A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [63]
With Orima left behind and gone, Marka reclaimed the star turn on the slack rope. It was some compensation, she supposed, for losing her father, although, as the days went by, she was startled to find that she missed him very little. While Hamil had never treated her badly, he’d never treated her particularly well, either. What she did miss was the fact of having a father, a family, a place or connection in the world. From now on the troupe—or some troupe much like it—would be the only family she would have, just as their troupes were for so many of the wandering performers of the Bardekian islands. She comforted herself by thinking that at least she had Keeta and Delya, whom she’d known for six whole years, practically a lifetime in the fluid world of traveling shows.
And then, of course, there was Salamander, whom she found more than compensation enough. She would pick out a place at a safe distance to sit and watch him for hours on end, whether he was performing or practicing or merely standing by the campfire and eating his dinner. Most times she was afraid to approach him. Once though, when he was working with the silk scarves, he noticed her watching and called her over.
“Want to learn how to throw these?” he said.
“Yes, I would.” She was surprised at herself for speaking so easily. “If you wouldn’t mind taking the time to show me how.”
“Not in the least, not in the least.”
After that, she had a legitimate excuse to spend several hours a day in his company, though every now and then, she would notice Keeta or Jill giving them a less-than-approving look.
After one of their practice sessions, he told her that his real name was Ebañy, but he made her promise to keep it a secret from everyone else—which gave her a moment of cold doubt. Even though she was thoroughly besotted with him, Marka was shrewd enough to realize that he was keeping some rather strange truths to himself. Whenever he spoke of the barbarian kingdom in the north, his stories grew guarded. He never mentioned his family or a home city; he never told anyone why or how he’d become a street performer.
“Do you think he’s maybe the outcast son of one of their nobles?” Marka remarked to Keeta one night. “Maybe he’s even a prince in disgrace.”
Keeta snorted.
“The disgrace I’d believe quick enough.”
“Oh, don’t be mean! But you know, sometimes I wonder if he’s married.”
“Marka my dear, you do have a good head on your shoulders, don’t you? But no, I asked Jill, and she said he wasn’t.”
“Oh, I’m so glad! We can trust what Jill says, can’t we?”
“There’s something about Jill, my dear, that makes me think we could trust her with our lives.” Keeta frowned, nipping her lower lip in thought. “I feel like a fool for saying it, but there you are.”
Marka barely paid attention to this last remark, but she found the news about Ebañy sweeter than the finest wine or purest honey. For days she savored it, bringing out the thought that no other woman had a claim on him. Yet, he remained distant, brotherly at the most, until she reached the bitter conclusion that he merely felt sorry for her.
The day before they reached Inderat Noa, the troupe came upon a public caravanserai beside the road. Although they could have made a few more miles before dark, and the city lay only about five miles ahead, they decided to camp early rather than risk being shut out of the gates by arriving late. Once the horses were tended and the tents raised, Marka went looking for Ebañy. Off to one side of the campground stood some scruffy holm oaks round a spring and a series of stone fountains, provided for travelers by the archons of Inderat Noa. As she walked up, Marka saw him sitting with Jill, and something about the tense set of their shoulders made her hesitate. When Ebañy saw her, he gave such a guilty start and smiled in such a nervous way that she realized they’d been talking about her. All at once she felt about eight years old; she was blushing—she was sure of it. Without a word she turned and ran for the camp, dodged into her tent,