Early the next morning, a large warehouse in Newborn Town's western district was temporarily cleared out.
It had originally been used to store seasoned lumber and linen.
For the rehearsal, thick cloth covered the warehouse windows, leaving only a few high windows to admit daylight so the interior would not be too dark.
A dozen or so people recruited from Miport and Newborn Town stood uneasily in the empty space.
Their expressions varied. Some were curious, some nervous, but most were bewildered.
The poet who scraped together a living telling stories at the docks habitually puffed out his chest, trying to muster a scholarly air, but his sleeves, washed almost white, and his constantly fidgeting fingers betrayed his embarrassment.
The booming-voiced porter looked distinctly out of place. He stood there like a wooden post, finding everything around him novel.
As far as they knew, theater meant the heroic epics that bards sang to their own accompaniment in taverns, or the entertainment noble lords enjoyed in their castles. People like them had never imagined they would have anything to do with "performing."
Tristan stood in the shadows in a corner of the warehouse, watching this hastily assembled group of "actors" with deep misgivings.
Could these people really achieve the effect Lord Veylin had in mind?
The warehouse's wooden door creaked open.
Veylin walked in.
He carried a thick, leather-bound notebook: When Sugar Comes Knocking, which he had written himself.
As soon as he appeared, the noisy chatter in the warehouse subsided. Every eye turned toward him.
"Welcome, everyone." Veylin's voice echoed through the empty warehouse, clear and calm. "Starting today, you are the Gray Marsh Fief's first theater troupe."
Without any further pleasantries, he walked straight to the center of the warehouse and placed the leather-bound notebook on an overturned wooden