Free The Memory of Earth by Orson Scott Card Page A

potion-seller.
    “How could fire suddenly appear on a bare rock in the desert?” cried the girl. “It’s a
miracle
!”
    The potion-seller whirled on her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch!
I’m
the only one who can see this! It’s a vision!”
    “No!” shouted Mebbekew, in his deepest voice. “It’s a special stage effect!”
    “A stage effect!” cried the potion-seller. “Then you must be—”
    “You got it!”
    “That old humbug the Oversoul!”
    “I’m proud of you, old trickster! Stupid girl—you almost fixed her.”
    “Oh, it’s nothing much to take
her
—
you’re
the master faker!”
    “No!”
bellowed the satirist. “Not ‘take
her
,’ you idiot! It’s ‘
take
her,’ emphasis on
take
, or it doesn’t rhyme with
faker
!”
    “Sorry,” said the young masker playing the potion-seller. “It doesn’t make
sense
your way, of course, but at least it’ll
rhyme
.”
    “It doesn’t have to make sense, you uppity young rooster, it only has to make money!”
    Everybody laughed—though it was clear that the actors still didn’t really like the satirist much. They got back into the scene and a few moments later Meb and the potion-seller launched into a song-and-dance routine about how clever they were at hoodwinking people, and how unbelievably gullible most people were—especially women. It seemed that every couplet of the song was designed to mortally offend some portion of the audience, and the song went on until every conceivable group in Basilica had been darted. While they sang and danced, the girl pretended to roast some kind of meat in the flames.
    Meb forgot his lyrics less than the other masker, and in spite of the fact that Nafai knew the whole sequence was aimed at humiliating Father, he couldn’t help but notice that Meb was actually pretty good, especially at singing so every word was clear. I could do that, too, thought Nafai.
    The song kept coming back to the same refrain:
     
    I’m standing by a fire
With my favorite liar
No one stands a chance
When he starts his fancy dancing
     
    When the song ended, the Oversoul—Meb—had persuaded the potion-seller that the best way to get the women of Basilica to do whatever he wanted was to persuade them that he was getting visions from theOversoul. “They’re so ready for deceiving,” said Meb. “We’ll have all these girls believing.”
    The scene closed with the potion-seller leading the girl offstage, telling her how he had seen a vision of the city of Basilica burning up. The satirist had switched to alliterative verse, which Nafai thought sounded a little more natural than rhyming, but it wasn’t as fun. “Do you want to waste the last weeks of the world clinging to some callow young cad? Wouldn’t you be better off boffing your brains out with an ugly old man who has an understanding with the Oversoul?”
    “Fine,” said the satirist. “That’ll work. Let’s have the street scene now.”
    Another group of maskers came up on the stage. Nafai immediately headed across the lawn to where Mebbekew, his mask still in place, was already scribbling new dialogue on a scrap of paper.
    “Meb,” said Nafai.
    Meb looked up, startled, trying to see better through the small eyeholes in the mask. “What did you call me?” Then he saw it was Nafai. Immediately he jumped to his feet and started walking away. “Get away from me, you little rat-eater.”
    “Meb, I’ve got to talk to you.”
    Mebbekew kept walking.
    “Before you go on in this play tonight!” said Nafai.
    Meb whirled on him. “It’s not a play, it’s a satire. I’m not an actor, I’m a masker. And you’re not my brother, you’re an ass.”
    Meb’s fury astonished him. “What have I done to you?” asked Nafai.
    “I know you, Nyef. No matter what I do or say to you, you’re going to end up telling Father.”
    As if Father wouldn’t eventually find out that his son was playing in a satire that was designed to dart him infront of