Bloodstone Part 35

AFTER HIS CONFESSION, Urkiat had watched him uneasily for a day or so. Darak was gentle with him, asking his advice on the route they should take, praising him when he brought down game, dutifully repeating phrases in Zherosi and questioning him about the port city of Oexiak. Urkiat gradually relaxed, glowing with a quiet pride at the confidence placed in him and eager to demonstrate that he was worthy of it.

He could have kept him at a distance, offering the cold advice to let go of the past and concentrate on their quest. But Darak knew how memories could eat away at a man's spirit. So he had opened his arms, offering his strength and compa.s.sion and accepting, in return, the weight of Urkiat's pain and his obvious desire for a father figure to replace the two who had died. Not all of those who were lost had been killed or captured by the raiders.

Wolf disapproved. "He is weak," she told him when he sneaked out of camp to visit with her.

"All men are weak."

"A weak pack member endangers the hunt."

"He's trying. He's like . . . a half-grown pup."

"Half-grown pups play at hunting. They watch their elders. Only when they have the proper skills do they join the real hunt."

"I'll teach him," Darak a.s.sured her. "In time, he'll grow strong."

"We do not have much time. Soon you will reach the stone place. I cannot find you there. I am a creature of the forest. So watch him, Little Brother. And be careful."

When he returned to camp, Urkiat was gazing into the fire. "Is it because you can't bear to sleep near me? Is that why you go away at night?"

Hoping to ease his anxiety, Darak told him about Wolf. Urkiat just stared at him as if he'd sprouted fur and claws.

"You could try to reach your vision mate, too."

"I think it's different for you. Because of . . . who you are."

He had expected the journey to wear away the remnants of Urkiat's awe; watching a man heave up the contents of his stomach day after day wasn't especially conducive to worship.

"I still put on my breeches one leg at a time. My legs ache every evening from walking. My bladder aches every morning with the need to take a p.i.s.s. And I p.i.s.s urine just like you. Not brogac."

That surprised a smile out of Urkiat. "Good thing. Darak Spirit-Hunter sounds a lot better than Darak Brogac-p.i.s.ser."

Laughter dispelled the awe. For the first time since leaving home, Darak felt he had a true comrade.

Their new bond strengthened them as the journey grew more difficult. Villages nestled on the narrow strip of coast-line, forcing them into the foothills. The dense forests of oak and ash gave way to scrub pine that offered little shelter from the sun. And it was always sunny. Climbing the steep hills left them both sweat-soaked and exhausted. Their food supplies dwindled and some nights they went to sleep with only a suetcake to ease their hunger.

Then one afternoon, they reached the summit of a hill and came to an abrupt halt. Below them, open fields stretched for miles, as vast as the cloudless sky above them. Here and there through the shimmering haze, Darak could make out cl.u.s.ters of dwellings that must be villages and the meandering path of the river that connected them. But there were no trees on the riverbank. There were no trees anywhere. It was as if they stood at the edge of another world.

Urkiat pointed to a ma.s.s of white buildings overlooking the sea. "That's Oexiak. And that's the road to Pilozhat."

Where Keirith was-if the raider had spoken true.

"We should rest now. Better to cross the fields at night and reach Oexiak in the morning."

Curbing his impatience, Darak settled down on the hillside, but sleep eluded him. He stared at the city, glistening in the haze, and prayed that it held the answers he needed.

Nothing prepared him for Oexiak. Until they walked through the northern gate, the Gatherings were the largest confluence of men and animals Darak had ever seen. Oexiak was like twenty Gatherings packed into a sprawling ma.s.s of stone houses that perched atop the cliffs like an enormous flock of nesting sea birds. Again and again, they lost their bearings on the stone paths that wandered through the close-packed buildings. Luck and repeated directions from incurious pedestrians led them eventually to something called the Fleshers Market.

Bellowing oxen, bleating sheep, and squawking birds vied with the screeching of buyers and sellers haggling over b.l.o.o.d.y slabs of meat, braces of pheasants and hares, and heaps of fleece piled high atop the wooden stalls. Dogs slunk between them, lapping up blood and dodging kicks from customers and traders alike.

Darak had feared his coloring and height would make him stand out. Although the marketplace teemed with Zherosi, there were many others who had to be foreigners. Men with skin the color of charcoal and close-cropped black hair as curly as a lamb's. Men with the same hide-colored complexions as the Zherosi, but with luxuriant manes of hair that fell halfway down their backs. Men with beards and men who were clean-shaven. Men who sported tattoos and others who sported bronze necklaces. Men in woolen tunics, men who wore strange half-breeches that seemed to be made of flaxcloth, and men in sleeveless tunics and baggy breeches made of materials that were completely unknown to him.

He saw far fewer women and most of those were barefoot and simply dressed. When he asked about that, Urkiat shouted, "The rich women send their slaves to the market. And the poorer folk can't afford meat."

Chief or shepherd, fisherman or hunter, in his village everyone lived in the same huts, wore the same clothes, ate the same food. But he had glimpsed the taller buildings on the upper slopes of the hill; it wasn't only geography that gave them the appearance of looking down on the sprawling city below.

