The player stared at his hands, flexed his fingers. One palm glistened as if coated with blue glass. Suddenly he reached for the fox’s arm. His hand closed upon empty air. The kitsune had vanished and only the tanuki remained, with bared fangs and bristling fur. “Unusual,” he snarled. “Not alive, and not dead enough.” The player lunged at him, but the tanuki flipped the gban into the air, and the stones covering its surface peppered the trio, forcing them to stumble back. When they lowered their arms, the tanuki still stood there, observing them. “Most unusual,” he said. Where the white and black gishi had struck their faces, the flesh was pocked and gray. “You’re not at all nice. We shall not help you further.” Then, like the kitsune, he vanished. It was as if the wall drank him up. The torches guttered and went out, leaving the trio of agents in darkness lit only by the stars and the twin moons.
“I hate conversing with the supernatural,” complained the player.
“You lost the game, Scratta.”
“If you remind me of that once more, I’ll strip the rest of the glamour from you and you can remain fixed right here for pigeons to spatter. Now.” He paused to regain his composure. “We will return to the ship. Possibly the others had better luck.”
“If not, what then?”
“Tomorrow night we’ll hunt the venues, find out where they performed. They had to have performed somewhere.”
“Why not simply go north to the next span? We’re close behind them now.”
“I see,” he said, and then asked the third one, “Is that what you want to do, too?”
The third glanced nervously between his two companions. Prudently he ventured, “They must have moved on, so why continue looking here? It would seem reasonable.”
“Fine. Then that is what we shall do. If you’re right,” said Scratta to the second, “we save time. If you’re wrong . . . well, every ship needs an anchor.” He turned and strode off.
The others followed. “You can’t intimidate the supernatural,” said one.
The other replied, “We should know, and better than any.”
“So then, when we catch up to this troupe, what if the teller, this performer, is the supposed-to-be-dead Bardsham?”
“Then he’s doomed.”
“And what if he’s not Bardsham?”
“Then he’s doomed.”
“Oh, good. I like simplicity.”
“Indeed. Complications are for stories.”
The Terrestre was only half filled, but the audience included the governor of the span, who wanted to see for himself what creature had coerced the gods into healing Colemaigne.
Soter complained about the way the stage was set. He had put the puppeteer’s booth front and center, but while he ate and chatted with Hamen, Leodora and the two woodmen had moved it to one side, leaving most of the stage open. He was further dismayed when she told him that she didn’t want him narrating the first story as he often did. She would do it herself.
He replied, “Merely because you’re revealing that you’re a girl, now you want to change the process? Will you be performing the introduction as you manage the puppets, too?”
She told him, “I won’t be managing puppets for this performance.”
Diverus joined her in the booth. She explained to him what she was going to do, and his ritual began. He sat on the floor and spread his instruments in a circle around him. There were new ones she hadn’t seen before: Orinda had shown him the Terrestre’s instrument collection, and he had selected various items, including a snaky horn that seemed more designed for processionals than accompaniment. Now he closed his eyes and lowered his head. His hands reached out and took hold of one of these novel instruments from the Terrestre, a theorbo. It looked like a lute but with an extended neck and second pegbox. He lay it across his lap and then reached again, adding three small percussion instruments to his choices. One was a clapper. The other two, she couldn’t fathom. Then he sighed and leaned back. His eyes fluttered open and he stared, bemused by what he’d picked, despite which confusion he told her, “I’m ready.”
Orinda strode out from the curtains and welcomed the crowd. Most of them knew her. Some, like the governor, had known her husband. They applauded her, and cheered her announcement that theater was coming back to Colemaigne. She gestured to the governor in his box, and the audience stood to give him an ovation for dismissing the ban. He bowed, then gestured broadly for all of them to sit, so that