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long corridor lined with identical-looking doors. Naismith turned left and went down to the far end. Pausing before the last door on the right, he knocked gently.
      The door was opened by a young skrayling wearing hornrimmed spectacles. His silver-streaked hair was tied back in a neat queue and he wore a clerk's plain brown tunic and breeches rather than the patterned garb of a merchant. The tattooed lines on his forehead gathered into a frown.
      "Naismith," the actor-manager said. "Cutsnail and I talk trade."
      The clerk gestured for them to enter, saying something to his master in Vinlandic.
      Master Cutsnail's chamber took up the whole of the upper floor of one side-wing of the building. Three large glazed windows looked across the gardens to an identical wing opposite; the other three walls were lined with tapestries from floor to ceiling. Some were European in design, others bore similar patterns to the merchants' garments. The chamber was stiflingly hot despite its size, and the air was heavy with the musky scent of the foreigners.
      The clerk gestured to their feet.
      "Take your shoes off," Master Naismith told Coby in a low voice.
      "I have a hole in my stocking toe, sir," she whispered back.
      "No matter." He cast a meaningful glance at the expensive carpets covering the floor.
      Cutsnail was sitting cross-legged behind a low table. He stood as they approached and greeted them in the skrayling fashion, head turned to the right and palms displayed. Master Naismith bowed English-style, and Coby followed suit.
      "Sorry us late," the actor-manager said. Tradetalk was not the most elegant of languages, but it got straight to the point.
      Cutsnail grinned, fangs half-bared in an expression that meant he accepted the apology out of courtesy but was still displeased. He gestured for them to sit, and the clerk brought over a pitcher full of aniig , a herbal infusion which was as popular with the skraylings as beer was with the English. The liquid clinked and splashed as the clerk poured it into three elegant Venetian drinking glasses, and Coby realised with a start that there were small chunks of ice in it. Ice in June? Now that was real magic, and of a most welcome kind. She thought guiltily of Pastor Jan's sermons on the subject of witchcraft. Surely there could be no harm in such a useful practice?
      Cutsnail raised his glass, and Coby followed his lead, sipping the cold liquid. She knew better than to drink it too quickly. It might not make a man drunk like beer, but it had a potency of its own which might equally lead to incautious behaviour. She did not want to shame her master in front of this powerful foreigner.
      Master Naismith's Tradetalk extended only to the common courtesies and he relied on Coby to translate for him in matters of business. After the obligatory exchange of pleasantries about the latest trade fleet and the state of the Queen's health, Cutsnail got down to business.
      "The theatre building progresses well?" he asked, eyeing Naismith across his glass of aniig .
      "Very well. The timbers are all in place and the labourers begin work on the walls this week. And I have the plans you asked to see."
      Naismith passed a leather document-tube to the skrayling, who shook out the roll of paper and spread it on the desk, weighting the corners with sea-polished stones.
      "This is to make things rise up from underground, yes?"
      "Indeed," Naismith said. "This is for the trapdoor under the stage; a similar device is used to lower players from above."
      He gestured for Coby to explain further. She gathered her thoughts; this was going to push her grasp of Tradetalk to its limits.
      "It uses weights, as you see here," she said, pointing to the diagram's counterweight mechanism. "All I do is pull this handle, and the trapdoor slides to one side and the platform rises up to replace it."
      "And this?" Cutsnail stabbed a thick grey fingernail at another