The Rope Dancer

by Roberta Gellis

  Deri opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it. He was the last man on earth to object to Telor’s kindness. There were still times when he wished Telor had let him die by the roadside, but his pain was dimming with the year that had passed. Mostly he enjoyed his life, taking a wicked pleasure in the license allowed a “fool” and feeling “right” as Telor’s companion. With a pang he admitted that though he had been loved, he had never been “right” in his place on the manse and in the village. But Deri had no time to examine that revelation, for a second exclamation from Telor brought him down from his pony to lead all three animals closer.

  “By God’s liver, it’s a girl, and she’s alive.”

  “Heaven and earth,” Deri breathed, seeing the long bloody scrapes and the trickles of blood that showed black against the unmarked patches of skin. “Who could do that to a slip of a girl?”

  “Let me mount,” Telor said, not wasting time on speculation in so wide a field, “and you hand her up to me. Take her gently by shoulders and hips. We do not know what is broken in her, poor thing. Let’s not make matters worse by mayhap driving a rib through her lungs.”

  He was surprised to hear Deri grunt when he lifted the body from the ground and asked if the dwarf had hurt himself, for Deri was strong enough to lift him without trouble.

  “Slip of a girl,” Deri muttered. “She must be made of iron. She weighs twice what I thought. Wait till you smell her too.”

  The grunt, however, had been one of surprise, not effort. Despite what he had said, Deri lifted the girl from the ground easily and raised her over his shoulder level so that Telor, reaching down from his horse, could grasp her. Telor was grateful for Deri’s warning when Carys’s weight came into his arms, for he was sure he would have dropped her or toppled off his horse had he not been braced. He gazed with some amazement at the slender arms and legs and narrow body. Where was all that weight hidden? And despite Deri’s second warning, Telor coughed and drew back his head from the girl’s stench.

  Although the dull thud of hooves on packed earth had not wakened Carys, Telor’s first exclamation had done so. She had been frozen with terror and despair just long enough to realize that neither emotion was yet necessary. The voice that spoke was surprised, not angry, and no rough hands were laid on her. And the next voice and remark were definitely sympathetic. The men who had found her were not from the keep. The flood of relief that followed this realization caused a simultaneous flood of weakness so that at first Carys could not make any response. What she heard Telor say next implied that he and his companion would take her away with them, and she decided swiftly to remain limp with closed eyes, fearing that if she seemed capable of walking, they might change their minds and leave her to fend for herself.

  Carys felt arms inch gently under her and consciously controlled her breathing so she would not gasp with pain. But being lifted did not wake the agony she had expected, and a thrill of joy that nothing was broken passed through her. Bruises protested the pressure of the arms around her, but what startled her out of her determination to remain “unconscious” was the lack of a second jostling. She had assumed the man who lifted her had knelt to pick her up and would rise from his knees, both jerking her upward and unconsciously clutching her closer—but that never happened. The way she was lifted, and the distance she rose before the other man’s arms received her, brought Carys’s eyes wide open and made her catch her breath with surprise.

  “A dwarf!” she gasped. “Are you players?”

  Her sudden return to consciousness nearly precipitated a disaster. Telor was so startled that his grip relaxed and Carys began to slide, but her arms flashed up to grasp his neck, and in jerking back, Telor pulled her lower body so that she was sitting across his thighs. The movement did not free his head, and Telor gagged, partly because Carys was strangling him but equally because her odor was so rank.

  No one traveling the roads could be clean, but Telor and Deri washed as often and as thoroughly as they could, using the bathhouse in keeps or the public baths in large towns. Deri’s family had been rising in social status and thus was far stricter in their niceties than those socially above them. Telor had also learned cleanliness by family habit because it was part of an artisan’s business not to drive away custom with dirt or offensive odors. That had been reinforced by his master, who had taught him that no matter whether a baron was himself filthy, he would not tolerate the same condition in a man invited to entertain his guests.