His height allowed him to pick out the traders dealing with hides and furs. Once he overcame his reluctance to shove people aside, his size helped him bull his way through the press of bodies and clear a s.p.a.ce for Urkiat to unroll the furs they had carried from home. Darak stood back, watching uneasily as Urkiat negotiated with the weasel-faced trader. This involved so much shouting, groaning, and fist shaking that he feared they would come to blows, but suddenly the two men spat into their palms and slapped them together three times.

After the trader counted shiny disks into his cupped palms, Urkiat turned to him, sweat-sheened and grinning. "A good trade. Ten serpents and six eagles. Keep your share in your belt pouch. Harder for the coin s.n.a.t.c.hers to get at them there."

Darak did as he was ordered, although the only part of Urkiat's instructions he'd understood was where he should keep the disks.

"We'll head for the harbor-where the ships are beached. Best place to find out about the captives."

As they threaded their way west, Urkiat educated him about coins and thieves and other aspects of city life, information he had gleaned from the stories of the unnamed Zherosi warrior he had served and loved and killed. Stories that must have seemed as incredible to Urkiat as the legends Darak told the children.

Apparently, the eagle coin had a feather stamped on it and the serpent coin had a spiral, but how thirteen eagles could equal a serpent remained a mystery. "Just remember that serpents are worth more," Urkiat told him. "It's not like the Gathering where you trade pelts for daggers. Here you must have coins to buy what you need."

Coins. Streets. Harbor. He needed an entirely new vocabulary just to make sense of what he saw. For the first time, he understood how Cuillon must have felt, a.s.saulted by strange smells and tastes, alien objects and rituals. At least he could communicate with Urkiat. Standing on the docks, all he could make out was a harsh wash of sound as women haggled over the price of fish, fishermen sang as they repaired their nets, and sailors traded shouts and curses as they loaded bales of fleece, bolts of cloth, and huge earthenware jars of . . . the Maker only knew what.

By midday, they had merely confirmed that the red-haired captives were taken to Pilozhat for the Midsummer sacrifice. Although Darak had lived with the knowledge for more than a moon, he had hoped-foolishly-that the story might be false.

Fear is the enemy.

They still had twelve days. Twelve days to reach Pilozhat, find Keirith, and free him.

Control the fear.

As he had so many times since Keirith was stolen, he found himself conjuring the vision he had seen through the portal in Chaos: the naked boy stretched out upon the stone altar, the priest standing behind him with his dagger upraised, the strange man-woman who had tossed the token through the open portal.

Darak's hand crept up his chest where the sinuous bronze snake lay nestled among his charms. He had discarded it in Chaos, believing it too dangerous to keep, only to discover it clinging to his woolen mantle after he escaped. Fellgair had told him to guard the token, but he'd refused to explain its purpose or importance. Could it help him find Keirith? Did it possess some magical power that could save him from the altar?

Control yourself.

Urkiat seized his arm and dragged him out of the way of a man leading a line of the flop-eared beasts called donkeys. "There are bound to be other people traveling to Pilozhat. They come from all over for the festival."

Despite his eagerness to leave the noise and confusion of Oexiak behind, Darak reluctantly agreed they had to replenish their supplies. Coins bought them smoked fish and dried fruits, but the flat, crisp bread was too expensive. Even water came at a price. They had to line up in yet another marketplace where men dipped wooden ladles into more of those giant earthenware jars and doled it out to women with wooden buckets. The water seller eyed their skins disdainfully, but two eagles got them filled to bursting. Water, he noted, was more precious than food.

And no wonder. The heat was stifling. The sweat dried on his body before it could cool him. Darak eyed the men's loose-fitting half-breeches with longing, but he refused to waste money on clothing. Nor did he want to draw attention to the scars on his back and arms.

As the day waned, Urkiat led him back to the harbor in search of cheap lodging. There were any number of inns there, all identified with signs affixed to the wall that pictured a cup in the upper left hand corner and a fleece in the upper right. Some were too expensive, others already filled. The light was fading when Urkiat popped out of the doorway of one with a blue wave and flying fish on its sign and motioned him inside.

At first, all he could make out was the roaring fire against the far wall. A huge slab of meat roasted over it. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out other details: a rough stone hearth, tall enough for a man to walk into without stooping; unadorned mud-brick walls; and everywhere, furnishings and implements fashioned from wood.

What looked to be an entire tree trunk, one side planed smooth, ran the length of one wall. Men sat before it on high wooden seats with three legs. Dozens more sat on the wooden benches drawn up on both sides of three long wooden tables. They drank from wooden cups. They speared meat from wooden platters. They used small wooden dippers to scoop stew from wooden bowls. Bad enough that they destroyed whole forests to build their ships, but to mutilate a tree simply to craft a bowl . . .

Swallowing his bile, he followed Urkiat to the tree trunk. It, too, must have a name, as well as the three-legged seats before it. He'd have to remember to ask. Urkiat squeezed between two men to hail another behind the tree trunk. After a few moments of conversation, he dropped coins into the outstretched palm. The man bellowed something to a harried-looking woman who snapped out a reply as she hurried past, slopping wine from a pitcher onto the dirt floor.

"I've arranged for food. He'll sell us sleeping s.p.a.ce on the roof for two more eagles. At least it will be cool. Cooler. And safer than sleeping on the street."

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 ships, 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 worship 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 apprenticeship. 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 replenishing 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-"