Next to him, in the fusty closeness of the caravan, Hekibel sympathetically touched his arm. "It's 'My lord, the enemy is in sight,'" she whispered. "All you have to do is say it. Loudly."
Hem nodded mutely, trying to conceal his naked terror. He wasn't sure if his voice was working either. He could hear Karim in full flight, and his cue—when he was expected to run onto the stage and urgently report his message—was coming up with discomforting swiftness.
"Now," said Hekibel, and gave him a little push. Hem automatically tottered through the curtain, trying to remember Karim's instructions: " Don't stare at your feet, boy, stare at me. Keep your chin high. And for the Light's sake, don't mumble."
Chin up. Hem stumbled out onstage and somehow delivered his line. He was so worried that no one would hear him that he shouted it. But fortunately his panicked shriek was wholly in keeping with the sentiments of what he said, although he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a rather amused smirk from Saliman, who was to the left of Karim, playing a stolid guardsman (he was also, when the guardsman was not required, playing the drums).
"In sight, boy? Are you certain?" asked Karim.
"Yes," squeaked Hem, and promptly forgot the rest of his line, which was supposed to be, "Yes, my lord, they're coming up through the forest."
Saliman caught up the pause before it became too long. "Are they coming up through the forest?" he asked.
"Yes," mumbled Hem, forgetting to keep his chin up.
"The forest!" exclaimed Karim, and launched into his next speech, waving Hem regally away. Hem slunk back behind the curtain, wishing the earth would swallow him up. He had only two lines, and he had completely forgotten one of them. How could he have been so stupid? Karim would kill him.
Safely back in the caravan, Hekibel squeezed his hand. "You were fine," she whispered in his ear. "Good save by Saliman ... nobody would have noticed ..." Then her own cue came up, and she swept out onto the stage, her chin enviably high.
Hem plumped down on a cushion and took some deep breaths until the trembling in his body subsided. Being a player was much harder than he had imagined. This was his third public appearance, and he just couldn't get it right; although this time, at least, he hadn't stumbled and fallen off the stage ... It was one thing to practice on the road, and quite another to get out in front of a motley bunch of curious villagers. It was completely nerve-racking, especially as it was a very different audience from that in Til Amon. There, people had paid attention, and hardly anyone had talked. Here, a play seemed to be an occasion for some very lively conversations, and even Karim's most thunderous acting only brought down the noise slightly.
Hem listened hard to the dialogue and song onstage. He couldn't afford to lose track; at the end of the play he was supposed to run on with a crown. For a panicked moment he couldn't find it, but of course it was exactly where Hekibel had placed it. He picked it up and clutched it tightly. At least with the next appearance he didn't have to say anything, and then the play would be over.
Hem waited for the drumming that signaled his next entrance and made a creditable appearance, kneeling before Karim without tripping over anything, and walking out backward, again without tripping over. Once he was back in the caravan, he heaved a huge sigh of relief. That was all he had to do.
Now that he thought about it, he really didn't think that he was cut out to be a player.
Hem and Saliman had been on the road with the players for a couple of weeks now. Saliman was, unsurprisingly, a very skilled performer, and Karim was quick to exploit his musical abilities, dragging out a dusty old dulcimer from a deep chest. It was, Saliman said ironically, almost tunable. Hem, on the other hand, proved to be startlingly untalented, and almost never got anything right. However, aside from his stage duties as a page, messenger boy, herald, and general dogsbody, which were turning into regular rituals of public humiliation, Hem was enjoying himself.
The idea of using Irc in the plays had been given up fairly quickly. Karim, thinking that a performing animal would be an extra attraction, had briefly attempted to train him, but the crow proved resistant to the charms of playing: he either got bored and flew away, or tried to filch Hekibel's false jewels while she wasn't looking. He was getting noticeably plumper, as Marich and Hekibel spoiled him with titbits, and he had found a storehouse in one of the scrolls on the roof of the caravan where he was squirreling away the bits of glass and other bright oddments he couldn't resist stealing. He developed a wary relationship with Fenek, the dog, who made one or two murderous lunges toward him when Irc tried to pilfer some of his dinner; after a stern reprimand from Saliman, the dog left the bird alone, and Irc stayed away from his dinner.
