by Scott Lynch
“Splendid,” said Locke. “Will it be the one composed primarily of chalk, this time? Or the one made of sugar? I’d prefer sugar.”
“Look … I say, look here!” Malcor’s seamy old face grew red. “I might not have Collegium robes, but when I go to the gods they’ll know that I gave an honest damn about lending ease to my patients!”
“Peace, old man.” Locke coughed and rubbed his eyes with his un-bandaged hand. “I know you mean the best. But spare me your placebo.”
“Have your friend remove your bandages in a few hours,” said Malcor testily, shrugging back into a worn frock coat that was spattered with dark stains. “If you drink, drink sparingly. Water your wine.”
“Rest assured, my friend here waters my wine like a virgin princess’ nervous chaperone.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean, as he showed Malcor outside. “He’s difficult when he’s ill.”
“He’s got two or three days,” said the old man.
“You can’t be—”
“Yes, I can. The bleeding is worse. His enervation is more pronounced. His humors are terminally imbalanced, and I’m certain an examination of his water would show blood. I tried to hearten him, but your friend is obviously undeceived.”
“But—”
“As should you be.”
“There must be someone who can do something!”
“The gods.”
“If I could convince Zodesti—”
“Zodesti?” Malcor laughed. “What a waste of a gift in that one. Zodesti treats only two ailments, wealth and prominence. He’ll never condescend to do so much as take your friend’s pulse.”
“So you’ve no other clues? No other suggestions?”
“Summon priests. While he’s still lucid.” Jean scowled, and the aged dog-leech took him gently by the shoulders. “I can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.”
“Thank you for your time,” growled Jean. He shook several silver coins out of his purse. “If I should have further need of these marvelous insights—”
“A single duvesta will be quite adequate,” said Malcor. “And despite your mood now, know that I’ll come whenever you require. Your friend’s discomfort is more likely to wax than wane before the end.”
The sun was gone, and the roofs and towers of the city were coming alive with specks of fire against the deepening night. As he watched Malcor vanish down the street, Jean wanted more than anything to have someone to hit.
6
“FAIR DAY to you,” said Jean, approaching the garden gate again. It was the second hour of the afternoon, the next day, and the sky overhead was a boiling mess of gray. The rain had yet to fall, but it was coming, certain and soon. “I’m here for my usual petition.”
“How completely unexpected,” said the old man behind the iron bars.
“Is it a convenient time?” From inside the garden, Jean could hear laughter again, along with a series of echoing smacks, as though something were being thrown against a stone wall. “Or is the scholar consumed—”
“By work. Stranger, has the conversation we had yesterday fled your memory?”
“I must beg you, sir.” Jean put as much passionate sincerity as he could into his voice. “A good man lies dying, in desperate need of aid. Did your master not take oath as a physiker of the Collegium?”
“His oaths are no business of yours. And many good men lie dying, in desperate want of aid, in Lashain and Karthain and every other place in the world. Do you see the scholar saddling his horse to seek them out?”
“Please.” Jean shook a fresh envelope, jingling the coins within. “At least carry the message, for the love of all the gods.”
Wearing half a scowl and half a smirk, the servant reached through the bars. Jean dropped the envelope, seized the man by the collar, and slammed him hard against the gate. An instant later Jean flourished a knife in his free hand.
It was a push-dagger, the sort wielded with a thrusting fist rather than a fencer’s grip. The blade seated against Jean’s knuckles was half a foot long and curved like an animal’s claw.
“There’s only one use for a knife like this,” whispered Jean. “You see it? You try to call out or pull away, and you’ll be wearing your belly-fat for an apron. Open the gate.”
“You’ll die for this,” hissed the servant. “They’ll skin you and boil you in salt water.”
“And what a consolation that will be for you, eh?” Jean prodded him in the stomach with his knife. “Open the gate or I’ll take the keys from your corpse.”
With a shaking hand, the old man opened the gate. Jean threw it aside, grabbed the servant again, and turned him around. The knife was now at the small of the man’s back.
“Take me to your master. Stay composed. Tell him that an important case has come up and that he will want to hear my offer.”
“The scholar is in the garden. But you’re mad.… He has friends in the highest places … urk!”
Jean poked him again with the blade, urging him forward.
“Of course,” said Jean. “But do you have any friends closer than my knife?”
At the heart of the garden, a short, solid man of about thirty-five was sharing a hearty laugh with a woman who had yet to see twenty. Both of them wore light breeches, silk shirts, and padded leather gloves. That explained the rhythmic noise from before. They’d been using a cleared section of stone wall for pursava, the “partner chase,” an aristocratic cousin of handball.
“Sir, madam, a thousand pardons,” said the servant at another poke from Jean. Jean stood half a pace behind the man, where neither Zodesti nor his guest could see the true means of his entry into the garden. “A very urgent matter, sir.”
“Urgent?” Zodesti had a mop of black curls, now slick with sweat, and the remains of an upper-class Verrari accent. “Who does this fellow come to speak for?”
“An eminent friend,” said Jean. “In the usual fashion. It would not be appropriate to discuss these matters in front of your young—”
“By the gods, I’ll say what’s appropriate or not in my own garden! This fellow has some cheek, Loran. You know my preferences. This had better be in earnest.”
