“I nailed the boards to the walls with a cloth over them so you wouldn’t hear. I repaired the tools outside, faraway. I didn’t want to wake you as you slept, nor the other clients of the inn.”
“Lord ...” he started, without knowing what to say.
“Do not call me that; I am nobody.”
At that moment Marrhit joined them, refreshed and rested for his night spent in a comfortable bed, satisfied by a hearty breakfast, served by the worried yet obliging innkeeper. Marrhit deigned not a glance at either the boy or Selot. He observed his bay and briefly pursed his lips. He appreciated the remarkable work of the braided mane. He mounted elegantly in the saddle and set off. The innkeeper sighed relief, and then looked at the condition of the stable, stunned. His eyes went from the boy to Selot.
“Pray, accept this work as payment for our food and lodgings.” Selot expected the innkeeper to nod. He didn’t take for granted that the work would be judged sufficient. He’d never really had occasion in his life to build a good understanding of economic practices. The innkeeper was disconcerted. Finally, he said:
“You did not have food, nor lodgings from me, only your companion in arms. In any case, upon seeing this work, I should remunerate you...” Selot then pointed to the stable hand.
“If you think you owe me something, give it to him. He fed me yesterday evening.” The innkeeper observed the foreigner in the bright light of morning.
“I am a simple man, my lord. I do not understand anything from last night...the nobleman who has left just now...I will be ashamed the rest of my life to have thought such a thing for only a minute...” He stopped himself. “I believe I owe you a great deal for yesterday evening, you see,” he concluded, a little confused. Then he added, “My lord, forgive me for speaking so, but I am the age of a man who is a father. Now that I look at you with attention I see you are only a boy who has not slept this night. May God bless you, son.” Selot lowered his head, grateful for his blessing. He then took his horse and joined Marrhit. He rode past him and at two lengths put his weapons in full view, and joined his hands behind his back as stipulated. He was ready to hear the usual scornful comments. In prayer that morning, he had recharged his supply of tolerance.
“You were born a slave and you will die one, there’s no doubt,” Marrhit started. “They bestowed those arms on you by mistake. You will never be a warrior. You make my stomach churn. You’re embarrassing. You’re only able to bow and scrape and serve. You make me sick.” To reaffirm the concept, he spat on the ground. Selot listened with much attention. His ideas were clear and he could have argued for ages. He looked for the right words to explain his point of view. Then he let it go. Their ideas were really too far apart.
“I believe we give the word ‘serve’ a very different meaning,” he limited himself to saying with a tone that was so very calm that it put an end to the discussion.
They both looked ahead. They were headed straight to the mountains in the north. They would pass through Solzhaz. They would do their best to gather new information there about the movements of the Kingdom of Dar. Selot felt a tremor run swiftly through him: they would be very close to Affradatis.
Halfway through the morning, Selot slowed down to a trot and paired up with Marrhit. The older Vetem looked straight ahead, as if nothing had changed.
“We are too recognizable. The man from last night is the proof. It is clear the Xàmvetems will be alerted.”
“Yes,” Marrhit replied, interrupting his silence, “you are right,” he said unexpectedly. His voice did not have its usual sting. “Before killing him, I dug for any useful information. There was another with him.” He stopped for a moment. Selot was alarmed immediately.
“And yet, this second man didn’t ... we didn’t stop him.”
“No. I already had thoughts of the innkeeper’s daughters in my mind and I couldn’t take care of it.”
“We should go back,” Selot said, stopping his horse completely.
“We should,” Marrhit conceded. “He will have already informed his superiors. And their governor of Neuk ...”
“And he to the Emissaries of Dar!”
“Yes,” Marrhit concluded. “That is why you are right,” he started again, “we should make ourselves less obvious. Because of me, we have committed a great carelessness.”
