"Always so practical," Diar says. "Well, you'd better put in a good word for us."
"I think I'd better steer clear of them after the performance, anyway," you say. "Cenone didn't seem to be in a very good temper with Liathar and Falathar."
"They're at one another's throats," Diar says. "At least that's what people say. I heard—"
Diar breaks off as Nichol raps his cane sharply on the flagstones. "Tell the musicians to begin," he says, and a young stagehand scurries away toward the pit. "Actors, take your places. The next words I want to hear are the ones Master Osberht wrote."
Diar raises a meaningful eyebrow at you that might promise more gossip later, picks up her basket, and strolls onstage behind the heavy curtain that screens the stage from the audience. The music rises, and there's a murmur from the audience that builds and then abruptly cuts off as the curtain goes up.
Your first play in the Odeon is about to begin.
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