Free Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell Page B

on an audience, it’s a wonder men don’t rush the stage.”
    Michael smiled, but his eyes slid to Rosamund. Rudy had taken her to inspect one of the wagons, and she was exclaiming over how delightful it was. Callista had intercepted Gloria and was trying to convince her to retract her claws. Gwendolyn Makejoye’s glare had faded to exasperated resignation. It seemed we were in, and easier than I’d expect—
    A chorus of yaps heralded the appearance of a pack of small, muddy dogs. They poured into camp, skidding to a stop as they saw their master and mistress fussing over a stranger. There was a second of eerie silence—then they charged.
    It was the most honest display of emotion I’d seen yet.
    Michael and the Barkers pulled the brawl apart and got the dogs properly introduced before anyone was bitten. Having talked his wife around, Makejoye went to the back of his wagon and pulled out a chest full of what looked to be half-bound books—though their bindings were loosely stitched, they had no covers. I was curious about the wagon, too.
    He soon noticed me looking over his shoulder. “I’m just digging out a few scripts to give you three an audition. You know, I charged Lord Fabian for only an eight-player troupe. With three more players, we can raise the price of our next performance.”
    “Assuming any of us does well enough that you’ll let us perform.”
    The wagon was roomier than I’d have thought, but every inch seemed to be filled with boxes, baskets, and some clever cabinets built into the wagon’s wooden sides. It even had two small windows, though their panes were the old, thick, round ones, filled with bubbles and distortions. What it didn’t have was beds, or any space to put them that I could see.
    “Do you sleep in here?” I asked.
    “Only in bad weather.” Makejoye flipped pages on one of his scripts. “In the summer we sleep under the wagons for the most part; in winter . . . Ah, here we are. Come along, Master Fisk. The sooner I discover your talents, the longer I’ll have to modify our play to incorporate them.”
    If he could get extra pay for extra players, I had no doubt he’d modify them, no matter how bad we were.
    Makejoye assigned each of us a part and had us read the short scene, and he let us keep the scripts so we didn’t have to memorize the lines. He declared the sunlit center of the small clearing to be the stage, and set the ladies’ sewing chairs in front of it for half the audience. The other half, which included himself, Edgar Barker, and (tactfully) Gloria, stood as far away as they could and still see us through the trees, “Because the fellows in the back need to hear, too, you know.”
    The scene was fairly standard, with two men competing for the attention of a flirtatious girl. I’ve seen such scenes many times, though the dialogue in this one was witty enough to make me snicker as I read it.
    Gwen Makejoye took on the role of stage manager, placing us in the positions she wanted like a housewife arranging furniture. She told us when to move, and where, and then stepped aside to join the rest of our audience and nodded to me to begin.
    I pitched my voice to carry. “How pleasant to find you alone, my dear. Or as near alone as makes no difference. Do you . . .”
    I suppose the audition could be described as a moderate disaster. It was hard to say whether Michael or Rosamund was more wooden, but at least Michael, after a few reminders, started talking for the farther members of the audience. After the fifth call of “louder, my girl” Rosamund’s eyes began to fill, and Mistress Gwendolyn signaled her husband to stop trying.
    I played my part as if it was a con—or not quite, for the better part of pulling off a con is to sound natural. I tried to con them into believing I was an actor, and I must not have lost my touch, for after we’d finished, Makejoye gave me a speculative glance. “Have you done this before, Master Fisk?”
    “Not