Selot was speechless. He was in awe of the faculties of his Vetem brother and at the same time he couldn’t believe he was confessing to such a serious error without the smallest amount of embarrassment. Marrhit gave off the impression he was above all things, imputable. He continued, unperturbed:
“We can turn back and kill a number of people, all who witnessed our existence, including the innkeeper, his daughters, the waiter and the stable hand. Or we can go on, and make ourselves invisible.”
“I would prefer the second,” Selot commented.
“I had no doubt,” Marrhit retorted. “Without counting the fact that leaving such a trace of dead people is not exactly the way to move in the shadows,” he ended, with a very practical view of the problem.
“Make ourselves invisible...how?
“They’re looking for two warriors. Let’s start by splitting up. Let’s avoid minor centers. Let’s meet in Solzhaz in three days, at the market square. I’ll find you. Come to the front of the governor’s palace to the west of the fountain in the center of the square. I have something in mind.”
“Right in front of the governor’s keep? In the lion’s den?”
“We must have information,” Marrhit responded scornfully, “where do you think we’ll find it? Hide your weapons and don anonymous, unassuming clothing.” Selot looked at his shirt.
“I have only this...”
Marrhit glanced at him impatiently. “Steal something, idiot!” He raised his eyes to the heavens. “You are a fool without hope, a mistake at birth.” Selot didn’t bat an eyelid.
“You should keep quiet,” he said instead, completely ignoring the insult.
“What do you mean?” Marrhit snarled, ready to be offended.
“Your accent. When you speak the language of Dar, one understands immediately that you are a foreigner, that you don’t come from the Kingdom of Kennan, nor from the lands in the south. You have an accent that is very...strange. It draws too much attention.”
“The language of men is insipid and without energy,” Marrhit said disdainfully.
“All that aside, it is what they use to communicate in these parts.”
“What do you think I should do?” Marrhit asked, perplexed. He knew it to be true and was weighing up Selot’s words, as much as it annoyed him to admit it.
“Pretend to be mute. You must keep quiet and leave me to do the talking,” he added with a certain sense of satisfaction.
Marrhit fixed his eyes on him suspiciously. “We will see,” he said. “But if I were you, I would be ashamed of myself to be of human mother tongue. It is an inferior means of communication.” He changed the subject. “I’ll take the road that runs along the river; you will follow the road that bends west and then goes up to Solzhaz.”
Selot recalled the geographic maps to mind. “My road is almost twice as long.”
“That is not my concern,” Marrhit answered.
Once they reached a fork in the road, where a giant elm tree presided, Marrhit went straight on in a northerly direction, while Selot took an uncertain track that would lead him towards the west.
On the morning of the second day, he went in through the east gate of the walls of Solzhaz, holding his horse by its halter. Well-concealed under his cloak and on his saddle were his weapons and his precious clothes of a warrior. He had come upon a coarse tunic which had been hung out to dry at a country farmhouse. He had memorized the position of the house, promising himself that he would pass by again, to return what he had stolen. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he’d even have the occasion to do that. Hence, he’d stolen it.
