A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [56]
In a sullen silence, barely able to look at each other, the troupe doused the torches, stripped the stage, and loaded everything into the wagons while Orima cowered under a nearby palm. Marka was frankly terrified, blaming her ill will for the fall even as she told herself, over and over, that such things were impossible. Much to her relief, no one mentioned the fall until they got back to the campground, where Delya and young Rosso were keeping an eye on the tents. While the men tended the horses and wagons, Hamil and the women drifted miserably over to the fire. Delya took one good look at their faces and said nothing. The silence grew until Orima screwed her face in a pout and pointed one painted fingernail at Marka.
“She hexed me!” Orima screeched. “Your precious little daughter hexed me! She’s got the evil eye.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Hamil snapped. “We all fall now and then.”
“She’s got the evil eye!” Orima stamped one slender foot.
“Will you shut up? If your head wasn’t so empty you might have better balance on the rope.”
“You pig! You filthy rooting hog!”
Orima and Hamil began sneering and screeching in turns. The rest of the troupe rolled eyes heavenward and trotted off, bursting into chatter as soon as they were well away from the slanging match by the fire. Marka raced off after Keeta. She knew how the fight would end; they would suddenly be all kisses and hugs and creep into their tent … she didn’t want to think about it. In the moonlight the two women walked along the edge of the cliff and watched the waves foaming below.
“Keeta?” Marka said at last. “You don’t think wishing someone ill can work them ill, do you?”
Keeta laughed, her dark rumble of a bellow as reassuring as a motherly hug.
“No, I most certainly don’t. Why? Feeling a bite of guilt, hum?”
“Well, it sounds silly now.”
“Understandable enough, little one. But don’t vex your soul over it. She fell because she hurried her step, that’s all” Keeta sighed profoundly. “At least we earned enough to eat for a while.”
“But how are we going to get home? This is the only stinking town on this rotten little island, and they aren’t going to want to watch the cow capering again.”
“Oooh! Nasty little tongue!”
“But I’m right.”
Keeta made a sort of grunt.
“Well, aren’t I right?”
“About the audience, yes. I wouldn’t call Rimi a cow. Your father’s right. We all fall now and then.”
“I never did! And she hates me for it, too. You know what I’m afraid of? That she’ll work on Father, and he’ll sell me to a slave trader. That’d buy passage for all of you, wouldn’t it? I bet I’d fetch a lot.”
“Will you be quiet? That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard anyone say! Your father would never do such a thing.”
“Maybe not, but she would.”
Keeta’s silence spoke a scrollful of answers.
In the morning Marka slept late. She shared a tent with Keeta and Delya, but woke to find them long gone, their bedrolls neatly folded and stowed off to one side, the hot sun streaming through the canvas. From outside she could hear voices, laughter and amiable squabbling, snatches of singing and pretend-oaths, all the normal life of the camp. She dressed, found her bone comb, and wandered outside to stand blinking in the sunlight and work at smoothing her tangle of curls. Although everyone else was up and around, there was no sign of her father or Orima. Still in bed, probably. She made a face at the thought.
“There you are!” Keeta called out. “Fresh bread in that basket by the fire pit.”
Together they sat down, by a pile of firewood while Marka nibbled at her breakfast,
“I was talking to Vinto,” Keeta said. “He’s worried about money, too. Your father