  The sense of security Carys obtained when she felt herself drawn up on Telor’s lap allowed her to relax her stranglehold, and cry, “I’m sorry. I was afraid to fall.” And her voice was so thin, so breathless and frightened, that Telor managed to resist his impulse to thrust her away.

  “I thought you were near dead.” He choked, coughing convulsively.

  Carys, having caught sight of Deri, and seen that he was, indeed, a dwarf, felt almost safe with “her own kind” and launched into an explanation of what had happened to her, sobbing and shaking again with remembered terror. Long before she came to explaining what had aroused the threat against her, however, she broke off to beg Telor to go on lest those in the castle come after her. Recalling the light and sound from the bailey, Telor felt her fears had some foundation. Despite what she was and what she smelled like, it was impossible for him to leave her there, but he did not believe he could bear to carry her so close to him on the front of his saddle.

  “Could you ride pillion behind me?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Carys replied, sighing with relief.

  As soon as her primary fears of being recaptured had been relieved, Carys had realized that her position had a number of disadvantages. Far too much of her sore body was in contact with either the hard saddle bow or with her rescuer himself. Anywhere he touched her hurt, but more important than the pain this caused was the near-certainty that the man would soon notice the knives she was carrying. The fact that he had stopped to help her showed that this was a good man. Carys thought she had met some good people, but she had never remained with any of them long enough to be sure they had no ulterior motive for their seeming kindness, and all those she knew intimately had only wanted to use her for their own purposes. It was best that these men believe her to be utterly helpless; that was the quickest way to learn their intentions.

  They moved off the road and into the shelter of the trees so that Deri and Telor could cobble together some kind of pillion saddle from a blanket and rope. But when Telor let her down, Carys cried out and sank to the ground, staring with horror at one ankle. The way her eyes rounded, the whites glinting all around the dark pupils, was visible even in the dark—a silent scream of ultimate despair. Telor’s heart lurched in instant empathy. For a dancer to break an ankle was equivalent to his breaking a hand or a wrist. He went down on one knee beside her.

  “Move your toes,” he said harshly.

  Carys’s frightened eyes turned to him. She bit her lips with pain, but the toes moved. Telor put a hand on the ankle, touching it here and there with his sensitive fingers. Carys whimpered but did not pull away, staring at his face.

  After a moment he said, “I don’t think it’s broken. You must have wrenched it.”

  He heard her long, trembling sigh of relief and prayed he was right, for he had spoken more from a desire to give comfort than from real knowledge. Then, to keep her from thinking, he said he would help her deeper into the wood to the little stream so she could wash the dirt out of her scrapes, and assured her they would have time enough to get away if the men from the keep should come seeking.

  “And stick that foot in the water too,” he urged. “The cold will do it good.”

  Carys did not need his advice. Actually, she was more familiar with sprains and broken bones than Telor. Had she not jumped from the wall, she would not have suffered the moment of panic. In the stress and confusion of escape and rescue, she had momentarily forgotten how far she had run on that ankle. But as she eased it into the water and
bent to soak her battered hands also, she breathed a soft “Thank you, Lady,” for the ankle would take a few days to heal. She had felt the sympathy of the tall man when he saw her fear. Perhaps he would let her stay with them until she could dance again, and then, when she could pay her way, perhaps she could make it a permanent arrangement. If not, her condition would be desperate when they left her.

  There was no way Carys could use her skills without a troupe; if she came alone to dance, she would be driven out of any town or village as a whore, even if she never took a man. In fact, the only way she could keep body and soul together, if these two men would not keep her until she found a troupe, would be by whoring. Carys’s mouth turned down in distaste. She was not above taking pay for bedding a man, and both Morgan and Ulric had always encouraged her to do so. Despite their urging, though, she had never taken anyone who did not appeal to her—except Morgan and Ulric themselves, and her cold indifference had made their demands on her small, for both could get more willing partners without trouble. They kept her for what she made dancing, which was far more than she could bring in as a whore, and neither dared beat her much or press her too hard to whore for extra farthings because she was a fine rope dancer and could have changed to a new troupe if they mistreated her. But Carys knew it took time to find a good troupe that needed a rope dancer, and if she did not stay with these men, she would have to whore or starve until she made the right connection. Still, she hated the thought of having to lie with any person who offered her a bit of bread or sup of ale no matter how ugly and cruel that person might be.

