After the performance, you retire to the common room of the inn with the company. The crowd is a little thin, but the company are still toasting the successful box office. You're making a go of the tour.
Salar finds you before you can take your seat. "This was wonderful, just wonderful," he says, shaking your hand so hard your shoulder rattles. "I was thinking, you'll need a guard for the rest of the tour, won't you? I mean, a guard in the play. I could do it. I know the roads around here, and I'm willing to work hard."
"We haven't got the money to hire another actor," you say, although it's tempting to have someone along to do the traditional novice actor's jobs of lifting heavy trunks in and out of the wagon and collecting scattered costumes and props at the end of the night.
"I'd do it for the experience. It would be an adventure. Please say yes."
"I'll have to ask Nichol," you say, but you don't imagine Nichol will turn down someone willing to do the dirty work of the tour without taking a share of the profits. "He will want to know something about you, though."
"There isn't much to tell," Salar says, his eyes sliding away from yours. "I was raised by shepherds, and how can there be anything to say about that?"
You wonder if he's run away from home. You probably would have, if you'd grown up surrounded by sheep. "I'll do what I can," you assure him, and shoulder your way into the crowd.
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