Ugenion, once a great trading city, now much reduced, Onir Diotrodos with its famous water temple, Doros Kallida—the company’s wagons passed through them all, sometimes traveling only a few hours down the Royal Highway (still called King Karal’s Road in some parts) before they stopped again in another prosperous village or town. Syan was at the same time so much like and unlike what Briony had known most of her life that it made her even more homesick than usual. The people spoke the common tongue with a slurring accent she sometimes found hard to understand (although it had been their tongue first, Finn Teodoros enjoyed pointing out, so by rights Briony was the one speaking with an accent). Some of the folk who came to see the players even made fun of how Makewell and the others spoke, loudly repeating their words with an emphasis on what they clearly felt was the harsh, chopping March Kingdoms way of talking. But the Syannese also seemed to enjoy the diversion, and Nevin Hewney told her one day it was because they were more used to such things than were the rustic folk of the March Kingdoms, or even many of the city dwellers of Southmarch.

“This is where playmaking grew,” Hewney explained. His broad gesture took in the whole of the surrounding valley, which in this unusually empty spot looked like a place that had scarcely seen a farm croft, let alone a theater. As always when he had downed a few drinks, the infamous poet was enjoying his own discourse. Seeing Briony’s confusion, he scowled in a broadly beleaguered way. “No, not here by this particular oak tree, but in the land of Syan. The festival plays of Hierosol—dry tales not of the gods but of pious mortals, most of them, the oniri and other martyrs—here became the mummeries of Greater and Little Zosimia and the Wildsong Night comedies. They have had plays, playmakers, and players here for a thousand years.”

“And never once paid any of them what they’re worth,” growled Pedder Makewell.

“It’s only because there are so many of them around,” said Feival. “Too many cobblers drives down the price of shoes, as everyone knows.”

“So then why did we…did you, I mean…come here?” asked Briony. “Would there not be places to go where players would be a rare and greatly appreciated thing?”

Hewney looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “You speak very well for a servant girl, our Tim. How did you learn to turn a phrase so nimbly?”

Finn Teodoros cleared his throat loudly. “Are you boring the child again with your history of stagecraft, Nevin? Suffice it to say that the Syannese love our art, and there is a sufficiency of people here who will be glad to see us. And now we have something new to show them, as well!”

She frowned. “What?”

“You. Our dear, sweet little goddess. The groundlings will water at the mouth when they see you.”

“You’re a pig, Finn!” Feival Ulian laughed, but also seemed a little hurt—he was the company’s stage beauty, after all. “Don’t mock her.”