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  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 space 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 repetitive 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 mass: 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 assure 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 circumstances. 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 god with two faces, a winged serpent, a flayed god. H
ere, 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 whore.” The little man dismissed his star performer with a wave of his hand. “But now you are here and the gods 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 noble mien, the fearsome war cry, the flourish of the sword, the thrust, the parry, the scream of agony, the hopeless pleas to the gods. 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 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 assure 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—”

  “A club foot, now. That might work. With the proper footwear . . .” Olinio’s eyes narrowed. “An added expense, of course. Along with the cost of costumes.” He hesitated a moment longer, then clapped his hands. “Three serpents for both of you. That’s my final offer.”

  In the sudden hush, Olinio’s voice rang out loudly. Darak’s gaze followed those of the other patrons to the doorway.

  “Gods save us,” Olinio whispered.

  In disbelief, Darak stared at the apparition he had first glimpsed through the portal in Chaos.

  Olinio’s fingers dug into his forearm. “For mercy’s sake, lower your eyes.”

  But he could only gaze at the doorway, transfixed. Impossible that she—he?—could have remained unchanged after fifteen years. But every detail was as he remembered. The right half of the head shaved while on the left, glossy black hair fell to its waist. The left side of the face painted, the dusky cheek and swollen lips reddened.

  The innkeeper rushed forward, bowing, stammering. The men at the tree trunk slid off their seats and retreated to the far corners of the room. The patrons at the closest table shoved their neighbors aside in an effort to make space. Those on the far end vacated their spots to stand shoulder to shoulder against the mud-brick wall.

  The stranger observed all this with a placid smile. Elegant fingers—nails painted blood red—languidly brushed something from the folds of the long robe. One half was crimson, the other, brown.

  “The Supplicant of the God with Two Faces,” Olinio said in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve only seen her once. What could she be doing in Oexiak? And in this cesspit? Oh, merciful gods, she approaches.”

  And still he couldn’t look away. It was as if she’d bespelled him.

  She glanced over her shoulder to nod at the innkeeper. When Darak spied the bronze snake dangling from her left earlobe, his hand convulsively clutched his bag of charms. The movement caught her gaze. Her steps slowed and Olinio squeaked in terror. Then she passed them, trailed by the innkeeper who hurried forward with a bronze goblet.

  Olinio darted a quick glance behind him.

  “What is she doing?” Darak asked.

  “Stroking the hair of the spit boy. Oh, gods, if she should speak to Hakkon . . .”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a mute. How will I ever find another bodyguard?”

  The innkeeper broke in with a long stream of Zherosi. The Supplicant answered in a low murmur. Even with his back to her, Darak could feel those eyes. It took all his control to keep from hunching his shoulders against that penetrating gaze.

  Suddenly, the innkeeper was standing next to him, shouting something. Olinio squeaked again. “Move. Now. Quickly.”

  Darak rose from his place, only to be stopped by the gentle pressure of fingers on his shoulder. As the innkeeper backed away, the fingers traced a lingering path down his back. The Supplicant took one step toward the doorway. Unaccountably, she stumbled. Unthinking, he grasped her arm to steady her.

  Every person in the room drew breath in a collective gasp. Darak looked into eyes as dark and bottomless as that portal to Chaos. You could fall into those eyes, he thought. Fall into them and be lost forever.

  She broke the spell by looking down at his hand. When he started to pull away, she clasped it with a strong grip. The nails on her right hand were clipped and free of paint. Even the fingers seemed shorter, but surely that was impossible. As impossible as her presence in this room, looking exactly as she had fifteen years ago.

  “I thank you for your kindness.”

  Her voice was low and husky and she spoke the tribal tongue as if she’d grown up in his village.

  “You’re welcome. Forgive me if I . . . if my touch
offended you.”

  “If the touch offended, would I seek to prolong it?” Her thumb caressed the jagged scar on the back of his hand and he felt the blood rush to his face. “May I return a kindness for a kindness?”

  “I . . . that is . . . of course.”

  She leaned toward him, close enough for him to smell the faint hint of wine on her breath and the sweet scent that perfumed her body. “Keep my token safe, Darak. Your son might need it.”

  Stunned, he could only stare as she glided toward the door. Although he reached it only a few steps after her, he found the street deserted—as if she had simply vanished. And that was as impossible as everything else about her.

  Chapter 29

  IT TOOK KEIRITH three days before he managed to catch Xevhan returning from the morning sacrifice. This time, he merely bowed and whispered, “Meet me in the courtyard,” before continuing along the corridor.

  Priests drifted in and out of the courtyard all morning. A few stood before the rock garden in silent contemplation. Others chatted together. Despite the covert glances in his direction, none approached him.

  They all bowed when Xevhan entered. He wandered from group to group, exchanging pleasantries, discussing plans for The Shedding, commiserating with one about a particularly difficult Zhiisto and with another about a death in his family. For each, he had a quick grin or a sympathetic nod. And each brightened visibly at receiving his attention.

  With every evidence of surprise, Xevhan finally noticed him. “Ah, the Pajhit’s little slave boy.”

  “Good morning, great Zheron.”

  “How are your lessons faring?”

  “Not good. The Pajhit is displeased.”

  Xevhan glanced casually at the other priests. “Really?”