"Free him."

"You'll never get him out of the slave compound."

"Nay. The only time will be right before the sacrifice."

"He'll be guarded."

"Aye. But they won't be expecting an attack."

"An attack? It's suicide!"

"Just ask the fair-haired man to be there. And to bring the big shepherd. If he'll come." Hearing voices in the corridor, he pulled Hircha to the far end of the garden, buying a few precious moments of time. "Try to get to Malaq. I'm not sure they'll let me see him. Tell him what we're planning."

"I don't even know what we're planning!"

"Neither do I. But I'll come up with something."

Someone called his name.

"Please, Hircha."

She scowled. "All right. I'll try. I must be as crazy as you are."

He squeezed her hand and walked forward to meet the queen's guards.

It was close to sunset before Hircha found the players. The grooves left in the sand by their cart led her to the fields west of the city. It would have taken her until midnight to search every camp, but few could afford the luxury of a bullock.

Only the big man was there. She quickly discovered he couldn't tell her anything about the fair-haired dwarf's whereabouts, and his closed expression made her doubt he'd do so even if he could speak. So she told him what had happened to Darak and the fate that awaited him at dawn. She took care to call him "The Wild Man." But she did admit that Keirith was his son and that he had sent her to ask for their help.

At first, he stood there with his arms folded across his chest, staring toward the city as if she didn't exist. She wondered if he was deaf as well as mute. Then he frowned and looked at her and she knew he understood. He made a circling motion with his hand as if he wanted her to repeat the story again.

"I'm just going to have to tell it all over again when the dwarf comes."

When the mute turned away to contemplate the city again, she sighed. Now she had offended him. "He is is coming back, isn't he?" coming back, isn't he?"

The mute inclined his head.

"Any time soon?"

He shrugged.

Hircha sat down and leaned against the cart. The mute stood over her, as silent and unmoving as a pillar. And very nearly as tall.

If she were smart, she'd go back to the palace now and get some sleep and get on with her life. Better still, she should set out west and find a new life. She wasn't expected back in the kitchen until midnight to help clean up after the banquet. a.s.suming it was over; sometimes, these formal affairs lasted all night. Even if the Master noticed her absence, no one would have time to look for her until dawn. She could be free of Pilozhat and free of Xevhan.

It was all Keirith's fault. Ever since that first interrogation. Reminding her of the tongue she used to speak, the home she used to have, the girl she might have been. Seeking her sympathy with his sad eyes and trembling hands.

The Supplicant had praised her for showing initiative in telling Keirith about his father. If only she'd shown some last night. The knife had been strapped to her thigh. Each time she'd pa.s.sed behind Xevhan, her fingers had trembled with the urge to plunge it into his back. She might have managed it during the fight. With all eyes fixed on the men in the arena, she might even have slipped away unnoticed.

With one blow, she could have killed Xevhan and severed her bond to Keirith. But she had hesitated. Later, she tried to convince herself that she had been caught up in the battle, but the truth was she had allowed her emotions to rule her reason. Because she had feared Keirith would be accused in her place. Because she had seen how desperate he was to save his father. Because the Spirit-Hunter had come hundreds of miles to save his son, and no one had ever risked so much for her. She envied their love and hungered for a little piece of it-even more than she hungered for Xevhan's blood.

It was pathetic. She would count to one hundred. If the dwarf hadn't returned by then, she would leave.

She'd reached one hundred and fifty-five when the mute grunted and pointed toward Pilozhat. His eyes were better than hers. In the fading light, it took a while before she picked out the players among the small cl.u.s.ters of people returning from the city. They straggled up to the cart. The fair-haired dwarf's eyes were bloodshot as if he'd been drinking or crying. The others looked equally gloomy.

"You were there," the dwarf said. "Last night."

"Yes, I-"

"Did the Zheron send you to spy on us?"

The mute grabbed his shoulder and shook his head. Ignoring them both, Hircha addressed herself to the leader of the troupe, choosing her words with care. "The Zheron has arrested the Wild Man. He means to sacrifice him tomorrow at the temple of Zhe."

"Sacrifice him?" The leader splayed his fingers over his heart. "Merciful G.o.ds. First Urkiat. Then Rizhi. Now this."

"Rizhi?" For the first time, she realized the blind girl was missing. Had Xevhan decided to keep her? "Where is she? What's happened?"

"She's dead." The fair-haired dwarf turned his malevolent gaze on the leader.

"He said he wanted to hear her sing. That was all."

He spoke eagerly, as if trying to convince the others. Or perhaps he only wanted to convince her; judging from their expressions, the players had heard it all before.