It was past morning. Barefoot and wearing nothing more than the t
unic, Selot looked more like a servant taking care of his lord’s horse, and he elicited no attention from the soldiers at the gates of the city. He headed towards higher ground where the nobility mostly lived, and reached the great square dominated by the palace of the governor. The reddish bulk of the building, with its great tower to the west, bore down on the square. In front of the main entrance, Selot spied the fountain which Marrhit had designated as a meeting point. It was a giant octagonal stone basin. A column rose up in the middle of it, dominated by a capital with four faces etched into each side. Water gushed out of their mouths. Selot watched them, spellbound. If it weren’t for the exaggerated traits of the faces made grotesque, they would have been very similar to those of his and Marrhit’s. He was still drawn in by this unexpected resemblance, when the joyful cry of children suddenly distracted him. He followed their enchanted gazes curious to understand what had made them so very happy. He saw a very talented juggler balancing eight leather balls cleverly in the air with the agile turn of his hands. The juggler wore the costume of a street performer, a little like an athlete, and something like a clown. He had a red and blue felt hat with a huge pompom that bounced from side to side, and little bells that jingled on his arms and on his legs. The thick greasepaint on his face could not disguise that it was Marrhit underneath. The performer wore a wide, fixed smile on his face which conveyed an entirely new and unexpected expression. It was enchanting even for Selot to watch. He performed incredible feats of juggling. After leather balls, it was knives, followed by lit torches. He kept numerous objects up in the air, and at the same time somersaulted and turned, moving about the square with a grace that captured one’s attention. The objects barely touched his hands, and they flew through the air and landed back in his hands with great precision. He kept up this juggling act when he hopped onto a tight rope, hung from the ground; he balanced a sword on his head, and passed objects behind his back and under his legs. It went on for a long time, and he received applause and shouts of admiration. That’s when he began gymnastic exercises, his body moving freely, and he left everyone astounded at the shapes he created with his body, and the high jumps that he performed. He must have had invisible wings to jump that high. Finally, to the glee of little children, he improvised some clown acts where he tripped over, sprung back like a spring, stumbled again, and made the funniest, most unbelievable faces. At a certain point he stopped, completely motionless, creating a sense of expectation. He had everyone’s attention. All of a sudden, with a very rapid gesture, he threw a knife at a barefoot boy wearing an old tunic, who had been standing on the edge of the fountain, to watch the spectacle above the crowd that had gathered. Selot was ready to catch the knife by the handle, twisting his upper body to avoid it, and did so to the sound of ‘oooohhhs and aaaahhhs’ of the bystanders. Marrhit knew Selot’s capabilities very well and he had thrown it at a speed and force that would consent him to grab it midair. Had he not been able to catch it, someone behind him may have been hit. Continuing his pantomime, the clown then invited the boy to the centre of the space that made up the stage. Selot joined him. Everybody was sure this was his accomplice, his performing partner. The boy took part in the game and bowed theatrically, showing everyone the knife. Marrhit had him stand ten paces away, in a position where none of the spectators were standing behind him. Selot called forth all his concentration, only imagining what was to come. Marrhit began throwing knives at him. Always harder and faster; he kept upping the ante in tune with Selot’s rhythm and pace, keeping everyone breathless. Selot, forced himself to smile, and he caught all of them midair. Almost all of them. A blade ripped through his tunic, under the arm, tearing it and grazing his side. The blood ran under the fabric, but no one noticed. It was only then that Marrhit stopped. Selot improvised a farce, examining his torn tunic with exaggeration and put his hand through the tear to make the children laugh, and to hide the wound. Finally, Marrhit threw him a bowl. The show was finished. Selot picked up the bowl and went through the crowd to collect the money they offered, as Marrhit received his well-deserved applause. The crowd slowly broke up, amid the voices of the children and the amazement of the people, who were commenting and going over the most exhilarating acts of the artist. Only Marrhit and Selot remained.
“You are slow and clumsy. You’re only useful as a clown,” Marrhit greeted him with one of his scornful smiles.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Selot asked admiringly.
“Circus art is the only redeeming quality I have found among men. I learned from some very good gypsies.” A painful shadow seemed to pass over his face. Selot registered it.
There was a cart nearby, and on it were bizarre costumes, equipment, games, skittles, ropes, wooden and fabric backdrops. Marrhit’s weapons and warrior outfit were well-hidden underneath a sheet. Selot helped him tidy everything up.
“How did you manage to procure all of this?” Marrhit did not bother answering.
“Oh, right,” Selot answered himself, “you stole it.” He had to admit, it was a brilliant idea. They were at the main door of the governor of Solzhaz and no one would have guessed they were two Vetem warriors. Marrhit kept his costume on, removing only his hat and bells. He cleaned off the heavy makeup in the fountain. He too looked at the faces sculpted in the bas-reliefs.
“You don’t think I’ll attach it to my horse, do you?” he said pointing to the cart.
