Free Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell

on the town hall’s shady steps, for the sun was hot now, the morning’s coolness only a memory. The scaffolding was rising behind us already; the scent of cut wood mingled pleasantly with that of sausage, though the hammering interrupted our conversation.
    The thin man’s name was Falon. He was their juggler and knife thrower, and he played villains, heroes’ best friends, and assorted bit parts. “But it’s villain that suits him best, isn’t it, you rogue?”
    Makejoye’s voice held only friendship, and Falon’s smile was open and easy, but there was something about him that reminded me of . . . me. I resolved not to let him learn where we kept Rosamund’s jewels, which meant finding a new place to hide them from her and Michael as well. Which wasn’t such a bad idea, now that I thought about it.
    Master Edgar Barker and his wife, Edith, trained dogs, and performed with them as clowns. Which I might have guessed, for Trouble was practically sitting in the man’s lap.
    Rosamund sat almost that close to Rudy, who was the troupe’s ropedancer and tumbler, and played—what else?—the hero.
    “The dogs start off the show.” Master Makejoye swallowed a bite of pickle. “I’ve planned it all out. We’ll hire a lad to hold the wagon at the other end of the square, and the Barkers’ll jump out, set up a bit, then whistle and the dogs leap out everywhere. They’re little mites, not like your fine fellow, but they’re smart beasts.”
    “Unlike our fine fellow,” I murmured.
    Master Barker snorted. “You’re plenty smart, aren’t you, boy? You tell him.”
    Trouble gazed at him adoringly and thumped his tail.
    “Anyway, they’ll do tricks all the way down the square,” Makejoye went on. “While everyone’s looking at them, we’ll slip in, scramble into costume, and open the phosphor lamps. The dogs will run up onstage and through the curtains.” He used a sausage to gesture at an opening in the tangle of scaffolding. “Then Edith and Edgar will climb up, looking for ’em, you see, and open the curtains, and there we are. The play starts off right then.” He took a bite out of his pointer.
    “It sounds well planned,” said Michael politely.
    “Tell me, pup, have you always been mute?” Barker asked Trouble.
    “He was when we met him.” Michael spoke for the dog, amusement dancing in his eyes. “But that was only winter before last.”
    “And you’re four or five, aren’t you?” Barker felt Trouble’s throat with expert fingers. “I’m not finding any tumors, which is good. Speak!”
    I jumped at the sudden command in his voice and was about to offer Trouble’s excuses, for that was something we hadn’t even tried to teach him—unlike come, sit, heel, and stay-out-of-my-bed. But to my astonishment, Trouble lifted his head and made the rasping gasp that is the best bark he can manage.
    “Good boy.” Barker fed him a bit of his sandwich. “My guess is you were born mute, poor pup. But at least they’re taking good care of you, aren’t they now?”
    Trouble rasped again, his tail thumping harder.
    “Thank you,” said Michael—to both of them, as near as I could tell.
    The carpenters finished their work shortly after we finished eating, and Falon and Rudy checked their measurements with a bit of knotted string to be sure the scenery panels would fit before Master Makejoye paid them off.
    The players had walked into town, so we led the horses and walked beside them—except for Rosamund. It was Michael who insisted she ride, but Rudy, being an acrobat, beat him to Rosamund’s side and won the right to lift her into Honey’s saddle.
    Makejoye watched the whole farce with narrowed eyes.
    “You’re thinking of casting her as heroine?” Falon asked softly. “Glory’ll claw her eyes out. And then she’ll go for you. You don’t even know if she can act.”
    “But look at that face,” Makejoye muttered. “I’ll cut the heroine’s dialogue down. And look at that little