Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 03 (4 page)

Out of an acute sense of impending doom, Hercules declared that he didn't want to hear it.

Salmoneus, whose only sense of doom was sparked by an empty purse or dinner table, told him anyway.

In the beginning, Virgil Cribus believed he had about the best job in the world. He traveled, he saw sights he had never dreamed he would see, he met all kinds of interesting people, and he alone was responsible for the arrangements that made the Salmoneus Traveling Theater of Fun such a great success.

Lately, however, he figured he was lucky he still had his scalp.

He supposed it was his face. He looked much younger than he really was, even with the splotchy beard he'd been trying to grow over the past couple of weeks. People just didn't feel much like beating up a kid. Which he wasn't. And until now, he had vehemently denied he was.

So far, he had been lucky.

He had arrived in the small town of Phyphe late last night. This morning, energized by decent sleep and a good meal, he had hit Phyphe like a hurricane. Fast talk, sincere smiles, a nudge and a wink, and by midday he had secured rooms for the entire vau-dalvillian troupe at a price Salmoneus would be proud of.

The hardest part had been Dragar's place. The man insisted on remaining apart from all the others. "To practice, and to keep my secrets from being stolen'' was the reason. Luckily no one ever argued. He was, Virgil had to admit, a damn weird man, even for a magician, and the others were glad they didn't have to share the same roof with him.

Having completed that task, Virgil ate a quick lunch and strolled to the center of town.

From what he had learned so far, Phyphe had been founded either by an astute group of businessmen looking for a way to consolidate their shops along one of the area's primary caravan and travel routes, or by a bunch of drunks who stopped here because they couldn't walk any farther.

Either way, it made for an interesting setup.

Phyphe was shaped like a wheel.

All the streets were spokes out of the center, the main street being twice as wide as the others, leading to the road that made its way through the surrounding hills and valleys.

Just outside town, in a field west of the road, was Phyphe's somewhat petite version of a big-city coliseum: two crescents of six rows each, facing a small paving-stone floor where the community's major events were celebrated. Virgil estimated a hundred people could fill this coliseum; two or three, if they didn't take deep breaths. Between the crescents, gaps barely the width of two men walking abreast provided entrance and exit.

The outer stone wall was the biggest problem. Despite its height, a quick survey of the surrounding area made him suspect a lot of folks just climbed to the roofs of the nearest buildings to watch whatever was going on. For free. Something would have to be done about that. Perhaps—

"Ah, Virgil, there you are," a husky voice said.

He prayed for strength, resolution, and, in a pinch, invisibility.

This was the most difficult part of all his assignments—negotiating with town leaders for percentages of the profits. Unfortunately Phyphe had a leader of the leaders, and last night it was clear she had more in mind than just a simple handshake to close the deal.

"Olivia," he said warmly, fixing a welcoming smile in place as he turned. He made a show of checking the sun. "Right on time. Wonderful. Wonderful."

Olivia Stellas was of indeterminate age. Her face was smooth and taut. Very taut. So taut that Virgil wondered when he first saw her why her ears were still on the sides of her head. Her hair was incredibly, unnaturally black and long, and elaborately braided into a high cone-like pile, with two coy curls dangling at her temples; there wasn't a doorway in town she could walk through without ducking. Her lips were thick and red, her eyes dark and unreadable, her nose the only feature that had sharp angles.

Virgil had a feeling that whenever she walked on the beach, sharks for hundreds of miles around ducked for cover.

She linked her arm with his and led him into the arena, gliding, eyes shifting constantly, head up as if testing the air.

"My sources tell me you've had troubles recently."

"Rumors," he assured her, patting her hand and suppressing a shudder. "Jealous rivals."

"The earth tremors?"

"Coincidence."

"The fire?"

"A drunk knocked a torch over at the entrance."

"The riot?"

He grinned. "Three men fighting over Miss Delilah, our contortionist."

"Hyanth?"

They stopped in the center.

"Really, Olivia," he said. "A man turned into a frog?" He laughed as a man of the world laughs with a woman of the world at the way rumors persist in the lives of the rubes of the world.

Olivia didn't laugh. She smiled. Tautly.

Virgil shuddered again, especially when she bumped her hip against his and suggested they repair to the nearest quiet place in order to complete the arrangements.

He agreed.

She winked.

He thought, I want a raise.

• • •

In the beginning, Dragar only wanted to be a competent trickster—a man who could pull rabbits and rats out of a cap, pull ribbons out of his ear, and make people laugh when he pulled a dinar from the nose of an unsuspecting audience member. As a young man he had been short and dumpy; a young man he had a terrible stutter; as a young man he had been tormented and beaten up and shunned and reviled.

As a young man he had been a lousy magician. He had little flair, little skill, and every time he lowered his arms, a chicken fell out of his sleeve.

Dragar Illarius didn't want to be a magician anymore.

He wanted more.

Much more.

