Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,32

so long.”

“Too long.”

He bent down to speak into her ear and whatever he said made her smile. She whispered in response, the man nodded, and Elyea kissed his cheek. Waving her in with a sweep of his arm, he pulled aside the tent flap and she pulled Ghaul through while beckoning Khirro to follow. Some of the people waiting to gain entrance noticed them bypassing the queue.

“Whore,” one woman muttered.

“Slut,” called out another.

“Who do we have to fuck to get into the show?” a man said.

Their comments made Khirro’s cheeks burn, but Elyea either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Either way, she appeared to be well known in Inehsul.

They entered into air thick and hot, rank with the smell of canvas and the stink of sweat. People sat on rows of creaking benches, fanning themselves with anything they could find: hats, skirt hems, work gloves. Elyea guided her companions to a spot in the last row where they squeezed into a space meant for two. The man beside them grumbled about his lack of room. Elyea smiled sweetly and he said no more.

Khirro shifted in his seat attempting to keep his knees from pressing into the back of the woman seated in front of him; the rows of benches were packed so tightly the front row’s knees pressed against the low stage erected there. Atop the platform, a child clad in bright colors and odd patterns cantered about.

Someone should get him down before the performance begins. He glanced around and saw there were no other children in the tent. I won’t let my child act like that.

As Khirro watched, he realized the person in piebald clothing and shoes with bells on the turned up toes was no child, but the smallest man he’d ever seen. All his parts were proportionate, nothing misshapen or stunted, the jester was simply a small man. He wore a constant look of surprise as he ran about the stage, tripping over one unlikely object after another, or sometimes nothing at all. The audience cheered each pratfall, hooting and hollering and calling the jester names. Khirro smiled at the little man’s antics. It felt good to smile.

He overheard Ghaul ask Elyea: “How did you get us in?”

“The doorman is a friend of mine. I traveled with the troupe a few times.”

Khirro wondered what she meant by ‘traveled with’. Ghaul put words to his thought.

“As their courtesan?”

“No.” She slapped his thigh playfully without taking her eyes from the performer. “I performed. I’m a dancer.”

Khirro thought of the graceful ease she showed navigating the forest, traversing tangles of branches and twists of brambles like it was second nature. He could easily see her gliding across the stage, the antithesis to the clumsy jester.

“But why are we here? We should move on.”

Someone shushed Ghaul, but the warrior’s angry look made the man cower. The jester didn’t speak as he stumbled about, his body hitting the stage the only noise he produced, and Khirro wondered why the man would bother telling Ghaul to be quiet.

“Have patience, Ghaul,” Elyea replied. “Enjoy the show.”

Ghaul looked as though he would say something else but relented. Khirro smirked. He imagined Elyea often got her way.

The little man’s performance ended as he blundered from the stage to raucous laughter and applause. Next came the juggler: a tall, slender man with dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. He began his act tossing about three bean bags, then five, then ten, using every part of his body to keep them in the air: hands, feet, back, head. He graduated to sticks and rocks, then knives. For his finale, he juggled a double-edged axe, an egg and a lit torch. The audience gasped and oohed as the items spun and flew; Khirro gasped and oohed along with them, the performance making him forget their journey. The torch licked the roof of the tent on a final high spin and the man caught it with a flourish and a bow, ending his performance. The crowd cheered and Khirro clapped while Ghaul sat silent on the other side of Elyea.

A man with a lute in his hands and a purple feather bobbing from his felt hat took the stage, his features delicate enough he might pass for a woman but for his whip-thin mustache. The crowd went silent with the first chord he strummed. He sang of knights and dragons, maidens and heroes, of loves won and lost and regained again, all in a voice smooth and sweet