Palak came in. Tulaen had washed his hands in a bowl and was drying them, looking thoughtfully at the dead woman. Palak glanced at all four corners of the room rather than looking at the woman.
Palak said, “What is it that is attractive about this work? Is it the joyous moment when, in tears, they confess?”
“Not really. I can postpone that indefinitely.”
“Ah.” Palak considered. “What did you do before you came here?”
Tulaen’s face clouded over. “I lived with a family. I think it was my family.” He shook his head. “Well, there’s no bringing them back.”
Palak swallowed and changed the subject tactfully. “Tulaen, I’ve come to offer you an opportunity to advance the Faith.” He waited for a nod or a meaningful look. When none came he went on nervously, “There was a young cleric named Daev. .”
“I heard,” Tulaen said neutrally. “Wrote books, didn’t he? Heresies. He should have been burned alive at the stake, but he’s disappeared.” He shook his head. “Very sad.”
“Well,” Palak went on hurriedly, looking into the empty, patient eyes of the torturer, “we have evidence that he’s alive.”
“Evidence?”
Palak raised the bundle he had been carrying and slapped it on the table, tugging the cord undone. He lifted the books one at a time, reading the titles angrily. “The Dangers of Fanaticism. Medicine: Is it More Effective than Prayer? Oh, here’s a nice one: 7s Truth Absolute?”
Tulaen picked up the bottom book and leafed through it. “Follies of the Faithful, Illustrated. Nice drawings.” He held it open for Palak. “Tell me, how can that look like you and like a swine at the same time?”
“I want you to find him and kill him, quickly,” Palak snapped.
Tulaen gestured to the dead woman. “I don’t kill quickly.”
Palak looked automatically, then looked away in spite of himself. “Granted. Just be certain you kill him. An entire faith falls if you fail.”
“More importantly, I fail.” Tulaen regarded Palak. “I promise you, I won’t.” He stuck out a huge palm. “Pay up front.”
“Shouldn’t you come back and prove to me you’ve done it?”
“My word is good. No one has doubted me before.” He smiled gently at the dead woman, then back at Palak. “Do you really want me coming back?”
Palak handed him all the money.
Samael passed the notebook to Kela, who stared at him open-mouthed.
“Nicely read,” Daev conceded. “Clear, loud enough- didn’t drop the ends of your lines-and very passionate.” Somehow he had hoped Samael would need more coaching at love lines.
“Perfect,” Kela breathed. She shook her head hastily. “Oops, I’m sorry. Now you want me to do my lines?”
Daev murmured, “That would be nice.”
She glanced down, closed the book and held it out to Samael as Sharmaen was to hold the prop book. “No, sir, I beg you, read more carefully,
But you have skimmed the matter here, and missed
The subject I have worshipfully kissed
Whenever I discerned him-”
The scene went on until they kissed passionately over the book, then let the book slide to the stage floor. Samael, being taller, practically wrapped himself around Kela.
Daev, as the jealous father Stormtower, rushed in and pulled the lovers apart. Samael staggered as Daev read his angry lines with surprising force.
Getting into the action, Frenni, as Old Staffling the grand-father, burst in and verbally abused Daev/Stormtower, thwacking him with a hoopak/staff. The first blow knocked the wind out of Daev; the second, on his shin, set him dancing.
Frenni leaned on his staff and said critically, “You could dance funnier, but that’s not bad.”
When he finally found his tongue, Daev said with a tremor in his voice, “How would you like to have your entire throat ripped out and pulped with a rock?”
“No idea,” Frenni said. “Does it hurt?”
“Excruciatingly.”
“Have you had it done?”
Daev looked disconcerted. “Well, no-”
“Then how do you know?”
“Never threaten a kender,” Samael said. “It only encourages them.”
“All right,” Daev said through clenched teeth. “No more improvising. No more making up lines and movements, and no more real hitting, or you can’t be in the play. Do you understand?”
It was an empty threat, since they needed Frenni badly, but the kender went along. “All right,” he said sullenly. “We’ll do it the same boring way every time.”
“That,” Samael said with great satisfaction, “is how my potions work.”
After the rehearsal he produced a small balance scale and a system of weights from his cart. “Precise amounts of ingredients-salts, herbs, dried animal parts-produce the same results every time,” he said.
Frenni said indignantly, “Who wants that?”
Samael put a small amount of salt on the scale and checked it, grain by grain, against the weight on the other tray. “People who want the same thing to happen every time.”
“Do you want the same meal every night?” Frenni argued. “Of course not. Variety is adventure. Why, when I cook, even though it’s the same dish, it’s different every time. A dash of this, a pinch of that, and it’s completely different.”
Daev shuddered. “It’s true. Some of his meals are excellent. Some taste like badly sauteed rocks.”
Frenni, still smarting from the “no improvising” rule, put his hands on his chin. “Plays should be like that: different every time. In fact, you should write a new play that makes sure it’s different for the audience every time.”
“What kind of play, O great kender director?”
Frenni missed the sarcasm. “I think we should do a play with explosions, and dragons, and a village burning, and a battle, and magic.”
“I see,” Daev said caustically. “A play about a dragon that explodes over a village and sets it on fire, killing the wizard he was battling.”
Frenni looked at him in awe. “Is that what it’s like to be a real writer?”
“Of course. Do you want anything else?”
“Well, I think it should be funny.”
Daev threw up his hands. “Can’t we do the play we’ve got?”
“It’s awfully good,” Samael said.
Kela, looking at him, said, “It’s perfect.”
Daev watched her staring at the alchemist. Nettled, he said, “Perfect.”
“All the love lines.”
“They just came to me,” he said dryly.
She clapped her hands. “The romance is so tender.”
Daev was beginning to be unhappy with the play, though he had written it to feature Kela. “Can we just go over the set and effects design?”
Kela passed her notebook to Daev, pointing to some sketches of which she was particularly proud.
Daev reviewed Kela’s set designs, choked, and explained briefly about minimalism, imagination, and money. All in all she took criticism much better than Frenni had. She sat back down and sketched quickly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be done tomorrow morning.”
“Wonderful. That leaves us one whole day to build and sew everything.” Daev ran his hands through his hair, wondering how soon it would turn gray. He added irritably, “Are you going to keep that beast?” Kela had adopted a stray dog, rangy and brown, which clearly adored her.
