Bloodstone Part 37

"And he's an important man, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"And you want to stay on his good side."

"Excuse me, please?"

"You think I'll run to Malaq and tell him you came here. So eager to help. So trustworthy."

"I do want to-"

"And then you'll bind him to you so close he'll never be free."

"I do not understand."

The Khonsel rose. "Get out."

"You must watch Malaq. Help him. Then I go."

The Khonsel was on him in three strides. Keirith stumbled back so quickly he slammed into the wall.

"You dare give me orders?" the Khonsel demanded, thrusting his big face close.

"Aye, you great bully!"

The Khonsel reared back. Although he had spoken the tribal tongue, the meaning of his words was probably clear enough. He waited for the blow. Instead, the Khonsel laughed. "You've got stones, boy. I'll say that for you."

Keirith didn't know what rocks had to do with anything, but he nodded politely. "Yes. Thank you. You are a man of stones, too."

"Big enough."

"Please. Malaq is your friend. You are an important man. You can keep him safe."

"Why do you care?" he asked again.

Keirith took a moment to choose his words. He had to make the Khonsel believe him or he, too, would wave aside the danger. "He gives me his bed when I am sick. He feeds me broth. He thinks of the danger to me, but not of the danger to him. He says . . . he says I am good." He swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to meet the Khonsel's. "I am not so good. Oftenest, I am scared and not knowing who is a friend. Malaq says to trust my heart. My head. They say he is good. That you are his friend. And Xevhan is not."

The Khonsel's smile made him look even more menacing. "And do your heart and head tell you that you are the Son of Zhe?"

Even Malaq had never come right out and asked him. He found himself remembering the day he had freed the wounded rabbit from the snare and felt the terrified beating of its heart beneath his fingers. His heart was beating like that now.

Maker, help me.

He could evade the question as he had the first time the Khonsel confronted him, but he doubted a clever proverb would suffice now. "If I answer, I put my life in your hands. Into Malaq's hands, I could put my life. But not-forgive me, please-not yours."

The Khonsel studied him for a long moment. "I didn't think you were," he said, as if he'd just admitted the truth. "Nor does Malaq. He said so the other night."

"He did?" His voice broke with surprise. "But-"

"Enough. Get out."

"What about Malaq?"

"I'll watch his back. Same as I've been watching yours."

"Excuse me?"

"He made me promise. The night I met you."

Malaq knew he was not the Son of Zhe, but far from betraying him, he had asked his friend to protect him.

"Go on. Get out. And don't come to me again. It'll only make Xevhan suspicious."

"But if something happens-"

"Talk to Geriv. The young fellow with the eye patch. He's my sister's son. You can trust him."

"How do I find Geriv if I am needing him?"

"He'll find you."

Keirith got out of the chamber as quickly as his legs would carry him. The Khonsel's smile left him with little doubt that his actions would be scrutinized more carefully than ever. And if he did anything to arouse his distrust, he'd have an enemy instead of a protector.

Chapter 30.

DESPITE OLINIO'S a.s.sERTION that he did not tramp from one miserable village to the next, that was exactly what they did. Every evening, they unfurled their banner in another dusty town. Olinio's troupe sang, danced, and recited to audiences who were as generous with their applause as they were stingy with their coins. More often than not, they received food and lodging as their payment.

The players were the strangest a.s.sortment of people Darak had ever met. In addition to Hakkon, there was Rizhi, a beautiful blind singer even younger than Faelia; Bo and Bep, who had the burly arms and torsos of men but stood only as high as his belly; and Thikia, a hump-backed old woman who cooked their meals, sewed their costumes, and attended to any bruises, sc.r.a.pes, and ailments that afflicted the company. Like Olinio, she spoke the language of the tribes. Darak wondered if they had been born in the north or simply acquired the tongue in their travels.

"How long have you been with Olinio?" Urkiat asked her as they trudged alongside the cart that carried their possessions.

