Part 37 (1/2)
”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.”