Part 35 (2/2)

The only seats available were at the table closest to the fire. Grimacing, Darak led the way. Two boys, naked except for the loincloths swaddling their skinny hips, crouched on either side of the hearth. Their hands gripped something that they moved in repet.i.tive circles. After observing them a moment, Darak realized that their efforts slowly rotated the slab of meat over the flames.

A round-faced man in a violently pink tunic looked up as they approached. Smiling, he squeezed closer to his neighbor who scowled at the contact. After a quick glance at the half-naked man who stood behind him, however, he slid down the bench.

Darak hesitated, eyeing the big man by the hearth. His hand rested on the hilt of a long dagger thrust into the sash that secured his half-breeches. A braid of black hair hung nearly to his waist and his naked chest gleamed like polished wood. Only his eyes moved, pausing in their survey of the room long enough to fix him with a keen gaze. Overcoming his reluctance to have a potential enemy at his back, Darak slid onto the bench while Urkiat seated himself across the table.

In moments, his tunic was drenched. The men around him seemed oblivious to the heat. A few, like the round-faced man, appeared to be foreigners; most clumped together at another table. Sailors from one of the s.h.i.+ps, perhaps. The Zherosi blended into an indistinguishable ma.s.s: short and slender, long black hair tied back with leather thongs, hairless, bare chests. He wondered how they could tell each other apart.

There was no opportunity for private conversation. He and Urkiat simply drank the wine the serving woman poured. Moments later, she returned, bearing a wooden platter that she thumped down on the table between them. Blood and grease oozed from the thick slices of meat, swamping the pile of . . . vegetables, perhaps? The long orange ones must be some kind of root. The round white ones tasted like onions, although they looked nothing like the green shoots he was accustomed to. He guessed the meat was mutton; it was too highly spiced to say for sure. It could just as easily be that funny little creature called goat. A wooden bowl contained some sort of chunky paste that look suspiciously like vomit. But the men around him were dipping the orange spears into it and eating with apparent gusto, so he cautiously tried it.

Despite its revolting appearance, it tasted harmless enough, although the grainy consistency was as strange as the spices that lent it flavor. He ate grimly, eager to escape the heat and the noise and the smells. Especially the noise. All day, it had inundated his senses: dogs barking, people shouting, babies wailing. How did they think in this place? Where did they go to find silence?

Throughout the meal, Darak was conscious of the big man standing at his shoulder. Equally uncomfortable-if more obtrusive-was the scrutiny of the round-faced man to his right. When he caught him staring at his maimed hands, the little man didn't even have the grace to look abashed. Instead, he grinned, displaying large white teeth. Then he half-rose from his seat, placed a chubby hand over his heart, and delivered a lengthy and utterly unintelligible speech.

When he finally finished, Urkiat rose and offered the same bow. He'd only managed a few words before the stranger clapped his hands like a delighted child. ”I knew it!” he exclaimed in the language of the tribes. He swiveled around, poking his finger into the naked belly of the man behind him. ”Didn't I say when they came in, Hakkon, that they had to be from the north?”

His expression unchanged, the big man inclined his head.

”That height, that garb, that rough-hewn, barbarous splendor.”

Darak stared pointedly at the agitated forefinger now jabbing his arm, but the little man was too caught up in his triumph to notice. ”On such matters, my friends, I am never wrong.” He left off his persistent jabbing to signal the serving woman and call out an order in Zherosi before switching back to their tongue without a breath. ”In my business, the talent of observation is vital. Indeed, that talent has allowed me to rise to the very height-or very near the very height-of my profession.”

He paused, panting slightly. Because he seemed to expect it, Darak asked, ”And what is your profession?”

”I, sir, am an entrepreneur. Creator of spectacle, master of revelry, guardian of inspiration, and lodestar of the finer emotions, tragic and comic. I am Olinio.” He beamed proudly. ”Known professionally as Olinio, the Keeper of Wonders.”

Darak glanced at Urkiat who gave a baffled shrug.

”In short, an entertainer. But not, I a.s.sure you, one of those ragged players who ekes out a living tramping from one miserable village to the next, pouring out his genius for the peasantry.”

”Nay.”

”Honesty bids me admit-painful as it is to do so-that I began my career in such circ.u.mstances. And in such I might have remained-unknown, unappreciated, unheralded. But I found a niche.”

”A niche?”

”Exactly. By birth or accident, my players are disfigured, deformed or-” He seized Darak's hand and squeezed it. ”-cruelly maimed. But by nature, by training, by endeavor, they have become performers of the first rank.”

