The players straggled into the Underking late in the morning, after breakfast but before lunch. Angel watched them with wonder. There were seven of them, all well dressed in colored clothes. They were damp from the rain but their clothes were spotless. Perhaps, she thought, they had changed into them just outside the gate, so that they would make an impressive entrance. They must have intended to come for the festival, she thought, but been delayed by the rain or the news of the assassins’ attack. Now their two great wagons were parked in the stableyard, and they were in the inn waiting for Angel to serve them. Angel had not seen a real company of players in a year and could not remember one ever staying in her father’s inn. She was thrilled. She loved plays, and could not wait to see these people perform.

  She nearly ran over to their table. A great, burly man turned to her and said, “Girl, wine for the company, and a carafe, too. And can you manage roast fowl?”

  “Wine we have, Sir,” she said, “but no fowl yet today. All we have for meat now is bacon and pickled beef.”

  “Then we shall make do with pickled beef,” said the man. “For we are wayfaring folk used to hard nights on the road.”

  At this the woman sitting next to him, of the same stocky, tending-to-fat build but still quite pretty, said, “Well, you’ve given me plenty of hard nights on the road, but when have you ever suffered one yourself?”

  “But my darling,” he answered, “all the philosophers say the man should have the superior position in marriage.”

  “They do say that about marriage, but I have read nothing about the ground behind the wagon. And they are wrong about marriage anyway.”

  At this a younger man at the table said, “Miranna, look, you have shocked this poor barmaid so that her mouth hangs open.”

  Angel shut her mouth hurried off to fetch their wine while the table erupted in laughter behind her. When she returned one of the young men was plucking at a lute while a young woman sang. She had a pleasant alto voice. Angel did not know the song, but on the second chorus she joined in, trying to provide a soprano harmony. When they came to the end of the chorus, Angel stopped, expecting that the woman would continue. But silence had fallen around the table, and everyone was staring at her. She hurriedly set the wine down and turned to leave but the big woman laid a hand on her arm and spoke to her, saying “Child, who taught you to sing like that?”

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  Angel was confused, not sure if she was being praised or mocked. “No one,” she managed to stammer out. “I taught myself.”

  “You taught yourself?”

  “Yes, if it please you. I learned a little from singing at festivals, and listening to players who came through the inn. There was a sailor who used to come here, that people said was a great singer. He taught me a little. But mostly I taught myself.”

  The big man said, “You have a rare talent. You are wasted carrying wine and pickled beef.”

  Angel did not like the way they were looking at her, like buyers sizing up a horse at market. She curtseyed and went back to the kitchen.

  Then she remembered the bread she had left in the alley for Andy. She had meant to keep watch over it and make sure she had a chance to speak to her new friend again. But in the excitement of the players’ arrival she had forgotten. She ran to the back door and slipped out. The bread was gone, and Andy nowhere to be seen. Sadness hit her; she had missed Andy again. Then she saw that a few feet from the hiding place by the rain barrel was a patch of bare earth where a flagstone was missing, and scratched on the dirt was a sort of symbol, or rune: two triangles, points up like little mountains, and between them a wavy line.

  Was this Andy’s mark? Did she come from a valley in the mountains, like this?

  When Angel went back inside she found her father talking to the big man – Gregorio, had they called him? Her father waved her over and gave her a silver double coin. “Find a cryer and have him tell the town that the Arandian Players will be performing in the piazza tonight.”

  “The Famous Arandian Players,” Gregorio corrected.

  Angel, shying away from his gaze, ran out of the inn and down the street to the harbor. The cryers were usually found around the wharves, since a big part of their business was announcing that ships had come in and what cargo they carried. She found them quickly, and one she had seen before took her coin and walked to the auction block to begin his work. She did not hurry back to the inn, though. The harbor was busy with unloading and loading, clearing all the cargoes off the ships so they could carry soldiers and weapons. Those men not working stood or sat in groups, talking to each other. They are going to war, she thought. Are they afraid? They must be, but if she asked they would probably deny it. Men never told the truth about things like that.

  She thought of Andy; had Andy been afraid, when war came to her village? What had she seen? And where was she now?

  Then she thought of the players. She was so excited to see them perform, but it felt different to her this time than it had when she was a little girl. She had sung with them, and they told her she had talent. She did not think they were lying, although they were all actors so you could probably never really tell. Could she become one of them? Would they take her with them, so she could leave the harborside and see the rest of the world?

  No, she could never leave her father. This was her home, and always would be. But maybe she could get the players to teach her a few things while they were here.