would indeed fall to him. He was already imagining Opal's opinion of this

latest outrage.

Despite Lisiya's healing hands, Briony was still sore in many places, but she was much happier than she had been on her own. It was better by far to walk in company, and the miles of empty grassland, broken only by the occasional settlement, village, or even more infrequent market town, went much more easily than they would have otherwise. She spoke little, not wanting to risk her disguise, although on the second night Estir Makewell had sidled up to her at the campfire and quietly said, "I don't blame you for traveling as a boy in these dire territories. But if you make any trouble for me or the troop, girl, I will snatch the hair out of your head-and I'll beat you stupid, too."

It was a strange sort of welcome from the only other female, but Briony hadn't planned on the two of them being friends in any case.

So if she could stay with them until Syan, what then? She was grateful for their fellowship, but she couldn't imagine any of the players could help her in Tessis. Besides Teodoros, the soft-spoken but sharp-eyed eminence of the group, the troop was named for Pedder Makewell, Estir's brother, the actor who liked his wine (and, according to Teodoros, also handsome young men). Makewells Men had chosen him as their figurehead because he had a reputation for playing the great parts and playing them loudly and well. The groundlings loved Makewell, Teodoros had told her, for his bom¬bast but also for his tragic deaths. "His Xarpedon gasps out his life with an arrow in his heart," Teodoros had said approvingly, "and although this mighty autarch has put halfqfXand to the sword, the people weep to hear him whisper his last words."

The playwright Nevin Hewney was at least as well known as Makewell,

although not for his acting-Teodoros said Hewney was a middling player at best, indifferent to that craft except as a way of attracting the fairer sex. 1 [e was, however, infamous for his plays, especially those like The Terrible Conflagration that some called blasphemous. But no one called him an indif¬ferent poet: even Briony had heard something of Hewney's The Death of Karal, which the royal physician Chaven had often claimed almost redeemed playwrighting from its sordid and sensational crimes against language.

"When he found his poetic voice, Hewney burst upon the world like fireworks," Finn Teodoros told her as they walked one morning while the man in question limped along ahead of them, cursing the effects of the pre¬vious night's drinking. "I remember when first I saw The Eidolon of Devonis and realized that words spoken on a stage could open up a world never seen before. But he was young then. Strong spirits and his own foul temper have blunted his genius, and I must do most of the writing." Teodoros shook his head. "A shame against the gods themselves, who seldom give such gifts, to see those gifts squandered."

Makewell's sister Estir was the group's only female member, and al¬though she did not play upon the stage she performed many other useful services as seamstress and costumer, and also collected the money at per¬formances and serviced the accounting books. The giant Dowan Birch had the beetling brow and frown of some forest wild man, but was surprisingly kind and intelligent in his speech-Teodoros called him "a quaffing of gen-tlemanry decanted into a barrel rather than a bottle." But for his size and looks, he seemed distinctly unfit to play the demons and monsters that were his lot. The other leading actor was the handsome young man Feival, who although he had ended his dalliances with Teodoros and Makewell years earlier was still youthful and pretty enough to treat them both like lovesick old men. He seemed not to take advantage of this except in small ways, and Briony decided she rather liked him: his edge of carelessness and his occa¬sional snappishness reminded her a little of Barrick.

"Your other name is Ulian," she said to him as they walked beside the horses one day. "Does that mean you are from Ulos?"

"Only for as long as it took me to realize what a midden heap it was," he said, laughing. "I notice you did not spend long sniffing the air of South-march, either."

Briony was almost shocked. "I love Southmarch. I did not leave because I disliked it."

"Why, then?"

She realized she was already wandering into territory she wished to avoid. "I was treated badly by someone. But you, how old were you? When you left Ulos, I mean."

"Not more than ten, I suppose." He frowned, thinking."I have numbers, but not well. I think I have eighteen or nineteen years now, so that seems about right."

"And you came to Southmarch and became an actor?"

"Nothing so straightforward." He grinned. "If you have heard players and playhouses are the dregs of civilization, then know that anyone who says so has not seen the true cesspits of a place like Southmarch-let alone Tessis, which has Southmarch beat hollow for vice and depravity!" Feival chuckled. "I am rather looking forward to seeing it again."

"There was a… physician in Southmarch," Briony said, wondering if she might be going too far. "I think he lived in the castle. Chaven, his name was. Some said he was from Ulos. Do you know anything of him?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "Chaven Makaros? Of course. He is from one of the ruling families of Ulos. The Makari would be kings, if Ulos had such creatures."

"So he is well known?"

"As well known where I grew up as the Eddons are in Southmarch." Feival paused to make the sign of the Three. "Ah, the poor Eddons," he sighed. "May the gods watch over them. Except for our dear prisoned king, I hear they are all dead, now." He looked at her intently. "If you were per¬haps one of the castle servants, I do not blame you for running away. They are in hard times there. Frightening times. It is no place for a young girl."

"Girl…?"

"Yes, girl, sweetling. You may fool the others, but not me. I have spent my life playing one, and recognize both good and bad imitations. You are neither, but the true coin. Also, you make a fairly wretched, unmanly boy." He patted her on the shoulder. "Stay away from Hewney, whatever guise you wear. He is hungry for youth, and will take it anywhere he can find it."

Briony shivered and only barely resisted making the sign of the Three herself. She was less disturbed to find another player had penetrated her dis¬guise than by what Feival had said about the Eddons all being dead now…

Not all, she told herself, and found a little courage in that bleak denial.

They walked for several days and made rough camp each night until they reached the estate of a rural lord, a knight, where they had apparently

received hospitality in past years and were again welcomed. The company did not have to perform a play for their rent, but Pedder Makewell-after being forced to bathe in a cold stream, much against his will, for both his cleanliness and sobriety-went up to the house to declaim for the knight and his lady and household. Peder's sister Estir went along to watch over him (but also, Briony thought, to have the chance at a better meal than the rest of the players enjoyed down by the knight's stables). She couldn't really blame the woman. Had she not feared being recognized, she would have gladly taken an evening by an indoor fire herself, eating something other than boiled onions and carrots. Still, carrots and onions and two loaves to split between them were better than most of what she had enjoyed for the last month, so she tried not to feel too sorry for herself. As she was learn¬ing, most of her subjects would be delighted with such fare.

Teodoros left the gathering early, returning with his soup bowl to the wagon because he said he had thought of some excellent revisions for his new play-something he promised he would show Briony later. "It may amuse you," he said, "and certainly will at least instruct you, and in either case make you a more fit traveling companion." She wasn't certain what that meant, but although she was left alone with the other players, she had spent much of the afternoon helping to haul the wagons out of a muddy rut, rubbing her hands bloody on the rope in the process, and so they were willing, at least for tonight, to treat her as one of their own.