"But in truth we are a desperate fraternity, young Tim," Nevin Hewney said to her, pouring freely from the cask of ale the knight had sent down as payment, along with lodging in the stables, for Makewell's evening of recita¬tion. "You should never take membership, even in the most temporary way, if you are not willing to incur the opprobrium of all gods-fearing folk."

Briony, who in the recent weeks had survived fire, starvation, and more deliberate attempts to kill her-not least of which had been demonic magic- was not impressed by the playwright's drunken conceit, but she nodded anyway.

"Gods-fearing folk fear you, Hewney," said young Feival, and winked af Briony. "But that is not because you are a player-or not simply because you are a player. It is because you stink."

The giant Dowan Birch laughed at that, as did the three other men whose names Briony had not learned by heart yet-quiet, bearded fellows who did their work uncomplainingly, and seemed to her too ordinary to be players. Nevin Hewney stared at the Ulosian youth for a moment, then

leaped to his feet, eyes goggling, his mouth twisted in a grimace of rage. He snatched something out of his dirty doublet and leaped forward, thrusting it toward Feival's throat. Briony let out a muffled shriek.

"That belongs in the pot, not at my gullet," said Feival, pushing the cat rot away. Hewney continued to stare ferociously for a moment, then lilted the vegetable to his mouth and took a bite.

"The new boy was frightened, though," he said cheerfully. "A most un¬manly squeal, that was." Sweat gleamed on his high forehead. He was al¬ready drunk, Briony thought, her heart still beating too fast. "Which makes my point-and underscores it, too, thinketh I." He turned to her. "You thought I would murder our sweet Feival, did you not?"

Briony started to shrug, then nodded slowly.

"And if I had instead played the gentleman… like this… and begged this tender maiden for a kiss…?" He suited action to words, pursing his lips like the most lovesick swain. Feival, the principal boy, lifted his hand and pretended to flutter a fan, keeping the importunate suitor at bay. "Or per¬haps if I turned seductively to you, handsome youth," Hewney said, leaning toward Briony, "with your face like Zosim's smoothest catamite…?"

"Leave the lad alone, Nev," rumbled Dowan Birch before Briony's alarm became something she had to act on. She did not want anyone coming close enough to see that she was a girl, but most especially not an unpre¬dictable drunk like Hewney. "You are in a bad temper because Makewell was invited to the house but not you."

"Not true!" Hewney made a careless gesture, then found himself off balance and did his best to turn his stumble into something like a deliber¬ate attempt to sit down on the ground by the small fire. The frozen earth around it had thawed into muck, and he had to perform an almost acro¬batic twist to land on the log the others were sharing. "No, as I was saying when I was interrupted by the princess of Ulos, I merely demonstrated why we are such a fearful federation, we players. We display what all other people hide-what even the priests hide. We show what the priests speak- but we also show it as nonsense. The entrance to a theater is the door to the underworld, like the gate Immon himself keeps, but beyond ours terri¬fying truth and the most outrageous sham lurk side by side, and who is to say which is which? Only the players, who stand behind the curtain and dress themselves in such clothes and masks as will tell the tale." Hewney lifted his cup of ale and took a long swig, as though satisfied that he had made his point.

"Oh, but Master Nevin is talkative tonight," said Feival, laughing,"I pre¬dict that before the cask is empty he will have explained to us all yet again that he is the round world's greatest living playwright."

"Or fall asleep in his own spew," called one of the other players.

"Be kind," said the giant Birch. "We have a visitor, and perhaps Tim was raised more gently than you fleering lot."

"I suspect so," said Hewney, giving Briony an odd look that made her stomach sink. The playwright struggled back onto his feet. "But, pish, friend Cloudscraper, I speak nothing but truth. The gods themselves, Zosim and Zoria and artificing Kupilas, who were the first players and playmak-ers, know the wisdom of my words." He took another long draught of ale, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His beard gleamed wetly in the fire¬light and his sharp eyes glittered. "When the peasant falls down on his knees, quaking in fear that he will be delivered after death to the halls of Kernios, what does he see? Is it the crude paintings on the temple walls, with the god as stiff as a scarecrow? Or is it our bosom companion High-Pockets Birch that he remembers, awesome in robes of billowing black, masked and ghostly, as he came to take Dandelon's soul in The Life and Death of King Nikolos?"

"Would that be a play by Nevin Hewney?" gibed Feival.

"Of course, and none of the other historical as good," Hewney said, "but my point has flown past you, it seems, leaving you as sunken in igno¬rance as previously." He turned to Briony. "Do you take my meaning, child? What do people see when they think of the great and frightening things in life-love, murder, the wrath of the gods? They think of the poets' words, the players' carefully practiced gestures, the costumes, the roar of thunder we make with our booming drums. When Waterman remembers to beat his in the proper time, that is."

The company laughed heartily at this, and one of the bearded men shook his head in shamed acknowledgment-obviously a mistake he had not been allowed to forget, nor probably ever would be.

"So," Hewney went oh, draining his cup and refilling it, "when they see gods, they see us. When they think of demons and even fairies, it is our masks and impostures they recall-although that may change, now that those Qarish knaves have come down from the north to interfere with honest players' livings." Hewney paused to clear his throat, as though ac¬knowledging the shadow suddenly cast on their amusement. "But, hist, that is not the only way in which we players and poets are the most dangerous guild of all. Think! When we write of hings that cannot be,or speak them, do we not put ideas in people's mind-ideas which sometimes frighten even kings and queens? It is always the powerful who arc most fearful (now that I think on it) precisely because they have the most to lose!" He wiped his mouth again, almost roughly, as though he did not feel much from his own lips. "In fact, in all other occurrences, is counterfeit¬ing not a crime punishable by the highest courts? To make a false seem¬ing of gold enough to gain the artisan the stockade at best, or the white-hot rod, or even the hangman's rope? No wonder they fear us, who can counterfeit not just kings and princes, but the gods themselves! And there is more. We counterfeit feeling:.. and even being. There is no liar like a player!"

"Or a drunken scrivener," said Feival, amused but also a little irritated now. "Who loves to see what shiny things come from his mouth like a child making bubbles of spit."

"Very good, young Ulian, very good," said Hewney, and took another drink. "You yet might make a poet yourself."

"Why bother, when I can get poetry from most of'em any time I want just by showing my bum?"

"Because someday that alabaster fundament will be old and raddled, wrinkled as a turkey's neck," said Hewney. "And I, once the prettiest boy in Helmingsea, should know."

"And now you are a buyer, not a seller, and any fair young tavern maid can have your poetry for a copper's worth of pretending, Master Hewney." Feival was amused. "So lying, too, is for sale-that is the whole of what you're saying. It seems to me that what you describe is the marketplace, and any peasant knows how a market works."