Traveling with Marich, Karim, and Hekibel had a seductive air of freedom: they went, as Karim put it, "where the winds took them." For hours at a time, as the caravan rumbled through the low hills under a wintry blue sky, watching quail startle out of the grasses or herds of small deer or wild goats grazing in the distance, Hem could almost forget that they moved with a more urgent purpose.
They had journeyed north from Til Amon, making their way as swiftly as they could through the green flatlands of Lauchomon toward the West Road. All of them were anxious to leave the Black Army far behind and, in any case, this part of Annar was relatively uninhabited, dotted with isolated hamlets, which they passed through quickly, bending their steps eastward. They lost the stone road as soon as they left the Fesse of Til Amon, and after that it was slower work; they followed a wagon track that wound northward, meandering from village to village toward the West Road.
Saliman had suggested that the party should travel through Lukernil toward Innail, which would be simply a matter of following the West Road, and after frowningly discussing various alternatives, Karim had agreed that they might as well go to Innail as anywhere. Saliman guessed that if there were any news to be found of Maerad, Innail would be a good place to start. After Innail, his best guess was Lirigon, but that was a long journey north. He did not tell Hem of his real despair at their chances of finding Maerad. He also kept his concerns about traveling along the West Road to himself: from what Saliman had heard, there was a very real danger of encountering bandits, rogue soldiers, Hulls, or worse. He also feared that they might meet the Black Army coming up the South Road. But it was their fastest route to Innail and, once there, he and Hem could decide what to do next.
Meanwhile, they journeyed with no sign of trouble. The weather held crisp and fine, and there was plenty of food, so they made only hasty stops at nightfall, when they would make dinner and rehearse (Karim insisted on this every evening, no matter how tired they were). The villagers they encountered did not, in any case, encourage them to stay. There was a palpable sense of fear through LaMchomon, which was swept with rumors of war on every side of them, and although children always ran out with their faces alight to see the golden caravan, the farmers and shepherds who lived in the region greeted them with curt words, suspicion harsh in their voices, fear overcoming even their iron traditions of courtesy.
When they reached the West Road and turned east toward Innail, Karim insisted that they should perform; the villages that dotted the road were bigger than the hamlets of Lauchomon, and perhaps would be more open to the players. They traveled briskly now that they were on a proper road again, but Saliman noted that it was oddly deserted, and stayed alert. They kept watch at nightfall and he and Hem cast glimveils when they camped at night so the caravan would not be seen by passersby.
The villages here were walled, and some guards asked for tolls at their gates before they let the travelers enter. They regarded them with, if anything, more suspicion than the folk of Lauchomon. They were told many stories of lawlessness on the roads, and of war to the west and east, but so far this part of Annar seemed to be untouched by the troubles.
Despite the suspicion that greeted them, Karim managed to get audiences for their plays by sheer stubborn charm. He would plant the caravan in the common in the center of a villa
ge and knock on the doors of all the most important-looking houses, and eventually the space in front of the caravan would fill with curious onlookers. Once he judged there were enough people, he began the play.
They were performing a play that Hekibel said dismissively was an old mule of a thing. But, she said, at least it was short and easy to remember, and it didn't matter if you got the lines wrong. Karim had no sense of humor where playing was concerned and reprimanded her sharply, so once, as they rehearsed a scene, she changed all the lines on purpose, to see if he noticed. As Hekibel told Hem later, he picked her up on only one line.
Hem didn't want to think about his first performance: that was when he had tumbled off the stage. His accident had prompted a gale of good-natured laughter, and the audience had followed the rest of the play with close attention, especially when Hem came onstage again. Although Karim (mollified perhaps by the villagers' generous appreciation after the show) and the rest of the players had been kind, the mere memory still made Hem hot all over. His next appearance hadn't been much better, and now, even in the third, he still couldn't get his lines right...
