The Dragon's Path

hanging with dirty yellow ribbons. The small crowd standing before it looked curiousand skeptical in equal measure. As Marcus walked past, an old man stepped out from behind the ribbons. His hair stood high on his head, and his beard jutted.
    “Stop!” the man cried in a deep and resonant voice. “Stop now, and come near! Hear the tale of Aleren Mankiller and the Sword of the Dragons! Or if you are faint of heart, move on. For our tale is one of grand adventure. Love, war, betrayal, and vengeance shall spill out now, upon these poor boards, and I warn you…”
    The actor’s voice seemed to drop to a whisper, though it still carried as clearly as the shouting.
    “… not all that are good end well. Not all that are evil are punished. Come close, my friends, and know that in our tale as in the world,
anything
may happen.”
    Marcus didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Yardem spoke.
    “He’s good.”
    “Is, isn’t he?”
    “Watch for a bit, sir?”
    Marcus didn’t answer, but like the rest of the small crowd stepped closer. The play was a standard enough tale. An ancient prophecy, an evil rising from the depths of hell, and a relic of the Dragon Empire destined for the hand of the hero. The woman who played the maiden fair was perhaps a bit too old, and the man who spoke the hero’s part a little too soft. But the lines were well delivered, and the troupe was professionally rehearsed. Marcus picked out a long-haired woman and a stick-thin youth in the crowd who laughed at all the right times and put down hecklers: spare players planted in the audience. But each time the actor who had called the introduction came onstage, Marcus lost his train of thought.
    The old man played Orcus the Demon King with such a sense of evil and pathos that it was easy to forget it was all for show. When Aleren Mankiller swung the Dragon Sword and blood gouted down the Demon King’s chest, Marcus had to stop himself from reaching for his blade.
    In the end, and despite the actor’s warnings, the good triumphed, the evil were vanquished, and the players took their bows. Marcus was startled by the applause; the crowd had doubled without his noticing. Even Yardem was thumping his plate-wide palms together and grinning. Marcus dug a silver coin out of the pouch hung under his shirt and tossed it onto the boards. It landed with a hard tap, and a moment later Orcus the Demon King was smiling and bowing in a small rain shower of money. He thanked them for their generosity and their kindness with such warmth that even walking away, Marcus found himself thinking of people as generous and kind.
    The early autumn sun was lowering, the pale city glowing gold. The audience unwound itself from around the stage, breaking off in groups of two and three to walk across the sward. Marcus sat on a stone bench under a yellow-leafed oak and watched as the actors reassembled their cart. A pack of Firstblood children descended upon the players, laughing, and were chased away with grins. Marcus leaned back and considered the darkening sky through the tree’s boughs.
    “You have a plan,” Yardem said.
    “Do I?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    It had been a fine little play. Not a huge cast. Alaren Mankiller and his companion. The maiden fair. Orcus the Demon King. The one man who’d taken all the small businessas villager or demon or nobleman, depending on his hat. Five people for a full play’s work. And the two leading the crowd…
    Seven people.
    “Ah,” Marcus said. “So I do.”
    S even people sat at the wide round table drinking beer and eating cheese and sausage paid from Marcus’s diminishing funds. The two from the crowd were the thin boy Mikel and the long-haired woman Cary. The youth who’d played the hero was Sandr, the elderly maiden fair was Opal, the hero’s companion was Hornet, and the jack-of-all-roles was Smit. Yardem sat with them, a wide, gentle smile on his face, like a mother hound surrounded by puppies.
    Marcus sat apart at a smaller table with Orcus the Demon King.
    “And I,” Orcus said, “am called Kitap rol Keshmet, among other things. Most often, Master Kit.”
    “I’m not going to remember all those names,” Marcus said.
    “We’ll remind you. I don’t think anyone is likely to take offense,” Master Kit said, “especially if you keep buying the drinks.”
    “Fair point.”
    “Which brings us to the question, doesn’t it, Captain? I can’t think you’ve brought us all here out of your overflowing