"She was fine when Hakkon and I brought her back. A little distant perhaps, but I thought she was tired. We all thought she was tired. She'd gotten no sleep last night, after all. And she'd spent half the morning performing for the Zheron. I could never have antic.i.p.ated it. One moment, she was sitting beside the cart. And the next, she had a knife in her hands. She couldn't even see. How could she grab the knife so quickly? How could I have stopped her?"

"How could you let her bleed to death?" the fair-haired dwarf demanded savagely.

"I tried! But the wounds were . . ." He shuddered. "You all saw me. I bound her wrists myself. With cloth cut from my own tunic. I didn't hesitate a moment, even though it was brand new and the cloth cost me two eagles. Oh, it's a tragedy. A terrible tragedy."

Presumably, he meant Rizhi's death, not the mutilation of his tunic.

"At least, the poor child got a decent funeral."

"Only because I insisted," the dwarf said. "If you'd had your way, you would have shoved her in a hole the way we did Urkiat."

"Bep." The old woman rested her hand on his shoulder. "It's done. Blaming each other isn't going to bring Rizhi back. Or Urkiat." She managed a weak smile. "Thank you for coming to tell us about poor Reinek. He was a good man. Quiet but dependable. And although I always suspected his heart wasn't in his work, he was an exceptional Wild Man. We will pray for him."

"After we leave Pilozhat," the leader insisted. "Hakkon, hitch up the bullock. If we break camp now, we can-"

"No."

To Hircha's surprise, the leader wilted at the old woman's voice.

"But we can't stay. Not after all that's happened."

"We've been two days and a night without sleep, Olinio. We've buried two of our comrades and another is dying tomorrow. We'll leave when the sun's up."

"You're not suggesting we witness the sacrifice?"

"No. But we should at least lay an offering on the altar of the G.o.d with Two Faces afterward. Perhaps that will encourage him to smile on us again."

"But, Mother . . ." As he launched into a volley of protests, the old woman walked away. Still protesting, he trotted after her.

"I'm sorry about the little girl," Hircha said. "She had a beautiful voice."

"She had a beautiful spirit, too," Bep said. "Until the Zheron crushed it."

The dark-haired dwarf sat slumped against the wheel of the cart, either exhausted or disinterested, but she didn't want him listening. Hircha jerked her head away from the camp. After a moment, Bep and Hakkon followed her.

"Keirith-the boy who spoke to the . . . to Reinek last night-he sent me."

"And you're a good friend of Keirith's, of course. And the Zheron's slave."

"Look. The last thing I want is to get involved in this crazy scheme. But Keirith asked me to come to you, and I agreed. He wants to try and help Reinek escape right before the sacrifice. After the procession leaves the palace. But he can't do it alone. Not with four guards around Reinek. Keirith's still working out details-"

"Well, that's rea.s.suring. So far, it's worse than the plot of one of our pantomimes." Bep slapped his forehead. "Wait! I've got it! I'll pretend to be a dog and bite one guard, while Hakkon beats another to death with his staff. That'll just leave one each for Reinek and the boy."

It took all her self-control not to slap him. "If you want to help, fine. If not, I've delivered the message." She tried one last time. "I know freeing Reinek isn't as good as killing the Zheron, but it's . . . it's something."

She was walking away when Bep called, "Girl!" He walked toward her slowly, his eyes hard. "Why are you so eager to help?"

"I have my own reasons for wanting to hurt the Zheron."

"And those are?"

"None of your business!"

Bep spat. Hakkon just watched her. Silently, she cursed them. And Keirith for getting her into this. And his father for getting caught. Most of all, she cursed herself for foolishly following her heart instead of her head.

"I was one of the Zheron's little girls, too. Does that satisfy you?"

The shock on their faces was answer enough.

Chapter 39.

The first thing Darak saw were his charms, scattered on the dry, cracked earth. Tears came to his eyes when he saw the pieces of the fire-blackened twig.

After all that has happened, how can I weep over a broken charm?

He forced himself to sit up. Was it the blow to his head that made him so groggy or the aftereffects of his ordeal in Fellgair's chamber? The sun had disappeared behind the wall of the slave compound. It seemed impossible that he could have slept the afternoon away. Then he saw the bulging waterskin lying beside him. He remembered the guards holding it to his mouth, forcing him to drink. He'd been too grateful for the water to protest.

Carefully, he returned the charms to his bag and tied it around his neck. His belt pouch was empty; they'd taken the coins and Malaq's safe conduct disk. He couldn't believe Malaq had betrayed him. This had to be the Zheron's work. Which meant that Malaq's promise to protect Keirith might be worthless now. But if the Zheron had ordered his arrest, why had the guards brought him here? Unless the Zheron meant to question him later.

