, she held no book in her hands; she seemed to be reciting the speech from memory. Unfortunately, she was concentrating too hard on getting the words right to put much expression into them, and Rhosmari felt an unexpected flash of sympathy. She leaned forward in her seat, willing the girl to relax and not be afraid.
    The result was startling. At once the girl stood taller and began to speak with more confidence, investing the speech with such passion that it almost seemed the words were her own. Her eyes shone and her gestures became eloquent as she urged her unseen hearer to consider her argument, examine his heart, and choose compassion over the letter of the law:
    ‘I have spoke thus much, to mitigate the justice of thy plea; which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice must needs lay sentence ’gainst the merchant there.’
    She finished with a little bow, then stepped back and waited. The stark lights picked out the freckles on her skin and the flush in her cheeks; she was breathing quickly, and Rhosmari felt her nervousness as though she were on trial herself.
    ‘Well, now,’ came the pronouncement from below. ‘That was more like it.’ With an energy that belied her languid tone, a short, steely-haired woman leaped up from her seat and seized the girl’s hand in an approving shake. ‘Good work, Lucy. Come back tomorrow. Next!’
    ‘It seems you don’t need me to teach you to appreciate theatre,’ Martin murmured to Rhosmari as another human made his way onto the platform. ‘But who would have thought an honest faery like yourself would take so readily to an art built on trickery and lies?’
    ‘Lies?’ Rhosmari was taken aback. ‘But I thought that girl was giving a speech – an argument—’
    ‘Of course she was. But in doing so, she was also playing the part of a woman disguised as a man, pretending to be a lawyer in a court that never existed,’ said Martin, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. ‘That was from William Shakespeare’s play The Merchant of Venice. ’
    A play. Rhosmari knew that humans sometimes put on disguises and acted out stories to amuse an audience, but she had never seen it done before. ‘That’s not a lie,’ she protested. ‘How can it be, when no one is really deceived?’
    ‘Ah, but they want to be deceived,’ Martin replied. ‘And the closer an actor comes to making them believe that the emotions he pretends are real, the better they love him for it. Watch.’ He nodded at the stage as a dark-eyed boy who moved like a candle flame stepped forward and began to speak:
    ‘I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions…?’
    By the end of his speech, Rhosmari was blinking back tears. The earnestness with which the young man delivered his lines, the pride and despair alternating upon his face, communicated his yearning for justice with a power that made her ache. When he spoke of wanting revenge on those who had wronged him, it made her uneasy – and yet she understood why he might feel that way. And when she glanced at Martin and saw how his eyes had narrowed and his hands tightened upon his knees, she realised that he too was moved and trying not to show it.
    When the boy finished there was silence, tense as a held breath. Then—
    ‘I knew it!’ bellowed the woman in the front, spinning around to jab a finger at Martin. ‘It’s you! I should have known you were back the moment this rabble started performing like real actors. But what’s the good of having