Timothy Boggs - Hercules Legendary Joureneys 03 (9 page)

The earth
had
moved.

And outside the window was a flicker of pale green.

He hadn't slept the remainder of the night, and no one he had spoken to this morning had admitted to experiencing the same thing.

He knew some of them had, though; he had seen it in their eyes, the way they refused to meet his gaze.

He had seen it in the way a scavenging, black-and-white dog had shied away when he'd offered it scraps from his breakfast, as if he were going to beat it, not feed it.

Chiding himself, then, for letting his imagination run free, he took a step into the tunnel, which had been roofed over with heavy thatch that allowed in little light. He grinned when nothing happened; took another step, and another, and hurried on, nearly laughing aloud.

Nice, he thought, a little relieved to reach the open arena. The smooth cobbled floor was shaped in an oval, perhaps seventy-five feet across its widest part. The interior wall rose just above his head, the rows ranged concentrically above, here and there decorated with fluttering ribbons. A small army of children had been through earlier, sweeping the stone flooring and seats, and hanging from the walls gold-and-blue bunting that rippled whenever the breeze coasted through the tunnels or over the top.

He checked the sky and sensed no approaching storm. There would be no sun for the performance, but no rain either.

Yet there was something . . . curious ... about the place.

He frowned and took a step toward the center, stopping when a faint tingling rose from the soles of his boots. When he stepped back, the tingling stopped.

"Well," he said quietly. And shrugged. And moved again, swiveling about to check the seats, noting that the town itself couldn't be seen from down here.

The tingling returned.

He looked down as he walked, not knowing what to search for, but certain that whatever caused the sensation came from beneath the large, close-fitting cobblestones.

An underground river, perhaps; its passage might cause the ground to tremble a bit. Maybe.

It wasn't unpleasant, simply disturbing.

At least not until he reached the center of the floor.

That's when he felt as if he'd been struck by one of his father's bolts of lightning.

There was a brief moment of agony; the world turned blinding white, and just as swiftly turned an unrelenting black through which he felt himself falling.

Dead, he cried silently; this is what it's like to be dead.

A good part of the reason Salmoneus felt that his scheme would be successful was the fact that he often allowed local talent to appear in the show. In the past this had proven to heighten community interest, add a few more paying bodies to the audience, and once, in the case of Delilah the Contortionist, actually provide him with a decent act he could invite to join the troupe.

The drawback was the auditions.

He had been at his table in the tavern since midmorning, and it seemed as if half of Phyphe wanted to be in show business. With Virgil announcing each aspiring act, and Flovi in the corner providing accompaniment with a lyre and flute, he listened to breathless declamations, watched jugglers and mimes, braved a trained pig and a horse that was supposedly able to read minds, winced through enough songs to make his teeth ache, and suffered through a spectacularly bizarre performance by a guy who acted out highlights of Plato's
Dialogue
with himself.

But Salmoneus kept smiling, was unfailingly polite with each rejection, and couldn't help feeling as if his lips were going to fall off.

When the last person left, he sagged back in his chair and groaned.

"Pretty bad, huh?" Virgil said.

Salmoneus nodded wearily.

"Got to pick at least one more, though. In a hurry. The show starts in two hours."

Salmoneus nodded again. For purely pragmatic reasons, Olivia Stellas would be invited to read an epic poem she had written about the founding of Phyphe. To deny her would, Virgil had whispered, cause too many problems. As it was, the agreement Virgil had made with her and the other town leaders would barely produce a decent profit once the troupe's run was over. When she was finished, Salmoneus would be lucky not to have to give all the audience its money back.

As it was, his earlier hope that nothing would go wrong had been cruelly shattered when he had learned that a prominent family had been robbed the night before, mostly jewelry and loose money, nothing large, nothing heavy. As if that weren't bad enough, the husband had been struck with a club and still hadn't come around. And Hercules had cornered him just after breakfast, wanting to know about earthquakes or something.

A miracle, he prayed silently, with a pious glance to the tavern ceiling; nothing spectacular, but I could sure use one now.

At that moment a young woman strode into the room, planted herself in front of Salmoneus' table, and said, "I want to sing and be a star."

"Of course you do, my dear," Salmoneus responded kindly. She was a short, rather plain woman with close-cropped brown hair and a gently rounded figure from top to bottom, and she wore a certain pungent, familiar perfume he couldn't quite place. He tilted his head toward Flovi. "Just tell him what you're going to sing and he'll—"

"Sorry, but I work alone," she declared.

Salmoneus felt the smile begin to crack. "Whatever you want... uh ..."

"Merta," she said.

"Lovely name."

"Lovely," Flovi whispered, loud enough for them to hear.

Merta glanced at him, looked back at Salmoneus, blinked once, and looked at Flovi again. "Do ... do I know you?"

"No," Flovi answered wistfully.

"Oh."

"The song," Salmoneus prodded gently. He was hungry, and would barely have time to eat before the performance as it was. He'd give the little woman two notes, maybe three, before ending the session.

Merta took another long second before turning back to him. She clasped her hands loosely at her waist, swallowed nervously, and without introduction began to sing.

Salmoneus didn't recognize the melody, but he gave her a lot more than the allotted three notes.

Especially when Flovi, unbidden, took up his flute and added a bittersweet background to her song. When she finished, Virgil sighed in appreciation while, at the same time, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeves.

Flovi simply gaped, the flute forgotten in his hands.