He gloomily listened to Karim's last speech (Karim played the villain who died at the end, repenting his evil acts, and his final speech was very long) and then the drumming came to a climax and the play was over. There was some ragged clapping, and even a couple of whistles and cheers. Now Hem had to go out again, but this time it wasn't so bad. He pushed through the curtains, blinking in the light, and bowed with the other players, looking out over the audience. Maybe forty people were seated on an assortment of cushions, benches, stools, and blankets in front of the caravan, perhaps most of the village's population, ranging from babies in slings to some ancient men and women who had been brought out in litters. Most of them were smiling, and as he studied their faces, Hem's heart began to lift. Maybe it wasn't so bad, being a player. Above their heads, the sky was darkening: it looked as if at last it was going to rain.
As was their custom—and it was a pleasant custom—the players packed up after the show and repaired to the local tavern. This was bigger than the last one they had frequented, which had been little more than a kitchen, from which a woman dispensed beer for a minimal charge. Here it even had a name— Thorkul's Place—and a designated room. Thorkul doubled as the village blacksmith, and was a large, friendly man who bristled with black hair; his beard was voluminous and Hem could see a mat of chest hair curling from beneath his jerkin. His muscles came in handy, he told Saliman, when the patrons had too much drink in them.
"I'm sure they do," said Saliman politely, studying Thorkul's physique. Saliman was by no means a small man, and Thorkul towered over him. "I imagine you have one of the best-behaved taverns in Annar."
"Aye, it is," said Thorkul, and winked. "And well-frequented, too. I brew a goodly beer that's famous in these parts."
Saliman lifted his mug. "I can attest to its quality," he said. "It's as good as any I've tasted. Though I somehow doubt you'd get anyone saying otherwise. To your face, in any case."
Thorkul threw back his head and bellowed with laughter, showing his strong white teeth, and clapped Saliman heartily on the back, making him choke on his beer. "You're jokers, you players!" he said. "It's good to have a laugh, though. Talk has been all too dour in these parts, these past months."
Saliman recovered his poise, and smiled. "We aim to please," he said.
Thorkul had excellent reason for his good temper; his tavern was packed to the rafters with villagers attracted by the presence of the players, and he had already broached a second barrel. Hem had no taste for beer, and was sticking to the wine that he also stocked—parsley and elderberry. It was made by Thorkul's very buxom wife, Givi, who looked as capable of dealing with troublesome customers as Thorkul himself. Its taste was very light but, as Hem discovered after finishing his first mug, it was much stronger than it looked.
The gathering afterward was, as far as Hem was concerned, always the best bit of a performance. The glamour of the players hung about even Hem's shoulders, and everyone was keen to talk to him and buy him drinks. People were also attracted by Irc, who sat on Hem's shoulder and smugly permitted himself to be admired. Hem was trying to drink his wine very slowly, as the last time he had suffered a massive headache all the following day, but the goodwill in the tavern was hard to resist, and already on the table before him were two more mugs of wine. He looked up and caught Hekibel's eye: she was surrounded by admirers, some young farmhands who were very clearly struck by her fair beauty. She gracefully untangled herself from the conversation, and came and sat down by Hem.
"I hope you're not planning to drink all those," she said, looking at the mugs.
"Why not?" said Hem robustly.
"You're too young, for a start. And anyway, remember how sick you were last time ..."
Hem shuddered. He did remember, and that was why he didn't drink beer anymore. "I see you've got some admirers," he said, turning the subject.
"Sweet lads," said Hekibel. "But their conversation is a trifle limited. To be honest, I don't know a lot about plowshares. Or growing barley. My ma was a tailor in Narimar, in Lanorial, so I only know about buttons."
The chatter in the tavern grew louder and louder as the room became stuffier and stuffier, until Irc began to protest and Hem took him outside. By this time Hem was beginning to regret that he had finished his second mug of wine. It was raining, a light, steady fall, and he leaned against a wall in the porch outside the tavern, taking in long, slow gulps of cold air. Irc ruffled his feathers, and crouched close against Hem's neck.
I don't know why you drink that stuff, he said.