  Carys strained her eyes back toward the men. Surely that shape the tall man had unslung from his shoulder and hung on a branch was a lute or a gittern. They must be players. Then she looked at the animals; no troupe she belonged to had ever been able to afford any such animals, and she began to doubt that these men were common players. Still, she had a dim memory of riding in a little cart pulled by a goat. She had been sitting atop a mound of…something, and a hand steadied her. That had been before she came into Morgan Knifethrower’s hands. She remembered kisses too, and gentle arms around her, and sweet laughter.

  With an effort, Carys closed down the path to those few warm memories. This was not the time for them. If the tall man and the dwarf were rich players, so much the better. Surely they would not grudge the cost of feeding her for a few days, and then…then she would think of something, she assured herself desperately. She had been clenching and unclenching her hands and rubbing them gently together in the water while she thought. The pain of the cuts and abrasions had been dulled by the cold, and the grit seemed to be gone. Carys leaned farther forward to wash her arms and legs. That hurt, but she knew dirt could mortify wounds, so she kept at it, glad of an excuse for crying—she could pretend to herself that her tears were not owing to the fear of being alone.

  “Let me do your back.”

  Carys jumped and peered, but she did not need the evidence of her eyes. The voice was deeper than the tall man’s. It was the dwarf, and she eyed him warily. Carys knew a number of dwarfs because at great fairs many troupes of players congregated. Some dwarfs were dim-witted creatures; most of those who were not could be slyly cruel, perhaps to revenge on normal people the bitterness of their deformity. But Carys remembered the sympathy in this one’s voice when he first saw her, and she nodded her head and pulled the tattered remains of her gown off her shoulders, turning her back. She tensed, fearing a hand would reach around her and grab her breast, but she heard a faint splash and then shuddered as a cold, wet rag was applied to her back.

  Between the pain and the cold, Carys was shivering so hard she thought she would shake apart, but she made no complaint. A few minutes later the dwarf called softly over his shoulder, “I cannot do more for her here in the dark, and she’s badly chilled.”

  “All right,” the tenor of the tall man came back. “I left out the old blue blanket, and this pillion is all it’s ever going to be. Carry her over here, and I’ll wrap her up and put her on the horse.”

  Carys did not know whether to be amused or frightened. Everything they were doing was very kind, but they spoke about her as if she were an odd piece of baggage instead of a person.

  “My name is Carys Ropedancer,” she said to the dwarf as he reached down to pick her up. “What is yours?”

  “Deri.” He paused for a moment and nodded as the weight of the seemingly thin creature he carried was explained by her name. “Longarms,” he added absently, and when he realized he had spoken that name without thought, as if it had always been his, he laughed harshly. “Now I am called Deri Longarms. Once I had another name—but it died.”

  “And I am Telor Luteplayer,” the tall man said quickly as he took her from the dwarf and lifted her to the blanket fastened behind the saddle. He enveloped her in another blanket, pulling it down over her shoulders and tying it around her with a rope so that her arms stuck out through the sides, adding as he worked, “I, too, had another name once, but I left it behind me and it is not important.”

  The swift remark seemed designed to cut off Carys’s question about how a name could die, and she took the hint. It was enough that her hopes had been fulfilled. Luteplayer, like her own name, told of a skill rather than of bloodlines. She heard the sentence that followed and knew she must sometime consider its implications, which might be ugly, but for now Carys was content to remain silent while Telor explained how to sit sideways on the horse and hold on by the ropes he had fixed to the saddle.

  “Most likely you will not need them,” he finished as he set his foot in his stirrup and mounted, twisting awkwardly to avoid striking her with his right leg. “We will be going slowly, and you will be in no danger of falling. But just in case we are pursued, you can swing your leg over to sit astride and hold the ropes.”

