7. Trial of the Rose Windmill Cabaret (6)
7. Trial of the Rose Windmill Cabaret (6)
The hall erupted the instant Bwallet made his announcement, as if someone had kicked over a beehive.
Free admission.
One of the entertainment industry's oldest flashpoints.
It rarely came up in flattering conversation.
The practice was notorious as a scheme that exploited performers and destroyed shows.
"Free admission guarantees a low-rent performance!"
An old magician shoved his chair back and shot to his feet.
A middle-aged acrobat seated across from him hammered the table with his palm, backing him up.
"He's right! Excessive discounts cheapen the value of performance!"
The critics of free admission were mostly the older crowd.
Most of them had been sweet-talked by merchants in their youth and spent years paying for it.
Acrobats who had honed their craft but remained painfully naive about the world.
They couldn't parse a contract's dense clauses—many couldn't even read the words themselves. They'd been lured by the promise of earning money while traveling, and signed without a clue what they were agreeing to.
That was how easily merchant companies reeled in performing bears.
And "free admission" was one of their go-to methods of exploitation.
Back then, merchants baited acrobats with clauses pledging a share of ticket revenue. Then, whenever they pulled into a market or an inn to perform, they'd brazenly declare free admission, citing the fine print that "ticket prices shall be determined on a case-by-case basis."
With zero ticket revenue, the contract stipulated the acrobats got nothing.
The moment they realized they'd been duped, it was already too late. Refuse to perform, and the merchants would threaten them with the early-termination penalty or wheedle them with talk of how at least they were building a reputation.
That was how countless performers wound up giving away their skills for free next to some merchant's stall.
Their compensation amounted to a bed, three meals a day, and the occasional pittance tossed at them as a token of appreciation.
Given the profits the merchants raked in, it was egregious exploitation.
If they'd at least been allowed to stage a proper show, they might have consoled themselves by burning with artistic passion.
But the merchants invaded even that territory.
Insisting they skip the slow parts and only perform the dramatic bits. Meddling at the script stage to force gratuitous skin or violent action. Routinely requiring them to title the show—or even rename the performers themselves—after whichever flagship product the merchant was peddling.
Even among today's working professionals, stage names often still bore the traces of that past.
The magician "Ignite" came from matches. The strongman "Bigfoot" from a brand of shoe overshoes. The acrobat "Barricang" from the trade name of a pair of grass-cutting shears.
The merchants' abuses didn't only hurt the performers who signed the contracts.
Local play-yards and permanent theaters struggled to stay afloat because of them.
With free shows popping up everywhere, audiences saw no reason to pay admission at a fixed venue.
The development of nitrogen fertilizer and the surge in agricultural output. A population boom and advances in the means of production. The collapse of the independent farmer and the rush toward urbanization.
The labor exploitation that marked the transitional period of the Industrial Revolution—inevitably, the performance world was swept up in it too.
It was a hungry, grueling era for performers.
Things didn't begin to improve until twenty years ago, when the Circus Grand Prix gathered acrobats together and gave them a forum to share their circumstances, denounce unfair contracts, and organize collective action.
In its purest sense, the first Circus Grand Prix was less a festival than a solidarity convention for actors, singers, jesters, and craftsmen of every stripe.
Given that history, the older generation's visceral hostility toward free admission was only natural.
Even now, with conditions improved, their prejudice ran deep.
They saw free shows as a system tailor-made for merchant exploitation—one whose revenue, unlike the clear equation of (audience) × (ticket price), was impossible to pin down.
The humiliating memory of scrambling for the eyes of passersby in a chaotic market, without so much as a backdrop or seating, flinging out disconnected stunts and bits, was never far behind.
But the younger acrobats saw things differently on many fronts.
For them, the traveling circus that came to town alongside the peddlers was a cherished childhood memory.
In the early days of popular culture, permanent theaters tended toward two extremes: the excessively refined, descended from aristocratic tradition, or the excessively decadent, born in the pleasure quarters.
The result was a lack of broad popular appeal. High ticket prices only thickened the barriers to entry.
Free circuses, by contrast, unfolded in open spaces anyone could enjoy and focused on being raucous, uplifting fun.
The merchants lacked an artistic eye, but they had a better eye for commerciality than anyone. They grasped what drew a crowd, demanded it of their performers, and in doing so helped the circus grow ever more beloved by the public.
The circus in its modern sense was born that way.
The elder statesmen of the industry—those who remembered working as court jesters, banquet entertainers, or actors in the operas and plays enjoyed by the nobility—might recoil in disgust, but the merchants had contributed substantially to the circus's popularization.
The free circuses the younger acrobats remembered were exactly that.
Whenever they gathered and talked, the conversation naturally drifted to which marvel had captivated them as children and sparked their longing for the circus.
Anecdotes about buying "magic vinegar" from a quack to become a contortionist and ending up with stomach cramps, or secretly making gunpowder in imitation of a fire-breather and burning the house down—those were drinking-session staples.
And there was another difference between them and their older seniors: the environment at the time of their debut.
By the time they began learning their crafts, performers' treatment had improved by leaps and bounds compared to the past.
The first Circus Grand Prix had markedly bettered their circumstances, and when the terrorist attack during the second Grand Prix killed scores of veterans, the resulting scarcity of talent sent acrobats' market value skyrocketing.
Consequently, the free-admission shows they were offered almost always came with fair pay and decent treatment.
