In the warehouse, a few shafts of gray-white daylight squeezed through the high windows, barely illuminating the gloomy interior.
Borg, the porter, tugged awkwardly at his hemp clothes.
The coarse fabric rubbed against his neck, making it itch.
These were supposed to be costumes?
He looked down. They were no different from the rags he had worn when he fled to the Gray Marsh Fief.
He scanned his surroundings out of the corner of his eye.
The tall, thin fellow who called himself a poet was puffing out his chest, trying hard to look solemn, but his constantly wringing hands gave him away.
The others were even worse, their heads tucked into their shoulders like chickens waiting to be slaughtered.
Acting.
Borg turned the word over in his mind.
The lord had told him to play Tumo.
Of course he knew Tumo. The fellow owned a tavern now and was doing very well for himself.
But half a year ago, hadn't he been just another poor wretch scratching a living out of the mud?
Play him?
How?
Was he supposed to roll around on the ground and make a few hungry noises?
Borg felt his cheeks burn.
At the other end of the warehouse sat several dozen people, all clerks and employees from the Lord's Manor.
Borg even spotted the young man who recorded his merit points. He was whispering to the person beside him, occasionally casting curious glances their way.
He was done for.
He would rather have been at the docks, hoisting a three-hundred-pound sack of salt all by himself in front of everyone. That would have earned him cheers and respect.
Now, though, he felt like a clown stripped naked.
"Get ready."
Veylin's voice was quiet, but everyone in the warehouse fell silent.
He walked over to