Free The Rope Dancer by Roberta Gellis Page B

warned her about what subjects seemed most painful to the dwarf.
    She nodded, her large eyes full of sympathy. “I will be careful,” she assured him. Something tugged at her and made her throat ache—a distant memory of weeping and weeping for love that was lost to her.
    The soft expression made Telor feel guilty. She was a fine, good-hearted girl, he thought, and it was wrong for him to refuse her the best opportunity that might occur for some time to find a good troupe. The wedding at Combe Castle would bring together as many troupes as a fair—unless the fighting had driven them out of the area.
    “We will see,” he said as Carys picked up one corner of a blanket and began to fold it lengthwise for rolling. “If your ankle is strong enough and we can find a proper time and a rope for you to use, perhaps you can show your skill at the castle.”
    She turned toward him, surprised both by his change of heart and the reintroduction of a subject she thought settled, but he was already walking away, and Carys shrugged. Men were all strange, and Telor was stranger than most. His thoughts did not seem to follow the patterns with which she was familiar, and she had twice been deceived by his bland looks into waking his hot temper. Carys found this difference between looks and character very interesting. Both men she had dealt with intimately in the past looked what they were: Ulric was strong and stupid, and Morgan, although he could hide what he was under a “player’s face” for a time, betrayed the sly cleverness by his sharp features and narrow eyes when he was not acting. But Carys was sure Telor was not playing any role for her, which meant his face did not portray the inner man. Interesting…and dangerous. Carys resolved to be more cautious when dealing with Telor. He came out of the back shed, herding a white-faced and red-eyed Deri before him, and no one had spoken a single word while the men strapped up their belongings, saddled their mounts, and loaded the pack mule.
    Just as they were about to leave, the alewife came running around the corner of the building with Carys’s wet dress and shift. Telor looked as if he were about to wave her away, but then he dismounted and laid the tattered garments atop the other baggage, tucked into straps here and there to hold them. Carys was very grateful that she had not needed to cross Telor’s will again so soon and settled herself on the pillion seat, which she did not find very frightening now.
    There was no talk as they rode, until the narrow track they were following ended on a wider road. Telor pulled his horse to a stop and looked up and down the road. Carys craned her neck to see also, not sure what she was looking for, but ready to mention any sign familiar or unusual. As Telor turned and she leaned forward, their bodies touched; his head turned sharply toward Carys and he looked surprised, as if he had just remembered her existence.
    “You stupid girl,” he snapped, “why did you not remind me before we left the alehouse that you have had nothing to eat this morning?”
    “Because I did eat,” Carys replied. “There was bread and cheese on the table, and I took some.”
    Her surprise showed in her voice, and Telor, feeling foolish, grunted irritably and turned his attention back to the road. It was stupid to have forgotten she was a player and, no doubt, well accustomed to taking care of herself. For some reason that annoyed him, so he was not as pleased as he should have been by the fact that the surface of the road was not churned into dust by many feet and hooves, nor were the grass verge and the brush broken and torn.
    “Thank you,” Carys said softly, and touched his shoulder.
    As inexplicably as it had come, Telor’s irritation disappeared, although he answered Carys with no more than a nod. He said Deri’s name sharply, and the dwarf prodded his pony forward.
    “No army has come north on this road,” Telor said to Deri, “and Chippasham is