Bloodstone (45 page)

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

Olinio quickly decided that Urkiat would assume 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 balls 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 assured 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 shielding 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 assumed 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 arse’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. Assuming 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 cock bag and keep your mouth shut.”

Thanking the gods Rizhi couldn’t see him and Hakkon couldn’t comment, Darak ducked behind the painted backdrop to put the damn 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 coarse 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 arse 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.

“Put him down.”

The youths hooted. One or two threw back their heads and howled. Darak shoved past them, seized the free arm of one of Bep’s tormentors, and twisted it up behind his back. The boy gave a genuine howl of pain and dropped Bep who tumbled awkwardly to the ground. The laughter died, replaced by a far more menacing silence.

Darak’s hand went to the dagger at his waist, but before he could pull it free, Bep shouted something in Zherosi that sounded like “Away, you beast!” and kicked him in the shins. Darak stumbled backward to renewed laughter, pursued by Bep who clouted him repeatedly with his grain-filled club, all the while yelling curses and hopping from foot to foot like a demented bear cub. Still laughing, the youths drifted away in search of other entertainment.

“Next time, stay out of it, Wild Man.”

Before he could reply, Bep walked away. Only then did Darak realize he had spoken the language of the tribes.

When it happened at the next town, Urkiat urged him to follow Bep’s advice, but the cruel laughter of the men and their obvious delight in persecuting Bep was more than he could stomach. This time, though, he took a lesson from Bep. He raced through the crowd, howling and grimacing and waving his stupid club. Even Bep looked startled, then shouted something back that made his tormentors nod eagerly.

Bep lowered his head and charged. Even braced for the impact, Darak’s breath whooshed out as Bep butted him in the belly. He stumbled and fell. Bep leaped on top of him. Darak winced as a fist caught him on the cheekbone. He warded off another blow, promising never again to intervene on behalf of the ungrateful little demon. Suddenly, Bep crawled off him—giving him a good knee in the groin as he did—and leaped up, waving his fists triumphantly in the air.

“The Wild Man is vanquished!” he shouted, drawing whoops and cheers from the crowd. One man gave him an approving pat on the head, as if the little man were a dog.

Darak picked himself up, watching with disgust as Bep swaggered off with his former tormentors.

“He’s not worth it,” Urkiat muttered. “Come on. You’d better let Thikia take a look at that eye.”

“It’ll do.”

“You don’t want it swelling—”

“It’ll do, Urkiat.” Softening his voice, he added, “Just leave me be for a bit.”

While the rest of the company headed to the inn, Darak wandered into the field. Thick, shorn stalks of the grain they called millet crunched underfoot. The richer farmers disdained it for some reason, preferring to plant barley. This year, they would regret that decision. The millet survived the drought while the barley withered. In some fields, he’d seen lines of people passing water jugs in a vain effort to keep their crops alive. Even if the rains came now, it would be too late; there would be hunger in Zheros come winter.

He sat down with his back against a boulder and drew his sleeve across his forehead. Although the sun had vanished, the heat remained. The sunsets here were spectacular, but he missed the long, gentle twilights of the north. The light faded so slowly around Midsummer, as if the day were reluctant to surrender to night. And when it did, the reign of darkness was so brief that you could still be dozing off when the birds began to sing.

Here, the birds offered a few halfhearted cheeps and gave up. He’d seen hawks soaring overhead, crows and ravens picking over the carcass of a dead animal, but the chorus of birdsong that greeted him in the mornings was missing. Like the trees. And instead of rolling hills, the land was so flat, he woke each morning thinking he was sure to spy the holy city looming ahead of them. But all he could make out was a dark mountain, shimmering in the haze.

The crunch of millet stalks alerted him to an intruder. He craned his head and made out a short, stout figure, silhouetted against the fading colors of the sky.

Bep leaned against the boulder and folded his arms. For once, their heads were nearly level. What must it feel like to stare up at everyone? To be a man in spirit with a body no taller than a child’s?