"Tessis? You're going all the way to Syan?" Briony swayed a little on her tiny stool, dizzy with relief. Bless you, Lisiya-and you, dear, kind Zoria.

"Eventually we shall wind our way thither, yes. Perhaps a few testings of our new material in the outlying towns-The Ravishment of Zoria has never seen a true audience and I would like to let it breathe a few free breaths before it is stifled by the jades in Tessis."

"The Ravishment… I don't understand."

"The Ravishment of Zoria. It is a play of mine, newish, concerning the abduction of Zoria by Khors and his imprisonment of her, and the fateful be¬ginning of the war between the gods. With real thunderstorms, lightning, magical sleights, and the fearful rumble of the gods on their immortal steeds, all for two coppers!" He smiled again. "I am rather proud of it, truth to tell. Whether it is my best work, though, only time and the hoi polloi of Syan will say."

"But you… you're all from the March Kingdoms, aren't you? Why are you going to Syan? Why can't you do your plays in Southmarch?"

"Spoken as someone who understands little of the doings of artists and nobles," said Teodoros, his smile gone now. "We were Earl Rorick's Play¬ers, inherited by the earl from his father of the same name. We were also the best and most respected of the Southmarch players-whatever you have heard about the Lord Castellan's Men is rubbish. The Firmament it¬self was ours until it burned (that is a theater, child) and then afterward the Odeion Playhouse inside the castle walls and the great Treasury Theater in the mainland city both fought for our works. But young Rorick is dead, you see."

"Dead? Rorick Longarren?" She only realized after she said it that per¬haps it would seem strange she should know his full name.

Teodoros nodded. "Killed by fairies, they say. In any case, he did not come back from the battle at Kolkan's Field and he has no heir, so we are left with¬out a patron. The country's guardian, kindly Lord Tolly, does not like play¬ers, or at least he does not like players with connections to the monarchy that was. He has given his own support to a group of players-players, hah! They are bandits, so criminal is their writing and their declaiming-under the patronage of a young idiot baron named Crowel. And so there is noth¬ing for us to do but starve or travel." He gave a rueful chuckle. "We decided travel would be more graceful and less painful."

After Teodoros went back out to join his fellow players by the fire, Briony curled up on the floor of the wagon-choosing not to put Finn Teodoros' professed disinterest in women to too harsh a test-and pulled the playwright's traveling cloak over her. The news that her cousin Rorick was dead had disturbed her, even though she had never liked him. He had been in the same battle as Barrick and had not survived it. She did her best to let the sounds of talking and singing from outside the wagon soothe her. She was among people, even if they were only rough sorts, and not alone anymore. Briony fell asleep quickly. If she dreamed, she did not remember it in the morning.

The physician had made himself fairly comfortable. Besides a bed and a chair, the Guild-masters had given Chaven a table and what looked like every book in the guildhall library. It pained Chert's head to think of read¬ing so many of the things. Except for consultation here in the hall over a few particular and difficult problems over the years, he had not opened a book himself since soon after he had been introduced to the Mysteries. Chert of the Blue Quartz had a deep respect for learning, but he was not much of a reader.

"I should have come down here years ago," said Chaven, hardly even looking up at Chert's entrance. "How could I have been such a fool! If I had even guessed at the treasures down here…"

"Treasures?"

Chaven lifted the book in his hands reverently. "Bistrodos on the hus¬bandry of crystals! My colleagues all over Eion believe this book lost when Hierosol first fell. And if I can find someone to help me translate from the Funderling, I tremble to think what knowledge your own ancestors have preserved here in these other volumes."

"Chaven, I…"

"I know you do not feel up to such a challenge yourself, Chert, but per¬haps one of the Metamorphic Brothers? I am sure they have scholars among their number who could help me…"

The idea of the conservative Metamorphic Brothers agreeing to allow ancient Funderling wisdom to be translated into one of the big-folk tongues was preposterous enough; Chert didn't even want to imagine ask¬ing them to help with the project. In any case, he had more important mat¬ters at hand. "Chaven, I…"

"I know, I'm supposed to be solving my own problems-those I have brought with me which have become your people's problems now, too. I know." He shook his head. "But it is so hard to ignore all this…"

"Chaven, will you listen to me?"

The physician looked up, surprised. "What is it, friend?"

"I have been trying to speak to you, but you will go on and on about these books. Something has happened, something… disturbing."

"What? Nothing wrong with the boy Flint, I hope?"

"No," said Chert. There at least was one thing in the world to be grateful for: Flint still bad not recovered bis memories, but be seemed more or¬dinary after bis session with Chaven's mirrors. He paid attention now, and though he still spoke little, he at least took part in the life of the household. Opal was the happiest she had been in a month. "No, nothing like that. We've had a message from the castle." "So?"

"From Brother Okros. He asks the Funderlings' help." Chaven's eyes narrowed. "That traitor! What does he want?" Chert handed the letter to the physician, who fumbled for his spectacles and found them at last in his pockets. He had to set down his copy of Bistrodos so he could put them on and read the letter.

"To the esteemed Elders of the Guild of Stone-Cutters, greetings!

From his honor Okros Dioketian, royal physician to Olin Alessandros, Prince Regent of Southmarch and the March Kingdoms, and to his mother Queen Anissa."

Chaven almost dropped the letter in his fury. "The villain! And look, he puts his own name before the royal child and mother. Does he know nothing of humility?" It took him a moment until he was calm enough to read again.

"I request the help of your august Guild with a small matter of scholar¬ship, but one which will nevertheless carry with it my gratitude and that of the Queen, guardian of the Prince Regent. Send to me in the castle any among you who is particularly learned in the craft of Mirrors, their making, their mending, and the study of their substance and properties.

"I thank you in advance for this aid. Please do not speak of it outside your Guild,for it is the Queen's express wish it be kept secret, so as not to excite rumor among the ignorant, who have many superstitions about Mirrors and suchlike."

"And here he's signed it-oh, and a seal, too!" Chaven's voice was icy with disgust. "He's come high in the world."

"But what do you think about it? What should we do?"

"Do? What we must, of course-send him someone. And it must be you, Chert."

"But I know nothing about mirrors…!"

"You will know more when you read Bistrodos." Chaven picked the book up again, then let it fall back on the tabletop-the heavy volume

made a noise like a badly-shored corridor collapsing. "And I will help yon

learn to speak like a master of captrornancy."

This was so preposterous he did not even argue. "But why?" "Because Okros Dioketian is trying to learn the secrets of my mirror-and

you must find out what he plans." Chaven had become unnaturally pale and

intent. "You must do it, Chert. You alone I trust. In the hands of someone

like Okros there is no telling what mischief that mirror could perform!" Chert shook his head in dismay, although he did not doubt the task