Darak carefully removed his hand. ”I see.”

”In another land, they would be scorned. But in Zheros, they wors.h.i.+p a G.o.d with two faces, a winged serpent, a flayed G.o.d. Here, the unusual, the unfortunate, the otherwise unemployable are greeted with cheers and huzzahs.”

”Huzzahs.”

”And cheers.” Olinio's snub nose disappeared briefly into his cup. ”I knew, sir, when I first glimpsed you-”

”In his rough-hewn, barbarous splendor?” Urkiat ventured.

”Indeed. I knew you were a cut above the ordinary. And then I saw your cruel disfigurement-yes, I saw you watching me watch you-you, too, are a skilled observer of the human condition. Well. I knew blessed Zhe-may his wings be ever strong-had guided you to me.”

To thwart the chubby fingers reaching for his again, Darak folded his hands in his lap. ”I don't understand.”

”Of course not. How could you? But you shall. I came here tonight-distressed, distracted . . .”

”Disgruntled?”

Darak glared at Urkiat who quickly took refuge in his cup.

”Exactly. Forsaken by my star performer. On the eve of the most important performance of my career.”

”What happened?” Urkiat asked.

”Gutted by a wh.o.r.e.” The little man dismissed his star performer with a wave of his hand. ”But now you are here and the G.o.ds are smiling.” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. ”It is, I suppose, too much to hope that you have experience.”

”Experience?”

”In the performing arts. The comic duel, the lecherous seduction? Oh, how foolish of me. Clearly, you are made for the hero's death. You know the thing-the n.o.ble mien, the fearsome war cry, the flourish of the sword, the thrust, the parry, the scream of agony, the hopeless pleas to the G.o.ds. The final walk around the perimeter of the arena, stumbling, staggering, falling to your knees only to rise again, too proud to die, too strong to give in-plus it's good for business, sometimes they throw coins but more often, alas, flowers-until at last, the final heart-wrenching moment when your legs buckle and you fall to your knees and then to the ground where you convulse in your extended death throes. Also quite popular. Especially with the ladies.”

”Aye. Well. I've killed men.”

”Hmm. That's helpful, although the goal of the performance is, of course, not not to kill-or to die-but to create the illusion that you can-or will. Still, with practice . . .” His hand darted out to squeeze Darak's bicep. ”Good musculature. Lovely cold-eyed glint. Soft-spoken-we'll have to work on that. And the specific moves. Do you speak Zherosi? Ah-so it must be the pantomime. Still, I think you will do.” to kill-or to die-but to create the illusion that you can-or will. Still, with practice . . .” His hand darted out to squeeze Darak's bicep. ”Good musculature. Lovely cold-eyed glint. Soft-spoken-we'll have to work on that. And the specific moves. Do you speak Zherosi? Ah-so it must be the pantomime. Still, I think you will do.”

”Do what?”

”Join my troupe. I can only offer food and lodging. This is, in a manner of speaking, an apprentices.h.i.+p. But the experience you will gain is worth more than money. And the opportunity to perform for the Zheron . . . that, of course, is priceless.”

”The Zheron?”

”The priest of Zhe. One of the most powerful men in the holy city. In the entire kingdom. My troupe performed for him last year. He was very pleased. And very generous.”

Darak lowered his head to hide his excitement. It would disguise their true purpose in Pilozhat. And a priest would know where the captives were kept for the Midsummer sacrifice.

” . . . a private entertainment inside the palace. But some of the richest lords and ladies in Pilozhat will attend. And the priests, of course.”

He didn't know what a palace was, but he might be able to slip away after this entertainment and find Keirith.

” . . . are hesitating. I a.s.sure you any actor would kill for the honor.” Olinio squirmed. ”I could . . . perhaps . . . add the sum of . . . two serpents. For the entire engagement. Naturally, we will have other performances during the festival.” He sighed. ”Before less exalted audiences.”

”Naturally.” In one day, they had depleted a third of their coins with no hope of replenis.h.i.+ng them. ”The arrangement would have to include my friend here.”

Olinio actually wrung his hands. ”But that is impossible. The scar . . . yes, that is nice. But all my players possess some true deformity.” He considered Urkiat, frowning. ”If you had a hump. A limp. Something.”

”I could wear a patch over one eye.”

Olinio stared at him, aghast. ”Risk the displeasure of the Zheron for a . . . a charlatan's trick?”

”I only thought-”

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