  Despite this assurance, Carys nervously clutched both the saddle and the ropes as they made their way back to the road. The motion of the horse made her seating feel very insecure. It was no great way to the ground, but she was still much afraid of falling. The distance was far too short to make a ball and roll, and she dared not try to land on her feet and run forward with the impetus because of her lame ankle. Thus, she was sure if she fell off she would fall directly under the beast’s feet.

  For a while Carys could think of nothing except staying put, but to her surprise her body seemed to have no tendency to slip off, even after the horses began to walk faster on the road. Then for a time she was occupied with the way the horse’s haunch under her rolled her from one sore buttock to the other. Finally she grew numb, and her fatigue was actually intensified by the little comforts that soothed her. The blanket was thicker than the one she had left behind in the keep, and just enough of the chilly night air touched her arms where they protruded to make the rest of her feel cozily warm. And once she was used to it, Carys thought muzzily, the gait of the horse was soothing. She was so tired…so tired…

  “Carys!”

  The sharp voice and a hand pulling at her arm jerked her awake. Instinctively Carys grasped with the arm that had been pulled forward around Telor’s chest. The slight give of ribs and Telor’s grunt recalled her to her precarious perch, and she clung all the tighter for a moment when he released her arm, although she felt him stiffen against the pressure. It was only for a moment, though. As soon as the wave of panic passed, she drew her arm away and sat upright again. What a fool she had been to fall asleep! Had Telor realized she had been dozing or had he thought she was leaning against him as an enticement?

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I am so tired.”

  He did not reply immediately, and Carys restrained a resigned sigh. If he thought she had issued an invitation, she had better allow him to couple with her. Her lips thinned bitterly because with waking she had become aware again of the complaints of her abused body, but no man would care about that or about whether she said she was tired. Telor did not answer—but neither did he stop his horse or pull it toward the shelter o
f the trees. Carys allowed a sigh to ease out silently, thinking she had been granted a respite because Telor felt they were still too close to the keep.

  The idea of coupling with him remained in her head, however, and when she separated it from the pain of her bruises and her fatigue, she found that it was not unpleasant at all. There was no way of telling in advance, of course. Usually lust brought out the most unpleasant characteristics a man had. Still, he had saved her, and her body was the only coin she had with which to repay him. And if he enjoyed her, that might be a way to induce him to keep her until she could find a proper place of her own. But would he enjoy her? Suddenly Carys wished she had listened to the old whore Ermina, who had been part of Morgan Knifethrower’s troupe and had tried to teach Carys how to delight a man. At that time Carys had only been interested in how to discourage men and had done her best not to listen.

  Had Telor known what Carys was thinking, he would have set her mind at rest at once. His rigidity when she clung to him had been an effort not to thrust her away, since the only image that had come into his mind when she embraced him had been of armies of lice and fleas rushing to a tastier morsel than her thin stringiness. Now, although preachings on caritas and his own humanity chided him, he bitterly regretted having stopped to pick her up.

  Until she gave her name as Carys Ropedancer, Telor had assumed that she was a whore and that the baron had decided to throw her to his men because she had been greedy or dishonest. Carys had implied she was totally innocent, but Telor did not believe that. Word spread quickly from one troupe of players to another, and barons who mistreated them without cause soon found themselves at a loss for entertainment. But then Telor remembered that the keep in which she had been dancing had just been taken by assault. That gave some weight to her claim of innocence.

  Telor found himself forced to reconsider his assumptions. There was the sureness and hint of habitual pride with which Carys had called herself Ropedancer. And she had none of the mannerisms of a woman who whored for her living, although she certainly smelled as bad as the worst of them. But only the used-up whores let themselves get into the condition Carys was in. Telor grinned wryly. Since she was young and, from what he could see in the dim light, pretty enough, the way she smelled was probably evidence that she did not usually come too close to her clients. The wiry solidity of her body was more evidence that she did not spend most of her time on her back in a ditch. So the girl was a skilled player, and he might have done her an injustice in blaming her for the near-attack that necessitated her escape.