"You'd do better to ask how long Olinio's been with me." Thikia grinned, showing astonis.h.i.+ngly good teeth for one so old. "Forty years, we've been together. Since the day his father-may his c.o.c.k stand as tall as a tree in Paradise-planted Olinio in my womb." She laughed at their slack-jawed expressions.

Everyone was expected to perform a variety of roles. In addition to serving as Olinio's bodyguard and performing feats of strength for the audience. Hakkon cared for the bullock that pulled the cart, repaired the wheels when they cracked, and erected the cloth that served as scenery for the performances. Thikia supplemented her roles as healer, cook, and seamstress by playing the visionary prophet, the wise grandmother, and the wicked enchantress-often in the same play.

"Change the wig, throw a cloak over your robe . . ." She shrugged. "People are easy to fool."

Olinio quickly decided that Urkiat would a.s.sume the heroic role because of his facility with the language. The club foot was abandoned in favor of red paint to highlight his scar. For Darak, he created a new character.

"The Wild Man of the North. You will fight Urkiat-the gallant Zherosi warrior-who will, of course, slay you. You will be fearsome yet farcical, terrifying and tremendous. And it has the added benefit that you needn't say anything-simply wave your club, growl, and die in agony. I don't suppose you could foam at the mouth? Perhaps we can concoct something. Mother! Foam! And fur. The Wild Man needs fur!"

Each midday, while the rest of the company lounged in the shade of the cart, he and Urkiat practiced their battle. "I feel like a fool," Darak muttered.

"It's not so bad."

"Not for you."

Urkiat was clothed in an immaculate khirta and wore a headband of gold-painted leather. He held a wooden sword, also painted gold. Darak was still waiting for Thikia to finish his costume, but his ridiculous "club" looked suspiciously similar to the ones Bo and Bep wielded.

They were the comical performers, juggling everything from fruit and b.a.l.l.s to wine flasks and jugs. When a play called for an animal, they donned fleece or fur and crawled about on all fours. They engaged in mock battles with snakelike sacks of grain that they waggled lewdly at each other.

"I'm sure your club won't waggle half as much," Urkiat a.s.sured him earnestly.

Although Bo and Bep were ostensibly twins, they shared little in common save for their diminutive stature. Bo was Zherosi-dark, while Bep was fair-haired and blue-eyed. Bo was as sweet-natured as Bep was sullen. But it was Bep who coached Urkiat on lunges and thrusts, all designed to look terribly menacing without doing any harm. Nevertheless, Darak's ribs were bruised after the first practice session and Urkiat nearly incoherent with apologies.

"Doesn't matter," Darak said, repressing a wince as Thikia slapped a poultice on his side. "I just have to sidestep faster. We'll try it again-on the morrow."

Only Rizhi was immune from the chaffing-good-natured and ill-of the others. Even Bep treated her with surprising tenderness, helping her on and off the cart, refilling her bowl at mealtimes, and s.h.i.+elding her from the boys who crowded around her after a performance. Although Darak couldn't understand most of her songs, her clear, sweet voice could move an audience to tears during a ballad, while her wicked smile made them roar with approval at what he a.s.sumed were bawdy songs.

Darak was shocked to learn that her parents had sold her to Olinio last autumn. She seemed perfectly happy with the troupe, making him wonder what kind of a life she had known before-and what kind of parents would sell their child.

By the third day of their journey, the roads were packed with people heading for Pilozhat. Every performance was crowded with folk eager for some respite from the monotony of travel. Olinio announced that the time was ripe for the debut of the Wild Man of the North. After they pulled their cart into the parched field where they would perform, Thikia shoved a handful of fur at him.

"What's this?" Darak asked.

"Your costume."

He dangled the small rabbitskin pouch by its two leather thongs. "Where's the rest of it?"

"That's it."

"It's no bigger than the bag I keep my charms in!"

"It's for holding other charms, Wild Man."

"I can't wear this," he said, scandalized. "My a.r.s.e'll be hanging out for the whole world to see."

