Kela touched the dagger at her side. “We outnumber him.”
“Yes,” Daev said dryly, “and you and I have at least ten months’ experience with swords. That ought to frighten any seasoned warrior.”
Frenni, muffled by the wagon curtains, sighed contentedly. “Finally, something exciting.”
“Something exciting,” Daev echoed unhappily and hefted the sword again.
They pulled alongside the figure, who looked neither to the left nor the right as they stopped their wagon. “Not afraid of anything, is he?” Kela murmured.
“That must be nice,” Daev muttered back. Aloud he said, “Do you wish some water?”
The man gestured to his cart without exposing his face. “Thanks, I have some.” Whatever had flashed at his waist was now hidden. He said, “Where are the two of you going?”
“Xak Faoleen,” Kela said before Daev could reply. “We’re-” she caught herself and finished lamely, “- hoping to work there.”
“To work.” The man sounded amused. “With a covered wagon painted many colors and pictures of warriors and lovers and dragons painted on it?” He laughed, and Daev tensed. It wasn’t a particularly sane laugh. “What sort of work?” the man asked, and waited.
“We’re players,” Daev said finally, and added, “I think you knew.”
The man nodded. “I think you also make and sell books.”
In the back of the wagon, Frenni shifted. Daev took his hand off his sword to wave him back, then grabbed it again quickly. “We’re not scribes. Wouldn’t making books require scribes?”
“I hear you have a new machine, better than any scribe.”
Kela clutched her dagger handle and said tightly, “Have you been looking for us?”
The stranger said, “I’ve been following you. I’m surprised I was ahead of you. I must have passed you in the night, but I’ve finally found you.”
Daev, giving up, stood and drew his sword. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“My name is Samael.” He threw back his cloak and drew something with a single swift motion.
Daev braced to parry, then realized that he was fending off a metal scroll case.
Samael laughed his crazy laugh again. “I want you to print my book.”
They rode along together, Samael sitting on Kela’s left and Daev on her right. Once Samael threw his hood back, they were both surprised to see that he was only in his late twenties, older than they but hardly the seasoned warrior they’d feared he was. Samael said anxiously, “Will my cart be all right back there?”
Kela unscrewed the scroll case. “The hitch I made should keep it balanced, and we’ll tow it.” She slid the scroll out carefully and unrolled it. “Are these recipes?”
“Sort of.” He smiled at her. He had very light blue eyes and a pleasant smile that contrasted sharply with his tanned face. He pointed to the headings:
To be loved.
To fall in love.
For confidence.
To be nigh-invincible in battle.
To be brave.
To produce fear.
To be attractive.
Daev, reading over her shoulder, said dubiously, “All these work without magic?”
Samael shrugged. “Some of them simply change people’s attitudes. Others. .” He pulled a powder from one of his many vest pockets. “Watch.”
He tossed the powder against the wagon wheel. There was a loud bang and a flash of flame.
Daev quieted the horses as Frenni poked his head out and said admiringly, “Can you give me some of that?”
Daev said courteously and hastily, “Samael, this is Frenni, and we’d really rather you didn’t give him any.”
Kela, immersed in the scroll, said in fascination, “Do these powders work the same every time?”
“If you mix them exactly right.” For the first time Samael sounded anxious as he said, “Will you print my book?”
Before Kela could say anything, Daev drawled, “I’m not sure. It’s a great expense to print and sell even short books such as yours.”
“I don’t have much money.” Samael gestured behind them to his cart. “If you sell the book, I can sell the powders from the recipes, and then I could pay you-”
Kela said suddenly, “We thought you were older when you were walking.”
Samael grinned at her. “I try to look older on the road. Keeps people away.”
“We saw the scroll at your belt,” Daev said thoughtfully. “It looked like a scabbard. I thought you were a veteran of campaigns.”
Kela went on quickly, “Daev, could he act in your new play? You said we needed one more person-”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me,” Samael broke in. “I’d do it in barter for your printing the book-”
“And he could help with the sets, and you know he could turn that flash powder into a stage effect-”
“All right. As long as he can learn to act.”
Kela looked admiringly at Samael. “He can play the lover. I’m sure he’d be perfect.”
“Ah,” Daev said, startled. He dropped the subject and stared ahead, brooding.
“Is something wrong?” Samael asked politely.
“Mmm? No, everything’s fine for now.” Daev played with the reins restlessly. “But if you found us by tracking the books we’ve sold, who else could?”
Scene 2: A Conference in Shadows
Old Staffling: Don’t laugh at me, young cream-faced fools. I’ve fought a dragon with this stick, and jammed the screaming gears of gnomes’ machines, and stood as tall as any Solamnian Knight on the fields of war. When I smile, you should scream. When I blink, you should look for danger.
Palak nicked his cape around himself and his bundle as he descended the dark, stained stairs. Why, he thought petulantly, does he do these things underground?
It was a real concern for him. As leader of the Joyous Faithful Guard, he would have preferred that every penitent confess as publicly as possible, not in chains somewhere far from the people who would be encouraged by repentance.
He knew the answer to his question, though. This man was underground because he liked to do his business underground. No one had ordered him to come up because they were all more than a little afraid of him.
Even Palak, fanatical as he was, hesitated at the iron door before rapping on it and calling out, “Tulaen.”
A voice said calmly, “I’m with a penitent. Wait.”
Palak, sitting on the bottom step, wrapped part of his cape around his head, put his hands over his ears, and waited for the screaming to stop. It took longer than he thought strictly necessary, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.
The calm voice said, “All right.” The door opened, and Palak faced a large, bald man with a drooping mustache. “I’ll be right with you,” the man said.
