Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell Page B

Makejoye stayed in camp with the women “to put just a bit more polish on your splendid performance, lass.” The rest of us drove the prop wagon into town and nailed painted panels onto the scaffolding, transforming it into the semblance of two plaster-and-beam buildings with a forest between them. It looked out of place in this town of brick on brick.
    “We realized that the moment we set eyes on the place,” said Rudy ruefully. “But Hector says the different architecture will look exotic to these folk.”
    Once the panels were up, and the props and costume changes laid out in the dark, cramped “wings” of the stage, someone had to stay and watch them, along with the horse and wagon and the magica phosphor mosslamps, whose brightness made night performances possible. In a dry region like this, those lamps, filled with living moss, were probably worth more than the horse. Since they already knew their parts, Rudy and Falon chose to stay, and Michael, Barker, and I walked back to camp.
    I found myself unaccountably nervous as the day dragged on—unaccountably, because I’d only a handful of lines, and I’ve run cons where if I blew my role I’d end up indebted—maybe even flogged. All I was in danger of now was looking silly, and after almost two years as Michael’s squire I was accustomed to that.
    As I said, the day dragged on, until suddenly it was time to paint our faces and depart and the minutes started hurtling forward.
    We rode into town in the Barkers’ fancifully painted wagon, perched on their belongings with the little dogs crouched between us—when they weren’t on our laps. They too seemed . . . not nervous, but quiveringly eager. Their ruffled collars got in our way more than they seemed to bother them.
    At least Trouble was tied securely to a tree, “guarding” the picketed horses. He had wanted to accompany us so badly that I triple-checked the knots that held his tether before we left.
    The cart lurched onto the cobbles long before I was ready for it, and my stomach lurched, too. Michael was smiling his cursed this-will-be-an-adventure smile, and I swore at him under my breath.
    With Rudy gone, he was the one who helped Rosamund down from the cart. Barker stopped several blocks short of the square, so we could sneak in and “mysteriously” appear when the curtains opened. At least, that was Makejoye’s plan. I hoped the exercise would settle Rosamund’s nerves, for she looked absolutely terrified.
    I think the brisk walk did us all good. I couldn’t see Rosa’s color under the gaudy paint, but some of the stiffness drained from her posture, and her breathing steadied. As for me, moving cloaked and unobtrusive through a crowd brought back memories older than my con-man days. If not all of them were pleasant, at least the familiarity was soothing. This time I risked nothing.
    The crowd gathered in the square was larger than I’d expected, almost filling it. Pie sellers were hawking their wares, their rough voices giving texture to the chatter of the crowd. The lighters were just starting to kindle the torches when the Barkers’ wagon rattled into the square.
    Edgar and Edith stood on the driver’s seat and bowed, as one of the two lads we’d hired that afternoon came forward to take the reins. They jumped down, Barker turning a few cartwheels in the process, and began, with comic clumsiness, to unload the small platforms and bright-striped hoops.
    I suddenly wondered if Makejoye hadn’t outsmarted himself. The square was packed with people, and how the Barkers would clear a path . . .
    I needn’t have worried. At Barker’s shrill whistle the dogs burst from the wagon, and they cleared the space before them, herding the crowd aside like so many sheep, yapping at the recalcitrant. When one cocky youth refused to stand aside, instead of nipping, the dog lifted a leg, in a way that made the threat only too plain. The boy leapt back and the crowd roared with delight.
    Skirting the