"Gather!" a clarion voice calls out unexpectedly.
Malodoro herself sweeps into the room, clapping her hands briskly. An old man with a bald pate and faded gray-green motley trots at her heels like a pup, and claps along twice for good measure. "Gather, players, and attend!" the Steward calls out again.
"Her Nibs herself," murmurs Joan, raising her eyebrows.
"And that must be Timshel at her heels, no?" you whisper.
Joan fills you in on all the other names as you join the rest of the company in forming a loose circle around Malodoro.
Onward