Diar leads you down the stairs and out the back door of the building, the one that isn't in view of the audience rapidly filling the seats. There, the hanging curtains hide the space between the side building and the one at the back. Cast and crew are assembled there, some running lines and some pacing.
A middle-aged man has just turned from speaking with a girl dressed as a hunter as you come up. He's perhaps fifty, saturnine, with a neat beard and an elegant doublet of russet and green brocade.
"Master Nichol," Diar says, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Osberht. Osberht is a playwright."
"Yes?" he says, one eyebrow rising in a manner that speaks louder than words. "So?"
"I was hoping you'd read Osberht's new play," Diar rushes on.
"There are dozens of young playwrights in the city," Nichol says, leaning on his bronze-handled cane. "And they'd all like me to read their work. Why should I read yours?" He holds a hand up. "No, Diar. Let your friend answer."