“Too kind, my good man,” laughed the showman and he looked around, secretly hoping he might catch sight of the pretty girl again. “If you saw my little contretemps just now, have you any idea who my opponent might be?” he enquired, and called a lad over who was peddling delicacies from a tray; he was offering freshly baked black bread with cream, ham and a layer of melted cheese. Rodario knew he must eat something or the wine would have a devastating effect. He didn’t want to turn up that evening the worse for wear, let alone to fall off the stage drunk and incapable when he faced his audience. He’d seen that happen to others. He bought himself one of the savory snacks in exchange for a quarter. He contemplated his purchase and thought of his good friend who had so loved these flatbreads.
“Sure I know who it is.” The vintner topped up the jug from the barrel and thus prevented Rodario’s thoughts becoming too melancholy. “Nolik, son of Leslang, the richest man in Storm Valley. The two of them own a quarry that supplies the finest marble in Gauragar. King Bruron is a personal friend of theirs.”
“And yet the man has no breeding.” Rodario took a bite. “He gets his wife to work as a washerwoman?”
The wine seller took a quick look around before answering. “Nolik is a bad man. No idea how he won Tassia’s heart. Can’t have been honestly.”
“Who will ever understand women? Perhaps his inner virtues are as gold compared to his behavior?” Rodario rolled his eyes. “This savory flatbread is de-li-cious,” he praised, his mouth full, as he juggled the snack from one hand to the other, “but it’s still too hot!” He gulped some wine to quench the burning and sighed happily.
The other man laughed so loud that the folk around them turned their heads. “Nolik and inner values? No, definitely not.” Quietly he added, “Tassia’s family owed his father money. Need I say more?”
“No.” Rodario chewed his last morsel, picked up the jug and the beaker and moved on. “Don’t forget my wine!” He raised his two prizes in the air. “You’ll have these back this evening if the barrel gets delivered,” he placated the man.
Rodario loved to wander through a busy throng of people; this was life. He had had enough of death, heroic deeds or not. He was a showman: a skilled mimic and an excellent lover-better than any other in Girdlegard. And for both areas of expertise he needed real people around him to appreciate his god-given gifts.
There was another reason he had been obliged to give up his theater in Porista: the face he had been seeking in the crowd. The face of Furgas.
The friend who had been his companion on those long theater tours was in despair over the death of his beloved Narmora and had completely disappeared since the victory over the eoil and the conversation they had subsequently had with Tungdil.
That was five cycles ago now.
Since that time Rodario had been traveling through the Girdlegard kingdoms, doing the same thing in each town, village or hamlet he passed through: He asked about Furgas and showed people the likeness he had had made. Without success.
But he was not giving up. Not in Storm Valley, where his enquiries had been met with shaking heads when he showed the miniature portrait of his friend in the inns and in the marketplace and at the town gates.
Rodario was very worried about his lost companion. Then there was the problem of the various pieces of complicated apparatus Furgas had invented and which Rodario used in all his performances, strapped to his body: burlap seed slings to shoot balls of fire, little leather bags where the black paper flowers waited, and all sorts of other containers for powders. These were such ingenious contraptions that they let him appear in the eyes of his audience like a magus-they formed the core of his whole act. He was afraid of the day that must come when one of these trusty utensils might give up and need repair. He had always managed to cope with small defects in his props, but patching up was not always going to work.
So Rodario returned to where his troupe had set up camp, that familiar feeling of disappointment with him again. He would get over it. Back on stage he could act away his worries and forget them. The crowd loved him and thought of him as the merry showman, always bright and ready with a quip, because they had no way of seeing behind the mask.
The performance ended in triumph and in one of the colossal thunderstorms that gave Storm Valley its name and which tested the strength of the marquee’s guy-ropes to the utmost. The fabric billowed in and out, giving the audience the impression they were sitting inside some extremely unsettled intestines. Hardly had the applause died away than the audience rushed back to town for home and shelter. The sales of eoil-breath in the little flacons could have gone better.
Rodario retired to his personal caravan with its mystical designs painted on the walls. This was where he prepared for his act before each performance and where he counted the takings after it. The coins were stacked on the traveling actor’s make-up table. Little by little, we’re getting there, he thought. It’s a living.
He was still wearing the robe he always used; it had been his in Porista when, as a “Magus,” he had used the name Rodario the Incredible. The tricks intended to confuse his enemies had now been downgraded to stage props. He took his make-up off and unstrapped the various trick devices from his body.
He poured himself some wine, drank it and took a look in the mirror; in the lamplight his face was much older now. “Every wrinkle is a cycle of worry.” He toasted Furgas’s picture. “May you be safe and well, old friend, until I can find you. Who could compete with your masterful ingenuity?” He gulped down the wine, not hearing the knock at the door at first.
“I’m asleep,” he called out crossly when the knocking did not stop.
“That’s good. Let me bring you a nightmare, flatterer.” A man’s voice. The door burst open, sending up clouds of dust. On the threshold was Nolik with two men behind him. They all bore cudgels.
“Awake already, my strong friend. What is the hurry? I would have opened the door for you.” Rodario jumped up, grabbing his sword. “This is a real weapon, Nolik,” he warned, tossing the hair back out of his eyes. “Don’t force me to give it your blood to taste.”
“Hark at that fancy talk even now the curtain’s down.” Nolik laughed and stepped into the caravan, his companions at his heels. He pulled open the first cupboard he came to, wrenching clothes out and hurling them onto the ground. “Where the hell…?”
“Looking for tonight’s takings?” Rodario raised his sword. “I thought you were so very rich? Is the marble not selling?”
A second cupboard was pulled open and pots, bottles and bags were thrown around. They shattered or burst open and the contents ran into each other. “You know who I mean,” yelled Nolik, taking a stride forward and crushing the valuable eoil-breath ingredients underfoot.
Rodario set the point of his sword at Nolik’s breast. “You, my good man, shall pay me for the wanton damage you have caused here. And by all the monsters of Tion, tell me what the blazes you and these highly intellectually underprivileged mates of yours are looking for.”
“Tassia.”
“Your wife?” he laughed. “Oh, now I understand. She’s run away and you think I’m hiding her.”
“Of course. She’s always had these mad ideas, and you and your flattery have set her off again. The bed was empty yet again.”
Rodario grinned and looked past the man to his two companions. “Then take yourself back there and cuddle up to these two delights. If I were your wife I’d have done a bunk ages ago. Now get off out of here!”
No one did as he suggested. Nolik was about to open one of the chests when the showman slammed the flat of his sword down on his fingers, making him jump back.
“Touch one more thing in my wagon and you’ll be using the other hand forever and a day when you wipe your backside,” hissed Rodario, trying hard to look very, very dangerous.