"That was..." Salmoneus wasn't quite sure what to say. It was lovely, to be sure; it was moving, without a doubt; yet something vital was missing. A resonance, perhaps, or a depth that he reckoned, that he prayed, might come with experience and training. "Good."

Merta stared. "Good? That's it? Even the jackass thinks I'm better than that."

"Hey," Flovi muttered.

"Not you," she snapped.

"All right—very good, then," Salmoneus allowed as he stood. Before she could protest, he was around the table and had a hand on her elbow. He told her on the way to the exit that he would be honored if she would sing the following night, that she should practice well and long without straining that voice, and that she should, under no circumstances, let anyone know how much he would pay her.

Merta stopped on the threshold. "Pay?" When she smiled, she was no longer plain. "Pay?"

"Pay," he said, and gave her a gentle shove outside. When she was gone, he turned to Virgil. "Two things."

"Name it," the young man said eagerly.

"First, be sure that woman shows up."

"Got it."

"I'll do it," Flovi volunteered, and was out of the tavern before either man could stop him.

Salmoneus shrugged. "Okay, now I eat."

"The second thing?" Virgil reminded him.

"Oh. Yes. Make sure that Olivia woman doesn't show up."

"What?"

"Virgil, she'll put everyone to sleep who hasn't already climbed over the walls if we let her go on. We'll be dead, broke, and ruined."

"She'll close us down if we do it."

Salmoneus smiled. "She likes you, son. Keep her happy."

Virgil paled.

Flovi ran back into the room. "You'd better come with me."

"Now what?" Salmoneus patted his stomach. "I haven't eaten all day. How can I—"

"Herc—" He glanced at Virgil. "Your strongman is dead."

"What?"

Flovi flapped a hand. "Okay, maybe he's not dead, but he's lying down in the middle of the arena, and he isn't moving."

•

•

•

Hercules heard hushed voices.

This, he thought sourly, is getting to be a habit.

After some effort his eyes fluttered open and squinted against the afternoon's light. He lay on his stomach, and as the voices expressed varying degrees of gratitude that he was still alive, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He braced himself for another shock, another plunge into the dark, then sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs.

He felt no tingling at all, and he seemed to be in one piece. No burns on his skin, no scorch marks on his clothing, nothing on the arm guards forged by Hephestus specially for him.

It was as if nothing had happened.

"Hercules?" Salmoneus stood in front of him, concern and puzzlement narrowing his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Drunk," someone said.

Salmoneus glared over Hercules' head. "Don't be stupid, Virgil. He's not that sort. Now, get on with it.

We have a show, remember?"

"I'm fine," Hercules said, pleased that his voice still worked. "I think."

Salmoneus held out a hand, and Hercules held it tightly as he pulled himself to his feet. "Strangest thing."

"What?"

Hercules looked around, seeing but paying no attention to several people standing at various points around the arena floor. "I don't know, really. It was like ..." He frowned and shook his head. ' Like a bolt."

"Lightning?" Salmoneus scanned the sky worriedly. "Oh my, not now, not before the show."

"Not a real bolt," Hercules said impatiently. He stared at the cobbles, bent over and brushed them with his fingertips.

Nothing.

"At least 1 don't think so."

Torn between concern for his friend and concern for losing his shirt if no one came to the show because of a storm, Salmoneus touched Hercules' arm. "Maybe you should lie down or something. You've been working awfully hard."

Right, Hercules thought; I've also been fighting bandits, getting drugged, sat on by a Harpy, and zapped by lightning that came out of the ground. Working too hard doesn't even begin to describe it.

He checked the cobblestones again.

Out of the ground.

"Salmoneus, has this ever happened before? To anyone else?"

"Here?"

"Anywhere. Anywhere that you've been.'

"I don't know. I doubt it. I mean, I think [ would know if any of my people were..." He stopped, one eye nearly closed in thought. "Dragar."

"Who?"

"Dragar, Hercules." Salmoneus rubbed his hands together slowly. "I heard him tell Aulma once that he'd gotten all tingly or something when he stepped into the arena at. .." He closed both eyes, Shook his head. "I don't remember. I thought he was talking about the excitement of performing."

After a long silence Hercules said, "I'm sure he was, Salmoneus. I'm sure he was."

"So," Salmoneus said with a broad grin, "what do you think? Not bad, huh?"

Much to Hercules' surprise, it wasn't. The arena was only half-filled, but those hundred or so adults and children seemed to be having a great time. Each of the dozen acts was greeted with warm applause, each performance cheered when it was over. Salmoneus acted as master of ceremonies, resplendent in a billowing gold robe, moving the performers on and off with practiced ease-Delilah the Contortionist was amazing; a little man who told slightly ribald, humorous stories delighted the adults and puzzled the kids; Clova and Aeton were impressive as they performed intricate tumbling routines, and juggled everything from large balls to squealing piglets; and Flovi, when he wasn't playing with a local band as accompaniment to the performers, was wonderful as a flute soloist.

At the same time Virgil walked along the rows, a tray hanging from a strap around his neck, trying to sell snacks wrapped in ribbons. The problem was, the kids' hands were quicker than his ability to catch them.

He also looked incredibly tired.

"You're last," Salmoneus said with a slap to Hercules' shoulder as he ran out to introduce the next act.

Hercules smiled gamely.

He felt like an idiot.

In one of the caravan's chests his friend had discovered a great long cape made of wool, dyed a vivid red, and weighing at least as much as four grown men. The idea was to show himself briefly at the end while Salmoneus extolled the Power Beast's strength and ferocity, and dared the local strongmen to test themselves.