I like it, said Hem, and hiccupped.
Humans are stupid.
Hem heroically stopped himself from reminding Irc of how last time he had enthusiastically sipped Hem's beer, and had ended up in almost as bad a way as Hem himself. It wouldn't be worth the aggravation. Hem had, in fact, had to rescue Irc from a wrestle to the death with his own feet. He opened his mouth to defend his species and suddenly stopped: he noticed two people sheltering under a linden tree a little distance away. It was very dark, but he was sure, from the way he stood and his shape, that one of them was Karim. A certain furtiveness in his stance caught Hem's attention.
Yes, birds are much more clever, continued Irc, who was obviously in an irritable mood. You humans ...
Shhh, said Hem, closing the bird's beak with his fingers. Is that Karim?
Irc cocked his head, his attention caught. Karim?
Hem opened his Bardic hearing. Now he could hear their voices, although the now-heavy patter of the rain meant, frustratingly, that he couldn't understand what they were saying. One of them was certainly Karim. There was something about the other figure that he did not like at all.
Why's Karim standing out there in the dark talking to a stranger? said Hem.
Because he's stupid, like all humans are, said Irc. Like I said.
As Hem watched, he saw the other man give something to Karim, and heard a faint clink. He was handing over coins, surely. Then Karim was obviously making his farewell, in an unusually obsequious manner, bobbing and bowing. The sight gave Hem a bad feeling inside, and he found that he was suddenly coldly sober. He didn't want to be seen spying, and as Karim turned toward him, he beat a hasty retreat back into the tavern, despite Irc's protests.
The noise and fug were overwhelming after the peace outside, and for a moment Hem reeled, feeling the wine fog his mind again. He couldn't see Saliman at first and pushed through the throng of people, Irc clinging complainingly to his shoulder. Behind him he heard the door open and shut, and a swirl of cold air rushed past him; it was no doubt Karim returning. Hem didn't look back to check. He had spotted Saliman by the hearth, in lively and hilarious conversation with Thorkul and a knot of other villagers.
Saliman had the gift of charm; people flocked to him, attracted by his ease and grace. For a moment Hem paused, reluctant to interrupt; Saliman looked more carefre
e than Hem could remember. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Saliman also enjoyed pretending to be merely a player in a traveling troupe, with no more responsibility than the next village, the next show. Perhaps he too sometimes wanted a respite from the burden of defending the Light.
Hem sighed, and pushed his way through until he was next to Saliman, and spoke into his mind. Saliman?
Without diverting his attention from a ribald story that was being retailed by Givi to gales of laughter, Saliman answered, instantly alert. What's wrong?
Not here, said Hem.
Saliman gave him a sharp glance. Pretend you're drunk, he said.
Hem slumped a little, plucking at Saliman's sleeve. It wasn't so hard to pretend; the parsley wine was circulating headily through his veins, and it was very hot and noisy in the tavern.
"Hem, boy, you're not going to be sick?" asked Saliman out loud. Hem nodded dolefully, as the villagers laughed good-naturedly at his discomfort.
"Givi makes a wicked wine," said Thorkul, winking. "As delicate as the cheek of a princess, but it has the kick of a mule."
As Hem stumbled against him, Saliman turned to the others and made his excuses, coaxed Irc onto his own arm, and helped Hem out of the tavern, shutting the door behind them.
They stood on the porch, staring out into the rainy night. Hem checked their surroundings, all his senses alert; he could see no sign of the man Karim had been talking to.
"We could go to the caravan, I suppose," said Saliman.
"Here will do," said Hem. He paused, wondering how to begin. "I don't know, Saliman. I saw something that bothers me. I just came out here for some fresh air, and I saw Karim talking to someone under that tree over there." He pointed. "Something about it gave me a bad feeling. He was talking to a man in a dark cloak—at least, I think it was a man. He was quite tall, but it was too dark to see him properly. I tried to listen to what they were saying, but the rain was too noisy. And I'm sure the other man gave Karim some coins."
Pellinor 04: The Singing Page 18
