Bloodstone (48 page)

“Nay. But—”

“Good. First thing we need to do is get a look at the place where they’re holding Keirith. If I can get inside—”

“How?”

“Let me worry about that. We’ve got the performance tonight. That’ll give us an opportunity to see a bit of the palace. Maybe pick up some more information.”

The first flaw in his plan was revealed after Olinio and Hakkon returned. “A small change,” Olinio announced. “Nothing important.” And he launched into a long speech.

“What?” Darak whispered as Urkiat’s face fell.

“We’re to perform on the beach.”

As soon as Olinio finished speaking, Darak stalked over to him. “You said we’d be performing in the palace.”

“The Zheron decided the beach would be more festive. He’s arranged a special pavilion for his guests and a tent—”

“We won’t be anywhere near the palace.”

“It’s not the setting that’s important, but the audience. Some of the finest families in the kingdom will be in attendance.”

“What about the other priests?”

“I imagine some of them will be invited, too.”

“You imagine?”

“Well, I could hardly ask to see the guest list, could I?”

“You promised we would perform in the palace. Before the priesthood.”

“Well, the situation has changed!” Olinio snapped. “The money’s the same, no matter where we perform or who attends. Trust me, we are far better off showcasing our talents to the nobility. They, at least, understand that artists do not survive on prayers. We’re certain to garner any number of offers for additional appearances. It’s a coup, I tell you! You should be elated, excited, ecstatic.” He bustled off, shouting instructions.

Darak found Bep watching him with a sardonic smile. “Maybe it’s a good thing there won’t be any priests. Those rich folk probably couldn’t care less about the legend of the Spirit-Hunter.”

Darak strode over to the cart and worked out his frustration packing up their supplies.

The site selected for the entertainment was a secluded cove east of the city. Sweating slaves worked through the afternoon, erecting canopied shelters, arranging rugs and cushions beneath them, and setting torches in the sand. Others trudged down from the palace, laden with baskets and platters, crates and jugs. Judging from the sheer number of supplies, they could be entertaining a hundred people, not the forty the Zheron had told Olinio to expect.

Olinio insisted they practice their mock battle twice. The shifting sand made the footwork tricky and each time one of them slipped, he clutched his head, moaning. Only when Urkiat suggesting using the difficult terrain to create drama did he brighten.

“Dear Urkiat, you may have a warrior’s face, but you possess the spirit of an artist.”

Urkiat solemnly agreed. Darak just kicked at the sand, disgusted.

The sun was touching the horizon when Hakkon spotted the litters coming down the beach. Darak counted ten before Olinio hustled everyone into the tent. He remained outside, offering obsequious bows to each guest. The performers took turns peeping through the tent flap.

“Is that the Zheron?” Darak asked Thikia, eyeing an older man, littered with bronze jewelry.

“Nay. That’s him. Over there. Talking to the woman in blue.”

“He’s so young.”

“But rich. Which probably accounts for his rise. Doesn’t look very pious, does he?”

In fact, he looked like most of the men there: smooth-faced, handsome, laden with jewelry, quick to laugh. He broke off a cluster of grapes from a platter held by a slave girl and offered it to the woman in blue, leaning close to whisper something that made her smile.

The slave girl gave Darak a start. With that long blonde hair—so pale it looked almost white—she could be a child of the Oak and Holly. She looked completely out of place among the Zherosi, but none of the guests spared her a glance.

Something jabbed him in the small of his back.

“My turn,” Bep said.

Darak relinquished his position and ducked out the back of the tent where the air was less stifling. The feast would go on all evening. Olinio had sternly warned them to stay out of sight lest they ruin “the magic.” There was still too much light to allow him to wander, unseen, down to the sea and dare a refreshing plunge in the surf. So he simply sat in the shade of the tent, arms folded atop his knees, and tried to come up with a plan to rescue Keirith.

The Supplicant’s token might get him into the slave compound, but he had no way of guessing whether it would allow him to free his son or simply lead to his own imprisonment. He could seek her out at the temple of the God with Two Faces, but for all he knew, she was still in Oexiak. Even if he did find her, how did he know if she was trustworthy?

Too many questions and far too few answers. But he could not allow himself to believe—to even admit the possibility—that he had come so far, only to stand by helplessly while the Zherosi sacrificed his son.

Keirith clung to the sides of the litter. He was shaken enough from his quarrel with Malaq without this lurching journey to the beach.

He had returned to his room to dress for Xevhan’s entertainment. It gave him the time he needed to calm himself before confronting Malaq. But he must not have been calm enough; as soon as he began questioning him about The Shedding, Malaq turned on him in a fury.

“Yes, I might have told you. But if I had, you wouldn’t have heard one other thing I said. And I have other things to do than constantly reassure you.”

Keirith had been too stunned by his vehemence to respond. Malaq had immediately apologized, pleading the difficulty of the king’s Shedding. Observing his pallor and obvious exhaustion, Keirith hadn’t pressed him. It was Malaq who had promised they would talk again on the morrow.

The litter thumped to the ground and Keirith crawled out. He wished Ysal and Luzik were escorting him instead of the men who guarded him at night. It would have been comforting to have someone he knew—other than Xevhan.

He smoothed his khirta nervously. He’d dressed with care: scrubbing his body with the soap and cloth Malaq provided; perfuming his hair with oil and tying it back with a gold thread; fastening his khirta with a bronze pin instead of simply knotting it. But compared to the other guests, he knew he looked as out of place as he felt.

