When a travelling troupe by the name of Danzar's Travelling Show set up shop on the town commons outside the walls and announced that that they were about to perform a new play. I have to admit I was intrigued. New plays where a rarity.

Most troupes were never so adventurous, rather they stayed with the classics.

The posters, still glistening with lacquer, didn't reveal much. They used a lot of catchwords like 'Never seen before' or 'The most miraculous of plays'. Like any good con, they promised the world and drew in their marks. I hoped the play was better than the pitch.

I could see that the townspeople were excited by the prospect. There was a spring in their step and an air of excitement that had been missing in the last few weeks.

The recent announcement by the uncrowned peasant king, a man of lower birth than our own leader, had left some quite shaken at the prospect of a war so any distraction was a welcome reprieve from the doom and gloom of recent days.

Now in all my travels I must admit I have never been to Zygethia or met Zultra the peasant but I have heard stories. Tales of the count with the pride of a king.

The audacity of the man was quite impossible. A foreign Count threatening a Duke? The very notion was preposterous.

No royal pronouncement had been issued as yet but I cannot imagine that the king, tyrant though he be, would relish the prospect of his own sovereignty being threatened by a foreigner.

The news that King Dragor of Nirath would join him was equally absurd. A political statement that gave no regard to the hazards of war and its consequences.

A wise man once wrote 'Beware the pride of kings, for they are little children with no regard for life.' and given the current circumstances I must admit I can find no fault in that statement.

Accusations of treachery not withstanding war was not to be taken lightly. Many are the mothers who weep as young sons are drawn by promises of glory and valor, only to die in mud and shit.

War was a sometime last resort, when all other avenues had been exhausted, a necessary hazard of our world. It was a menace that should only exist when not going to war was the worse of two options. A war based on the pride of a king? Even worse.

I digress, forgive me. Any loyal Arkadian would feel slightly insulted at the prospect of being threatened by a Zygethian.

As you would expect, I purchased a single pass to the play and joined the throngs of people, turned out on their best fashions, as we left the city gates and walked the short distance to the recently mowed commons.

The troupe had been very busy. The green grass field had been replaced by a hastily but well constructed stage, connected to a large tent of colorful fabric that must serve as the production and prop area.

I had been wondering why the troupe had set up shop outside the city walls instead of a local playhouse but now I could see why. Row upon row of benches had been placed in front of the stage in a line almost long enough to reach the city walls.

The troupe would have had to raid every tavern, taphouse, inn and playhouse in town to get so many together but as if by miracle they had.

The front rows filled instantly, with townsfolk stuffing themselves into benches like a fat man into a tight shirt. It was almost comical how some half sat on the edges.

Instead of braving those vicious hordes I took a seat somewhere in the middle next to a matronly older woman who gave me a smile and offered me some of her dried apple chips. I took some. I've never been one to pass up a free meal.

Once the commotion had died down, several people emerged from behind the stage carrying large braziers which they proceeded to place around the stage and the benches which led me to the conclusion that since it was still early afternoon that the play would last quite a while.

A harsh weighty silence descended on the commons. Slowly like the heartbeat of an insect a single sound started to build. At first it was barely audible, a small drum drum but it began to build as the invisible drummers started pounding away into a crescendo of impatience.

The curtain opened just as the last beat issued. I saw a single man was standing on the stage, dressed in a fine shirt and cloak with oily slick black hair combed back and a thin mustache.

"Lords and Ladies, Goodmenn and Goodwomenn, I welcome you to our humble theater." He bowed deeply at the waist.

"Today we shall present the most delectable of performances. On a topic so current, it boggles the mind. No fairy tales or classical performances for you this day! No! Today, you shall witness true history! For your enjoyment..." His voice was slicker than a Leffit, twisting and turning and doing cartwheels with every word.

"The tale of the Capricious Peasant Count who would be king!"

Danzar, at least I assume it was the troupe's leader, said with another flourish, bowing so low he was likely to keel over. He righted himself and with the same momentum and in the same motion turned and walked backstage.

The curtain dropped for a few moments and then it began.

The opening scene was of a nobleman's chambers, a prop fire was in the hearth glowing by stage magic. On the right sat a woman dressed in a fine noblewoman's gown, slender and pretty, everything impeccable except for a giant hairy mole covering her entire cheek. She was rocking a crib.

"There, there sweet child," she said in a fake accent that emulated the thick butter Zygethians called their tongue. "Your father's still out milking the trisons, so cease your blubbering."

She kept rocking the crib when a fat man emerged from the other side of the stage, a floppy fake moustache in his face and a pillow beneath his shirt.

"Wife! Wife! Listen to this!" he said holding up a scroll. He walked up to her, stumbling over his own feet in eagerness.

"I am to be a count! The king loved our trison herds so much! He wants me to be a count!" He pressed the scroll against her face with an expression of an overeager puppy.

"I can see that, husband." The wife said. "So little Zultra is going to be a Count!" She said looking to the crib.

"No, my dear. If I can be count. He will be King!"

The first scene wasn't particularly amusing, they were setting the story and I could see that people were eager to see what followed.

When the next curtain opened Zultra was a lad of fifteen, gangly and lanky with more warts and pimples than a coven of pubescent witches. He swung a floppy sword in mock battles, crying at every loss. What followed were scenes, all too many in my opinion of Zultra Coshall's life.

The story wasn't particularly good. It chronicled how Zultra grew up spoiled and called the greatest while his advisors laughed behind his back.

How he was a jumped up peasant with the grace of an ursaphaunt and the guile of a trison.

To be honest it was overly long, with bad writing but the political connotations were there and I did laugh at a few of the jokes that were artfully presented.

One in particular caught my attention because of the technical aspects involved.

Every step the fake Zultra took, now as floppy mustached and fat as his false father, was highlighted by the release of air from a bladder as if flatus and hot wind was all that the man consisted of. I wondered how hard must the man behind stage work to emulate the actors footsteps.

Once it was over I clapped with the rest but it was cheap theater.

No real assessment of the current political climate, instead a load of fart jokes and mentions of the man's low birth.

Since I was a poor man still, no coins for Danzar's Travelling Show. Not even a true smile from my lips.

The subject while laughable and childish, was still all too real. A drunken demagogue's threats were still threats. A blade wielded by a drunkard was still a blade.

As I left the commons my head was still filled with too many thoughts of the future. By that time it had gotten dark and the town looked calm, highlighted by starlight. It was a tranquil sight, a balm to everyone on their way home.

All too soon, this might change. All too soon the winds of war might set the town's timbers ablaze and when it did, it wouldn't matter who was the aggressor and who the aggrieved.

Another question to ponder while I lie awake, gazing at the stars and wondering how Mann had been so cursed to suffer.