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agreed. “And you would be dead now, too.”
    “Is he dead then?” Aidan asked, feeling his heart wrench within him.
    Motley shrugged.
    “Not when we left,” Motley said. “I just do not know now. We have no friends, no spies, in the city anymore—it has been overtaken by Pandesians. All your father’s men are imprisoned. We are, I’m afraid, at Pandesia’s mercy.”
    Aidan clenched his fists, thinking only of his father rotting in that cell.
    “I must save him,” Aidan declared, filled with a sense of purpose. “I cannot let him sit there. I must leave this place at once.”
    Aidan jumped up and hurried to the door and had started pulling back the bolts when Motley appeared, stood over him, and stuck his foot before the door before he could open it.
    “Go now,” Motley said, “and you’ll get us all killed.”
    Aidan looked back at Motley, saw a serious expression for the first time, and he knew he was right. He had a new sense of gratitude and respect for him; after all, he had indeed saved his life. Aidan would always be grateful for that. Yet at the same time, he felt a burning desire to rescue his father, and he knew that every second counted.
    “You said there would be another way,” Aidan said, remembering. “That there would be another way to save him.”
    Motley nodded.
    “I did,” Motley admitted.
    “Were those just empty words, then?” Aidan asked.
    Motley sighed.
    “What do you propose?” he asked, exasperated. “Your father sits in the heart of the capital, in the royal dungeon, guarded by the entire Pandesian army. Shall we just go and knock on the door?”
    Aidan stood there, trying to think of anything. He knew it was a daunting task.
    “There must be men who can help us?” Aidan asked.
    “Who?” called out one of the actors. “All those men loyal to your father were captured along with him.”
    “Not all ,” Aidan replied. “Surely some of his men were not there. What about the warlords loyal to him outside the capital?”
    “Perhaps.” Motley shrugged. “But where are they now?”
    Aidan fumed, desperate, feeling his father’s imprisonment as if it were his own.
    “We can’t just sit here and do nothing ,” Aidan exclaimed. “If you don’t help me, I will go myself. I don’t care if I die. I cannot just sit here while my father’s in prison. And my brothers…” Aidan said, remembering, and he began to cry, overcome with emotion, as he recalled his two brothers’ deaths.
    “I have no one now,” he said.
    Then he shook his head. He remembered his sister, Kyra, and he prayed with all he had that she was safe. After all, she was all he had now.
    As Aidan cried, embarrassed, White came over and rested his head against his leg. He heard heavy footsteps crossing the creaky, wooden plank floors, and he felt a big beefy palm on his shoulder.
    He looked up and saw Motley looking down with compassion.
    “Wrong,” Motley said. “You have us. We are your family now.”
    Motley turned and gestured to the room, and Aidan looked out and saw all the actors and entertainers looking back at him earnestly, dozens of them, compassion in their eyes as they nodded in agreement. He realized that, even though they were not warriors, they were good-hearted people. He had a new respect for them.
    “Thank you,” Aidan said. “But you are all actors. What I need are warriors. You cannot help me get back my father.”
    Motley suddenly had a look in his eyes, as if an idea were dawning, and he smiled wide.
    “How wrong you are, young Aidan,” he replied.
    Aidan could see Motley’s eyes gleaming, and he knew he was thinking of something.
    “Warriors have a certain skill,” Motley said, “yet entertainers have a skill of their own. Warriors can win by force—but entertainers can win by other means, means even more powerful.”
    “I do not understand,” Aidan said, confused. “You can’t entertain my father out of his jail cell.”
    Motley laughed aloud.
    “In fact,” he