The cell’s other occupant stirred painfully. Kerry spotted the ugly welts on the woman’s wrists and ankles, the red gashes that showed beneath her tattered clothes. “Mircandalee Tremensalor,” the prisoner said, failing in an attempt at a smile, failing even to get up. “Of the Dramaatis, Maskalyndor’s Company. Currently playing a long season as the tortured captive.”

Unwelcome lessons in Visionary’s classroom flashed through Kerry’s mind. “Transworlds Challenge,” she remembered. “The Dramaatis are… wandering space-actors, going round from planet to planet doing shows?”

“Well, we were,” Mircandalee admitted. “I don’t think the Parody Master is a patron of the arts.” She looked away again. “I think I’m the last of my troupe to survive. That’s why I’m here.”

Kerry was checking the cage for ways out. She was keeping busy so she could ignore the growing gnawing fear in her guts. “What did you do?” she asked.

“When Tircandaselle died, when those six Avawarriors… when she died, I knew I was probably the last. I had to declaim the Epilogue for her. To bring the curtain down properly for them all. I… I knew then I’d be punished for it.” She huddled into a smaller ball. “I couldn’t imagine how much. I didn’t know that anything could be worse than working on the Comfort Deck.”

“Well, you’re… you’re going to be okay now, okay?” Kerry stammered. “Because we’re getting out of here.”