"That's the idea." Thikia licked her lips. "The ladies're going to love you."

"Not when they see the scars on my back."

"Scars? Even better. You wait. After the performance, you'll have to beat 'em off with your club."

"I'll talk to Olinio."

"It was Olinio's idea."

"But . . ." Darak turned to Urkiat who suddenly became very busy knotting his khirta around his waist. "I won't do it," he said firmly.

"You will," Thikia promised, just as firmly. "Or Olinio'll leave you here with nothing but the clothes on your back. a.s.suming he doesn't take those to pay for all the training you've received."

"Training? Waving a sack of grain and growling?"

"Save your breath, Wild Man. If you want to get to Pilozhat, you'll wear your furry little c.o.c.k bag and keep your mouth shut."

Thanking the G.o.ds Rizhi couldn't see him and Hakkon couldn't comment, Darak ducked behind the painted backdrop to put the d.a.m.n thing on. If Griane were here, she would be the one howling. As for Keirith, once he got his son safely home, he would remind him every day for the rest of his life how much he owed his father.

He emerged to a loud whistle from Thikia and a coa.r.s.e laugh from Bep. Bo gave him an encouraging smile and quickly looked away. Hakkon just blinked, but Darak could have sworn he was fighting a smile.

"It's not so bad," Urkiat said.

"Stop saying that!"

"All the important things are covered."

"I warn you . . ."

"Just be sure and double knot the thongs."

Urkiat's serious expression gave way to a grin. Darak swung his club and Urkiat ducked, still grinning.

"I liked you better when you were awestruck."

"I'm still awestruck. It's a wondrous great fur bag. A prodigious . . . ow!"

Olinio's head poked around the backdrop. "Stop this fooling around. Our audience is gathering." His voice dropped an octave as it always did when he referred to the audience. As if they were performing before the king and queen of Zheros and not a crowd of farmers and laborers.

Olinio inspected his fur bag and sighed. "A pity we had no more fur. I would have liked a hood. With ears. Still. Very impressive. Imposing. Intimidating. You'll want to be sure and double knot-"

"I did!"

"Exactly." He fluffed his multicolored tunic and smoothed his thinning hair. "Let the magic begin!"

When his turn came to perform, Darak stalked around the backdrop and was met by jeers, boos, whistles, and enthusiastic applause from the women. Cheeks burning, he growled and howled and swung his club. He had the pleasure of knocking the great Zherosi warrior on his a.r.s.e twice before a sword thrust under the armpit finished him off. He fell to the ground, refusing to writhe, and lay motionless throughout Urkiat's lengthy recitation. When it was finished, he got up, glared at the audience, and stalked off to tumultuous applause.

He was pulling his tunic over his head when he was clasped in a sweaty embrace.

"Breathtaking!" Olinio exclaimed. "Positively breathtaking. I am thrilled to limpness."

Darak shook him off and reached for his breeches.

"I knew it from the moment I saw you. I am never wrong about such things. Rizhi. Quick. The final song. Bo, Bep-the jars for coins. Smile, everyone, smile."

Urkiat appeared a moment later, a little dustier than usual, but in high spirits.

"If you say one word about my rough-hewn, barbarous splendor . . ."

Urkiat backed away, hands raised. "Not a word. I swear."

They collected a lot of coins that evening, although mostly the copper ones called frogs. And Thikia was right about the ladies; they crowded around, giggling and murmuring, as he helped Hakkon pack up the backdrop and costumes.

Darak was so intent on avoiding his female admirers that he didn't notice the other knot of spectators until he heard the laughter. A group of youths trailed after Bep. One was on his knees, waddling back and forth in a cruel imitation of his ungainly walk. When Bep tried to slip away, two of the burliest farm boys seized him under the arms and lifted him in the air. His short legs swung back and forth and everyone bellowed with laughter. Bep bared his teeth in a ferocious grin as if he enjoyed the rough play, but one look at his scarlet face and blazing eyes sent Darak striding forward.