He stood in the center of the room that mop-head, Virgil, had secured for him, and scanned the chests that held his props. He was no longer short, no longer dumpy; he no longer stuttered, and no longer cared whether people liked him or not.

"You want the big bed or the little one?"

He closed his eyes briefly. "The big one, of course," he said to the woman in the adjoining room.

"You always get the big one."

"I'm the star. I deserve it."

Aulma came to the connecting door and put her hands on her hips. Nice hips, Dragar thought as an unbidden smile touched his lips; nice everything else, too, but really nice hips.

She pouted. A practiced pout he had seen a hundred times, and ninety-nine times it had almost worked.

The one time it had worked she didn't have anything on but her long blond hair, so he didn't count it.

"I'm hungry," she said, still pouting while she fluffed her hair.

"I have work to do."

"You always have work to do."

He smiled, and smiled more widely when she took an involuntary step back. He had smiles and he had smiles, and this smile was the one that reminded her of her station, and what would happen if she tried to raise it. Or forget it.

She glanced at the far corner.

He didn't look; he didn't have to.

It was there. He could feel it. He could feel the energy that cloaked it like a veil. He could feel the promise it had made when he created it, six months ago.

He could feel the power.

"It's glowing," she whispered fearfully.

"It's all right," he assured her. "Nothing to fear."
As long as I'm around
was the unspoken warning.

She licked her lips nervously, her hands clasped to her
chest.
"I..." She swallowed. "When we
got
here last night?" She swallowed again. "I felt it, Dragar." A tentative smile. "I think I really felt it."

So had he.

As soon as he had stepped into the middle of this pathetic town's pitiful excuse for a crass coliseum, he had felt the tingle work its way up his spine, spread across his shoulders, and down to his fingers. So disgusted was he by the venue, he had been taken by surprise when the feeling struck him.

"Four," she said, daring a step into his room.

He nodded.

"The last?"

He nodded again, once, slowly.

Another step, close enough for her to take his hand. "And then what?"

He pulled her into an embrace, holding her head against his chest while he looked at the eyes that glowed and pulsed in the corner.

You have no idea, he thought grimly; my dear, you have no idea what I'm going to do now.

"I'm going to be a star!" Merta declared angrily. "Nothing you can do will stop me. I'm going to travel to every kingdom and make kings grovel at my feet. I'm going to make a fortune and have a kingdom of my own. I'm going to make Zeus so jealous, he'll make me a goddess in charge of all the gold and silver in the world! That's what I'm going to do and no one is going to stop me!"

She inhaled sharply, held the breath until her cheeks began to quiver, then exhaled in such a rush that she became light-headed and had to sit on the stool behind her.

Still, it was a good speech. A few more practices, and she'd actually give it to someone besides the jackass.

Which, in its stall, snorted, twitched its ears, and grabbed another mouthful of hay. It didn't seem terribly impressed.

"Really," she told it. "As soon as they get here, I'm going to audition, they'll make me a star, and I'm gone. Outta here. No more mucking about." She glared around the eight-stall stable. "Absolutely no more mucking about."

The jackass chewed.

In the last stall to her left a bony gray mare hung its head over the door and flubbered its lips.

"Yeah, yeah," she said. "Easy for you to say."

The mare flubbered again.

Merta sighed, and began humming. She had a good voice. She knew she had a good voice. Everybody who heard her told her she had a good voice. The trouble was, the people who heard her were the same people who had heard her all her life, and they never paid for listening.

But ever since she had seen the notices announcing the imminent arrival of the Salmoneus Traveling Theater of Fun, she knew her destiny was on the way. This Theater thing had already garnered great attention, travelers passing word of marvels and wonders and thrills and laughs, and, most importantly, it was worth every dinar. Some had even seen it three and four times.

Destiny, she thought longingly; my destiny has arrived.

The mare flubbered.

The jackass kicked the wall.

Her mother yelled from the corral, something about the pig getting its head caught in the fence again.

Merta burst into song as she got to her feet.

Destiny.

And the jackass's ears stopped twitching.

Just to the east of Phyphe the forest had been cleared for farmland. A wide stream flowed through it, making its way from the hills to the west, across the fields and into the trees again, where it meandered until the land abruptly dropped. The resultant waterfall was nearly fifty feet high, the frothing pool at its base deep and long and rich with life. The downstream water was deeper still, and fishermen loved it. Lovers did, too, sitting on the grassy banks beneath the shade of ancient oak and myrtle, sipping wine, eating bread, fooling around. Children played here. Old men and old women reminisced here..

A young stag stepped cautiously out of the trees near the pool. It sniffed the air, checked the rocky bank across the way, and remained motionless for several long seconds before dipping its head to drink.

It never saw the flash of sharp green fire.

The road to Phyphe split just on the other side of a fast-running clear stream. Hercules watched the two wagons until they rumbled out of sight, slipping around a bend choked with high brush. They had taken the right fork; he took the left, where the road eventually narrowed and followed the stream northward.