Given those opposing histories, a sharp divide between the two camps on the subject of free shows was inevitable.
In one sense, it was true that the younger acrobats had suffered less and enjoyed plumper days.
But the vague hostility and antagonism the old acrobats clung to wasn't exactly forward-thinking either.
Bwallet relished every bit of this debate.
The discussion they were having was, at its core, a discussion of the Rose Windmill's own history.
A nobleman who wanted to reform a brothel into a more wholesome art theater.
A merchant who yearned to revolutionize the venue's profit structure.
An artist determined to carve out new territory in the performance world.
This place had been born from the convergence of those three wills.
It hardly needed saying that they respectively represented proprietor Marquis Mustang, manager Bwallet, and artistic director Maroine.
The moment Bwallet set "Free to Enter, Pay to Enjoy" as the trial's theme, he had anticipated all of this controversy. He'd already prepared a detailed statement—complete with the cabaret's history—explaining the choice, intended for tomorrow's newspapers.
If properly spun, Marquis Mustang could shed his reputation as a glorified pimp and elevate his name as a visionary patron of the performing arts.
First, though, he needed to calm the uproar in front of him.
"You're openly admitting this is a scheme to sell alcohol?"
"Are they hostesses or acrobats?"
"Kirkeus would be appalled."
"This isn't the circus!"
"Even the Circus Grand Prix has lost its purpose! It was meant to champion performers' rights!"
"Those damned merchants are using the competition as an excuse to put our necks in the noose again!"
Predictably, the loudest voices belonged to the older acrobats.
Most were troupe leaders or respected veterans, which made it difficult for younger acrobats with opposing views to speak up freely.
In the end, the clamor subsided only when Artistic Director Yug Maroine took the stage.
The moment he arrived, he slammed the floor with his cane.
"Scared?"
As the rail-thin old man in round-lens sunglasses swept his gaze over the crowd, the hall fell silent in an instant. That was the weight of the charisma Maroine commanded in this industry.
"When I took over as director of this cabaret, people laughed. They said old Maroine had gone senile, teaching dance and song to girls who used to pour drinks. They mocked my challenge. I'm fairly certain a few of those bastards are in this room right now..."
Maroine singled out several individuals with his stare. They cleared their throats and averted their eyes.
"And what's the result?"
He stretched out his cane arm and threw it wide as he shouted.
His voice wasn't especially loud, yet every word he spoke seemed to resonate in the soul.
"Did you not see the cancan at the opening ceremony the night before last? A number into which I poured my twilight years. Can any of you call that a cheap gimmick to peddle liquor alongside entertainment? Hmph. If I'd stayed in my comfortable place just to soothe the egos of the old relics at the Imperial Theater, I would never have created something like that."
He raised his cane like a sword and swept his gaze across the acrobats.
"Well? Are you lot any different? Content to coast on the skills you already have, aiming for nothing more than an easy living? Blustering about how free shows aren't legitimate, preparing your excuses in case you lose? Is what you're doing really the circus? Can you stand before mighty Kirkeus and proudly declare, 'I just came from dancing!'? You small-minded little bastards!"
His words were a provocation—and at the same time, they lit a fire in the acrobats' chests.
The old magician who had been the first to object to free admission rose abruptly from his seat.
"Hey, Maroine! Who're you calling small-minded! You sure hold a grudge over a little gossip behind your back!"
The middle-aged acrobat across from him pounded the table with his palm and lifted his chin.
"I just came from dancing! Haha, I like that. The task sounds like a joke, but we'll dance along and show you!"
One by one, the troupe leaders voiced their resolve—toward the stage, toward other tables, toward their own members.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo! Let's go! Haha! Let's rack up the best results in this preliminary round!"
The loudest voice, of course, belonged to Rooster Minova.
He shook his red crest as he rallied his troupe.
People nearby snapped at him to keep it down.
The table where the Wonderstein Circus Troupe sat was quieter than most.
Sven and Yurakne whispered to each other while eyeing the members of other troupes. Ella silently observed the situation for a while before leaning toward the troupe leader beside her and speaking in a low voice.
"Well? Feeling confident? I get the feeling this isn't the kind of thing we can pass just by having the members memorize a script."
At Ella's remark, Wonderstein nodded with a self-assured smile.
"Heh heh. Naturally."
Ella shook her head, looking exasperated.
"You've never even been on a real stage."
"I have, actually."
His unruffled confidence made Ella narrow her eyes suspiciously.
"In front of how many? A hundred?"
He listened to her question, then smiled placidly and shook his head.
More than that?
She tilted her head.
"Then... a thousand?"
"No."
He let out a short breath before answering.
"Thirty thousand."
"You're insane. There's no way a stage like that exists."
She dismissed him with a sharp turn of her head.
This man, toying with people again.
Where on earth was there a theater that could seat thirty thousand?
So she thought as she turned her attention back to the proceedings.
Then it struck her—there was one place.
The Sky City Hippodrome.
The Sky Theater Wonderstage, suspended there.
The venue that had collapsed in a terrorist attack seventeen years ago and was only recently being rebuilt.
She'd heard its capacity numbered in the tens of thousands.
No way...
Just then, Bwallet called for one representative from each circus to come forward for the random assignment draw for this trial.
At last!
The thought of the Wonderstage vanished from Ella's mind.
Was it beginning?
Wonderstein, for his part, stopped reminiscing about what the peak concurrent viewership on his Twitch livestream had been.