Part 43 (1/2)
”And after?”
”Olinio's agreed to leave the city. After what happened, he thinks we should make ourselves scarce.” Bep s.h.i.+fted awkwardly. ”It's probably best . . .”
”If I don't come with you? I wasn't planning to.”
”No offense. You'd put us in danger. And if you stay, you'll put your boy in danger, too. He seems well enough. Don't start bristling, you know what I mean. For whatever reason, the Zheron has taken him under his wing. Else he'd be with the rest of the slaves.”
”Are you suggesting I leave him here?”
”I'm suggesting you watch your step. You stand out in a crowd, Darak. And you don't have the language. How will you manage without . . . on your own?”
”I don't know.”
”Well, think about it.”
”I just buried my friend. I haven't slept. Can't I just-”
”You've got the rest of your life to mourn Urkiat. And to sleep. If you're not careful, the rest of your life could be awful short.”
The brief flare of anger died.
”Do you want my advice?” Bep asked.
”Do I have a choice?”
”Nay. First, put on your clothes.”
He rose, obedient as a child, and slapped the sand off his body. He pulled on his tunic and breeches, but when he started to lace his shoes, his hands shook so badly that Bep had to tie them. He stared at his hands, bemused. They had cleaned the blood off Urkiat, carried him to the cart, dug out a grave, and piled stones above it. Throughout it all, they had been utterly steady.
”Get your share of the money from Olinio now. While he's feeling guilty. Trust me, that won't last. Then find a place to hide. Maybe where we camped last night. You'll be harder to find in a crowd than if you're alone.”
Darak gazed down the beach. ”There's only one flaw in that plan.”
”What?”
He nodded at the men marching toward them. ”Seems they've already found me.”
Chapter 35.
MALAQ WAVED THE SLAVES away and surveyed his chamber critically. Satisfied, he placed the small clay disk on the table and wiped the few specks of red dust off his hands with a napkin. The other two disks remained in his bedchamber; he hoped he would not need them.
When he'd asked for the safe conducts, Vazh had inundated him with questions.
”Don't ask why. Just do this for me. For friends.h.i.+p's sake.”
It was the first time in his life he had ever seen fear on Vazh's face.
Perhaps there was no need for fear. But twice, Malaq had gone to the queen's chamber, requesting permission to speak with her, and twice, he had been turned away. She was still recovering from The Shedding. She had a tiring reception this afternoon and the formal banquet this evening. Likely, she was saving her strength. Likely, she was seeing no one. But no matter how many explanations he found, the anxiety remained: what if Xevhan had already given her his version of the events?
He'd been disturbed to learn that the leader of the players would be meeting with Xevhan. In the end, though, he decided it was better to let him keep his appointment. The blind girl would sing. Xevhan would drool over her. And the revolting Olinio would add Xevhan's payment for last night's performance to the fat purse of serpents Malaq had given him to speed him on his way.
Barely midday and he was already weary. And he would need all his energy and concentration for this meeting.
When the guard respectfully requested permission to enter, he took a deep breath. The players were taken care of. Now, he must ensure that Kheridh's father left Pilozhat.
”Enter.”
Darak Spirit-Hunter strode through the doorway. His astonis.h.i.+ng pale gaze flicked over him in brief a.s.sessment before surveying the room. Searching for Kheridh or examining his escape routes? Both, probably. And looking for Xevhan whom he clearly had expected to find.
Malaq was relieved to discover that Kheridh had gotten his coloring from his mother. Still, a perceptive observer would notice the similarities: the slanting cheekbones, the knife-edged nose, the square chin. The height, too, although Kheridh had yet to fill out his gawky frame. When he did, he would be as imposing as the man before him. If he lived that long.
The guards gripped the Spirit-Hunter's broad shoulders. He made no sound as his knees. .h.i.t the floor, but the frown deepened.
”Enough. Wait outside.”
The guards bowed and backed out of the chamber.
”Please. Rise.”
If the Spirit-Hunter was surprised by the tribal tongue, he gave no indication. He rose with easy grace, although he must be close to forty summers. G.o.ds, the man was a giant. He kept his hands lightly clasped in front of him. Did he always hide his maimed hands from strangers or did he fear his ident.i.ty had been discovered?
Malaq kept his face impa.s.sive, but excitement made his heart beat faster. Darak Spirit-Hunter. How much of the tale was true? How much the usual exaggeration of the story-tellers?
”Please.” Malaq gestured to the table. ”Let us sit.”
After they were seated, he clapped his hands once. The Spirit-Hunter tensed, then relaxed as the slaves filed in. Malaq had deliberately ordered a lavish meal. Let him see how a priest lives in Pilozhat. Let him note the opulence of the surroundings, the plethora of food. Let him realize that his son had been living like this, not as a prisoner or a slave. And let him wonder how easily a boy-abandoned by his own people-might be seduced by such splendor.
Try as he might to look disinterested, the Spirit-Hunter studied each platter they laid on the table, taking in the roasted squab, the mussels swimming in oil and spices, the steaming slabs of bread, the bowls of jhok and avhash. Expressionless, he examined the thick napkins, the pottery plates painted with brilliant spirals of green and gold.
”I thought you might be hungry,” Malaq said with a deprecating shrug.
”I am.”
The voice was as he'd imagined, deep and resonant, but the admission surprised him. He would have expected the man to deny it, to proudly refuse any food offered by his enemy. Instead, he tore off a piece of bread.
”Try the jhok,” Malaq said, nodding toward the bowl. ”It tastes better than it looks.”
”I know.”
”Would you care for wine?”
”Water, please. If you have it. I'd like to keep a clear head.”
He was obviously exhausted, but there was keen awareness in the bloodshot eyes and even dry humor in the voice.
Malaq poured the water into a cup rather than a long-stemmed goblet. The Spirit-Hunter took it between both hands and drained it in a few thirsty gulps. Malaq refilled his cup and set the pitcher down. ”If it's all the same to you, I prefer not to test your patience-or mine-by prolonging this exchange of pleasantries.”