He was eyeing the crowd with misgiving when he realized what was nagging at him: this was the same cove where Hircha had tried to seduce him. Was that Xevhan’s not-so-subtle way of unsettling him? Perhaps he simply liked this place. It was a perfect setting for the feast. The sky was tinged pink from the setting sun. The waves rolled gently onto the beach. Dozens of multicolored cushions lay scattered beneath the three scarlet canopies. On the third side of the square, a large blue cloth hung between two poles. Crude trees and mountains had been painted on it. It must have something to do with the promised entertainment.

The gold and bronze of the guests’ jewelry flashed in the torchlight, as did the bowls and platters and goblets passed by the slaves. They were all young and beautiful, the boys dressed in skimpy loincloths, the girls wearing skimpier bands of cloth around their breasts and short skirts that revealed their slender legs. He saw one guest fondle a girl’s breast before accepting a goblet of wine, without pausing in his earnest conversation with another man. A woman reclining beneath a canopy boldly reached between a slave boy’s legs. He smiled uncertainly as she giggled with her companion.

But most of the guests ignored the slaves completely. Their animated voices vied with the soft shushing of the waves and the sounds of flute and drum and lyre. It surprised him to see how many of the men wore daggers; perhaps they merely wanted to display the jewels studding the sheaths. As for the women, they fluttered from group to group like brilliantly colored butterflies.

“So you have come at last.”

Heads turned to see whose arrival had prompted Xevhan’s hearty greeting. Conversation ebbed, then rose again in feverish speculation.

Xevhan’s smile dimmed fractionally when he saw the guards. “Help yourself to food and drink,” he told them. “You may sit with the litter bearers. Don’t worry—your charge won’t be going anywhere.” As soon as they were out of earshot, he whispered, “There was no problem with Malaq?”

“At first, he was angered. Then he says, yes, yes—you must go.”

“He wants you to spy on me.”

“I can say enough to make him easy in his mind. And to make him want us to meet again. And then we talk and teach and learn together, yes?”

Instead of replying, Xevhan turned to his guests. “My friends. This is Kheridh, the boy I was telling you about. But I warn you. He’s more accustomed to speaking to our sacred adders than to Zherosi nobility, so keep your words simple or you’ll turn his head.”

Amid the laughter, Keirith did his best to look awestruck and nervous. In such glittering company, it wasn’t difficult.

As Xevhan led the way toward one of the shelters, a woman pushed forward and said, “You must tell us all about the adders. We keep two in our household, of course, but they’ve never said a word to me.”

“No wonder,” the man at her side replied. “They can’t get a word in edgewise.”

The woman slapped his arm. “Don’t pay any attention to my husband.”

This provoked more laughter. Keirith smiled politely, wishing she would not walk quite so close. Xevhan sat down and waved him to the cushion next to his. To his dismay, the woman promptly took the cushion on his left. Her fingertips played along his arm. “Such pale skin. Isn’t it really the palest skin you’ve ever seen?”

“I don’t know,” her husband replied. “This pretty little creature looks like she was dipped in moonlight.”

Keirith looked up, startled to find Hircha standing behind them clutching a bronze pitcher. A rigid smile twisted her lips as she stepped out of reach of the man’s hand. “Wine, noble lord?”

“That’ll do for a start.” He winked at her. His wife laughed.

Keirith felt himself flushing, ashamed that Hircha should have to endure such treatment. He wondered how much worse it would get as the feast progressed and the wine flowed freely. Xevhan just watched it all with a small smile that made Keirith shudder in spite of the warmth of the evening.

Bep had gotten hold of a pitcher of wine. By the time Darak reentered the tent, he was draining it. When Bep tossed the pitcher aside and tried to pull Rizhi into a dance, Darak grabbed him and shook him hard.

He never saw Bep move. He simply felt fingers fumbling between his legs and then a shocking pain as they squeezed. He roared and punched Bep in the head. Bep staggered into Bo, knocking him into Urkiat’s wooden sword. Bo yelped, Bep laughed.

Olinio chose that moment to shove back the tent flap, his face nearly as red as his tunic. Bep stopped laughing. Turning his head away, he vomited between Hakkon’s bare feet. Olinio launched into a stream of Zherosi and swept out again.

Darak started laughing, but he had to stop because it made his ballocks ache even more. In a moment, they were all laughing. Bep wiped his eyes and apologized profusely to Rizhi. Her fingers fumbled for Bep’s face. Cradling it between her hands, she kissed him lightly on the forehead and whispered something that made him blush.

While poor Hakkon cleaned up the vomit and Thikia inspected Bo’s arse for damage, Bep sidled over to him. “Sorry about your ballocks. No hard feelings?”

“I doubt I’ll be feeling hard for a number of days, thank you.”

Bep grinned. “Maybe we can work it into the act.”

“Only if we use your ballocks.”

“Nay, Wild Man. It’s much funnier when I do it to you.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“That, my friend, is the essence of comedy.”

It might only be the wine that made Bep so friendly, but Darak was glad to put aside suspicion for one night and enjoy the fellowship.

A drum sounded outside. Olinio launched into his opening speech. Thikia snatched up her wise grandmother’s shawl. Hakkon led Rizhi forward. Bo and Bep retrieved their clubs. Carefully adjusting his fur bag, Darak plucked his wooden sword from the pile of accessories near the tent flap.