He learned little from the men sharing his shelter. Most simply rolled over with a groan or stared at him in confusion. They could barely mutter their own names, never mind recognize Keirith's. Force of habit made him repeat the names; if he managed to escape, he could bring word to their families. But the news would be grim: nearly all had red hair, which meant they would be taken to the altar of the sun G.o.d in a matter of days.

Simply walking to the next shelter made his heart flutter. The few men who acknowledged him spoke an unrecognizable tongue, but in the third, he discovered men from Keirith's ship. The only ones who were alert enough to respond were a hunter named Temet and a Memory-Keeper named Brudien. It was a shock to hear the names, part of the long list he had carried in his head for so many days.

"There were twelve ships," Temet said. "I think. They put most of the red-haired captives in ours." He fingered a dirty, blond braid. "Brudien and I have a bet. He says the fair-haired ones like us will make it till Midsummer. I'm wagering they'll take us before."

"The next few days should tell," Brudien said with a small smile.

Darak found their calm chilling, a combination of hopelessness and the effects of the drugs the Zherosi must be giving them. Surely, the heat couldn't account for the la.s.situde of those in the compound or explain why even Brudien and Temet tended to drift off in the middle of a sentence.

At sunset, Darak followed them to the long table where the guards dispensed food. The first one frowned when he held up his empty hands, then thrust out two bowls. Darak slung the waterskin over his shoulder and held out his bowl to another guard who ladled a thick fish stew into it. The next dished out a mixture of meat and dried fruit. Awkwardly cradling the bowls against his chest, he walked back to the shelter.

"You're lucky," Temet whispered. "Until yesterday, it was only a watery soup. They must be fattening us up for the sacrifice."

The stew smelled delicious, but he followed Temet's example and dribbled it into the circle of bowls held out by the other men. Then he pa.s.sed the other bowl around as well. Each man took only a tiny handful; drugged and hungry and enervated from the heat, they still preserved the ways of hospitality in the slave compound.

"It's probably in the water, too," Temet said. "But you can't do without that."

Grimly, Darak determined to try. "Is there any way out?"

"The gate you came in and that door over there. Unless they want to sell you, you won't be leaving by the gate." Temet's gaze lingered a moment on his hands. "The guards select two men before dawn. Once, they took three. Don't know why. But those who go out the door never come back."

He nodded to the guards who were hauling ladders onto the narrow walkways near the top of the walls. "They pull the ladders up at night. You'd have to scale the wall like a squirrel. Or fly over it."

"There are more than a hundred men here. And . . . what? Twenty guards?"

"On the walls," Brudien said. "But you saw how many more arrived when they fed us."

"Still, if we all attacked at once . . ." Darak's voice trailed off as he scanned the sleeping men.

"We waited," Temet said. "That was our mistake. If we had tried to escape when we first arrived . . ."

"Nay. The first sennight, we were so drugged, we could scarcely move." Brudien leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. "They're very thorough, the Zherosi."

"A man alone-on his way to the sacrifice. He might break away."

Temet shrugged. "You might. The drugs haven't fuzzled your brain or your body." A dreamy expression came over his face. "I was the fastest runner in my village. Won every race at the Gatherings. Swift as the wind, I was. Swift as the wind." might. The drugs haven't fuzzled your brain or your body." A dreamy expression came over his face. "I was the fastest runner in my village. Won every race at the Gatherings. Swift as the wind, I was. Swift as the wind."

When the light began to fade, Darak realized no one would come for him until the morrow. Whatever the Zherosi planned for him, he needed to be strong. He stretched out on the ground, whispering the names of those who had already gone to the altar stone and those who still remained from Keirith's ship. Then he said a prayer for Keirith and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Keirith lay in the pit, staring up at the night sky. Even with Natha's help, the adders had been too frenzied to send him more than a few disjointed images: stones tumbling into the pit, earth crumbling beneath their bodies. It took their combined power to calm them.

He had been too caught up in the events of the day to pay much attention to his headache or to Niqia's behavior. Now it seemed clear another earthquake was coming, but he didn't know how soon. Nor did he know if the adders' terror foretold a stronger tremor than the last.

A few toppling walls wouldn't devastate the city. And if the walls of the slave compound fell, his father might be able to escape in the confusion, along with all the other captives. If he gave the Qepo a definitive answer, the guards would take him back to his room and he'd be helpless to save his father. If he stalled for time and the earthquake struck, he risked being buried in the pit-and dooming hundreds of people to similar deaths.

Keirith sat up. The guttering torches on the viewing platform revealed the Qepo and two of the queen's guards. "The earth shakes. Soon, I think. But I do not know how bad."

"They're quieter now," the Qepo observed.