“No, of course not,” replied Selot, without a sign of protest. He attached it to his own horse, although attaching the load to such a wonderful war horse seemed a travesty.
They went over to the opposite side of the square, towards the gallery that offered a wonderful view of the city and the surrounding plains.
“There will be a market tomorrow morning. We will hold a performance to garner the attention of as many people as possible. If we’re lucky enough, we’ll draw in a few officials too. During the exhibition I will try to glean as much information as possible. For tonight we will sleep in the street, under the arches of the lower part of the city.”
They went down the cobbled streets of Solzhaz, built on the side of a steep hill. Selot was fascinated by the city, its elegant buildings etched with family symbols, its bold architecture, and intricate streets and terraced pathways. The streets that connected the lower part of the city with the higher part were made of wide stone steps that intersected the flat roads from one side to the other at the same level. It connected the city and made a dense network of streets and alleys. Prosperity and wealth was infused in every detail, from the splendor of the noble dwellings to the beauty of the squares and streets made with precious materials. In the lower part of the city the atmosphere was different. There were workshops and communal housing. They spent the rest of the day outside its walls. They went over a few juggling acts in the surrounding fields. Marrhit taught Selot how to be his assistant, and established the order of the acts he would put on the next day. They tried scores of times, until Marrhit declared their preparation would suffice. Selot would have to pass and hand him the objects for juggling, remove any objects Marrhit would no longer be using, take care of the backdrops and scenery, be behind the scenes for the clown number and finally take part in the performance with the knife act. He learned the order of the established sequences and bore all the insults and ferocious corrections Marrhit threw at him. As sunset drew near, they re-entered the city before the guards closed the gates.
“Get us food,” Marrhit asked of him. Selot used the money he had collected that morning and bought two pieces of bread dripping in oil, a sack of flour and yeast with which to make more, for when they were traveling.
They joined the throng under the arches of the lower city, where travelers who couldn’t afford lodgings for the night were gathered, or simply those who were homeless and orbited the wealthy city in the hope of a few crumbs of sustenance. The two Vetems found themselves a corner not yet occupied near the ‘Dark Doors’, the oldest of the city, which led to the west gate. They decided on who
would do the first night watch. Marrhit decided he’d be first. It was still far from the second hour of the night when Marrhit felt his eyes close, heavy with sleep. He gave Selot a good kick to wake him. Selot did not protest over the kick, nor for the fact that his turn was still a long way away. He spent the rest of the night in prayer, kneeling on the cobblestones. Some mistook him for a beggar and left him coins. Marrhit found him like that in the first light of morning.
“Do you always pray?” he asked tugging at him. It sounded like an odd question to Selot.
“Yes, if I’m not busy at something else. Or sleeping.”
Marrhit shook his head. He looked at the coins.
“At least it serves some purpose. Pick them up. Now let’s get moving,” he continued, “we must get ready for the show.” They bought some delicious bread that had been baking in an oven nearby, its fragrant smells wafting over them. They reached the square in front of the Governor’s palace and intercepted the City Official who was busy assigning places to stall holders for the market. Selot read a list of rules for selling at the market from a nearby bulletin board. The list included the divisions of spaces for sellers, size and costs available, and the rights of pre-emption. Counting the money they had acquired from yesterday’s show and the involuntary one from the night, they had just enough for a small space.
They met the official, wearing their show costumes. Marrhit put a large smile on his face, which gave him the appearance of a perfect theater actor. It gave Selot the chills. As agreed, Selot spoke.
“Sir, at your service,” he began. “We are theater actors and circus performers. We request a small space, ten by fifteen cubits, to put on our show.”
The civic official barely looked them over. Marrhit looked like an idiot with that forced smile of his. The official didn’t have the minimum power of observation necessary to identify the build of a warrior under the baggy clothes of the street artist. Selot looked too young to be doing business.
“I saw you yesterday.”
The Creed Page 14
