Chapter Two
Someone was singing. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't remember the words. The singer was too soft for him to decipher what was being said. Another voice joined the first, adding a harmony. He allowed his thoughts to drift. The song was a northern folk tune-it reminded him of his childhood and his family. A third voice began to chant a descant above the others. "Quiet!" a voice hissed. "You'll wake him." "He's been sleeping for three days. Maybe he needs to wake up!" "Well, no one gave you the job, so keep it down!" "Where am I?" His hoarse voice cut into the conversation of the children standing outside of his tent flap. He could hear them gasp and jump in surprise. One of them ran. Very slowly, two small heads-one with dark hair and one with light-peered around the tent flap, eyes wide in round faces. "You're with my father's Player troupe," the dark-haired boy, a Northerner, spoke first. "They brought you three days ago. Why aren't we allowed to tell anyone that you are here?" "You smelled. And you were very dirty. Did you fall into the mud? I get dirty all over when I play in the mud, and then my mother gets vexed at me," the golden-haired girl, also from the North, stepped around the flap for a better look. "I was-" a fit of coughing overtook him before he could tell them anything. A shadow fell over the children as an adult approached from behind. "Trinn, Daev, what did I tell you about disturbing this man?" The children jumped again and looked up at the woman. Her dark hair was held away from her face by a pink scarf. The tails of the scarf fluttered in the slight breeze moving among the tents. "I'm sorry, Mama," the little girl, Trinn, apologized. "He spoke to us first," the boy attempted to withstand her glare. After a few moments, both children bowed their heads and slid around the woman's legs, leaving the tent. "They tell me your name is Arram," she sat down the basket she carried and pulled aside the kerchief to reveal food and clothing. "You shouldn't use that name," his voice was little more than a whisper. Another coughing fit racked his thin body. She handed him a skin of water. He drank and then sank back into the pillows. "Yes. They also told me that you are hunted man," she looked at him with steady eyes, waiting for him to tell her his side of the story. "I was studying at the Imperial University. I was good friends with Ozorne, the heir to the throne. We had.a disagreement, and he accused me of treason. The last thing I remember clearly is being sentenced to die for a crime I did not commit and being locked up in the palace dungeons," he coughed again and sipped more water. "He'll have to leave Carthak. Ozorne will never stop searching for him," a dark-haired man entered the tent. He was a small slim man-a Player, by his clothes. "You put yourselves at risk by harboring me," Arram whispered. "But I am more grateful than you can possibly know." "You are welcome, although you will not be able to stay much longer. We told Lindhall-" "Lindhall!" Arram croaked. "He's involved in all this?" "Yes. He contacted us a week ago, asking us to give you sanctuary. We cannot help you for long, though. Soldiers are searching for you and watching everyone-especially us Northerners. If we do anything out of the ordinary, or stay longer than we had planned, then we will all be caught." "I understand. I know Ozorne well-he's relentless. I hope Lindhall wasn't caught; he doesn't deserve to be punished for being my friend. No one does," Arram closed his eyes and leaned back again. "We have some associates who can shelter you for a short time. They will be here for you in a few hours," the woman laid the fresh clothes across a small stool and set the basket of food next to it. "What tricks do you have up your sleeves to smuggle me about the city?" "Oh, you'll see," they smiled as only Players can smile and silently left the tent.
Someone was singing. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't remember the words. The singer was too soft for him to decipher what was being said. Another voice joined the first, adding a harmony. He allowed his thoughts to drift. The song was a northern folk tune-it reminded him of his childhood and his family. A third voice began to chant a descant above the others. "Quiet!" a voice hissed. "You'll wake him." "He's been sleeping for three days. Maybe he needs to wake up!" "Well, no one gave you the job, so keep it down!" "Where am I?" His hoarse voice cut into the conversation of the children standing outside of his tent flap. He could hear them gasp and jump in surprise. One of them ran. Very slowly, two small heads-one with dark hair and one with light-peered around the tent flap, eyes wide in round faces. "You're with my father's Player troupe," the dark-haired boy, a Northerner, spoke first. "They brought you three days ago. Why aren't we allowed to tell anyone that you are here?" "You smelled. And you were very dirty. Did you fall into the mud? I get dirty all over when I play in the mud, and then my mother gets vexed at me," the golden-haired girl, also from the North, stepped around the flap for a better look. "I was-" a fit of coughing overtook him before he could tell them anything. A shadow fell over the children as an adult approached from behind. "Trinn, Daev, what did I tell you about disturbing this man?" The children jumped again and looked up at the woman. Her dark hair was held away from her face by a pink scarf. The tails of the scarf fluttered in the slight breeze moving among the tents. "I'm sorry, Mama," the little girl, Trinn, apologized. "He spoke to us first," the boy attempted to withstand her glare. After a few moments, both children bowed their heads and slid around the woman's legs, leaving the tent. "They tell me your name is Arram," she sat down the basket she carried and pulled aside the kerchief to reveal food and clothing. "You shouldn't use that name," his voice was little more than a whisper. Another coughing fit racked his thin body. She handed him a skin of water. He drank and then sank back into the pillows. "Yes. They also told me that you are hunted man," she looked at him with steady eyes, waiting for him to tell her his side of the story. "I was studying at the Imperial University. I was good friends with Ozorne, the heir to the throne. We had.a disagreement, and he accused me of treason. The last thing I remember clearly is being sentenced to die for a crime I did not commit and being locked up in the palace dungeons," he coughed again and sipped more water. "He'll have to leave Carthak. Ozorne will never stop searching for him," a dark-haired man entered the tent. He was a small slim man-a Player, by his clothes. "You put yourselves at risk by harboring me," Arram whispered. "But I am more grateful than you can possibly know." "You are welcome, although you will not be able to stay much longer. We told Lindhall-" "Lindhall!" Arram croaked. "He's involved in all this?" "Yes. He contacted us a week ago, asking us to give you sanctuary. We cannot help you for long, though. Soldiers are searching for you and watching everyone-especially us Northerners. If we do anything out of the ordinary, or stay longer than we had planned, then we will all be caught." "I understand. I know Ozorne well-he's relentless. I hope Lindhall wasn't caught; he doesn't deserve to be punished for being my friend. No one does," Arram closed his eyes and leaned back again. "We have some associates who can shelter you for a short time. They will be here for you in a few hours," the woman laid the fresh clothes across a small stool and set the basket of food next to it. "What tricks do you have up your sleeves to smuggle me about the city?" "Oh, you'll see," they smiled as only Players can smile and silently left the tent.