“Dire earnest, sir.”
“Let him leave his particulars. If I find them suitable he may call again after dinner.”
“Now would be better,” said Jean, “for everyone.”
“Who in all the hells do you think you are? Shit on your dire earnest! Loran, throw this—”
“Refusal noted and cordially declined.” Jean shoved Loran to the turf. Half a second later he was upon Zodesti, with a meaty forearm wrapped around the physiker’s throat and his blade held up so the young woman could see it. “Cry out for help and I will use this, madam. I would hate to have an injury to the scholar resting upon your conscience.”
“I … I …” she said.
“Babble all you like, so long as you don’t scream. As for you—” Jean squeezed the man’s windpipe to demonstrate his strength, and the physiker gasped. “I’ve tried to be civil. I would have paid well. But now I’ll teach you a new way of doing business. Do you have a kit you would bring to a case of poisoning? Materials you’d need for a consultation?”
“Yes,” choked Zodesti. “In my study.”
“We’re going to calmly walk into your house, all of us. On your feet, Loran. You have a carriage and driver on the grounds, Scholar?”
“Yes,” said Zodesti.
“Inside, then, as though nothing is amiss. If any of you give me any trouble, by the gods, I’ll start practicing throat surgery.”
7
THE TICKLISH part was getting them all into Zodesti’s study, past the curious eyes of a cook and a kitchen-boy. But none of Jean’s hostages caused a scene, and soon enough the study door was between them and any interference. Jean shot the bolt, smiled, and said, “Loran, would you—”
At that moment, the old man found the courage for a last despe
rate struggle. Foul as his temper was, Jean didn’t truly have the heart to stab the poor idiot, and he smashed the edge of his knife hand into Loran’s jaw instead. The servant hit the floor senseless. Zodesti darted to a desk in the corner and had a drawer open before Jean collared him and flung him down beside Loran. Jean glanced into the drawer and laughed.
“Going to fight me off with a letter-opener? Take a seat, both of you.” Jean indicated a pair of armchairs against the rear wall. While Zodesti and his companion sat there, wide-eyed as pupils awaiting punishment from a tutor, Jean cut down one of the drapes that hung beside the study’s shuttered window. He slashed it into strips and tossed them to Zodesti.
“I don’t quite understand—”
“Your young friend offers a problem,” said Jean. “Meaning no particular offense to you, madam, but one hostage is difficult enough to handle, let alone two. Particularly when they’re clumsy amateur hostages, unused to their roles and expectations. So we’ll leave you in that fine big closet over there, where you won’t be found too late or too soon.”
“How dare you,” said the young woman. “I’ll have you know that my uncle is—”
“Time is precious and my knife is sharp,” said Jean. “When some servant finally opens that closet, do they find you alive or dead?”
“Alive,” she gulped.
“Gag her, Scholar,” said Jean. “Then tie some good, firm knots. I’ll check them myself when you’re done. After she’s secure, do the same for old Loran.”
As Zodesti worked to tie up his pursava partner (if that was indeed the limit of their partnership), Jean tore down another drape and cut it into more strips. His eyes wandered to the room’s glass-fronted cabinets. They contained a collection of books, glass vessels, herbal samples, alchemical powders, and bizarre surgical instruments. Jean was heartened; if Zodesti’s esoterica reflected his actual ability, he might just have an answer after all.
8
“THIS WILL do,” said Jean.
“Michel,” said Zodesti, leaning out the window on his side of the carriage, “pull up here.”
The carriage rattled to a halt, and the driver hopped down to open the door. Jean, knife half-concealed by the wide cuff of his coat, gestured for Zodesti to step out first. The scholar did, carrying a leather bag and a bundle of clothing.
A light rain had begun to fall, for which Jean was grateful. It would drive bystanders from the streets, and the overcast sky gave the city the look of twilight rather than midafternoon. A kidnapper could ask for no more.
Jean had ordered the halt about two blocks from the Villa Suvela, in front of an alley that would lead there by twists and turns with a dozen other possible destinations branching off along the way.
“The scholar will require several hours,” said Jean, passing a folded slip of parchment to the driver. “Wait at this address until we meet you again.”
The address on the parchment was a coffeehouse in Lashain’s mercantile district, a half-mile distant. The driver frowned.
“Is this well with you, sir? You’ll miss dinner—”
“It’s fine, Michel,” said Zodesti with a hint of exasperation. “Just follow directions.”
“Of course, sir.”
Once the carriage had clattered down the street, Jean pulled Zodesti into the alley and said, “You may live through this yet. Get dressed as we discussed.”
The pile of clothing included a battered hat and a rain-stained cloak, both belonging to Loran, who was a fair match in size for his master. Zodesti threw the cloak on, and Jean pulled a strip of slashed drapery from his pocket.
“What the hell is this, now?” said Zodesti.
“Did you really imagine I’d go to all this trouble and let you see where I’m taking you? I thought you’d prefer blindfolded to unconscious.”
Zodesti stood still as Jean blindfolded him, pulled up the cloak’s hood, and pushed the hat down on top of it. It was a good effect. From more than a few feet away, the blindfold would be concealed by the hat or lost in the shadows of the hood.
From Zodesti’s medical bag, Jean withdrew a bottle of wine. He pulled the cork (Jean had found the bottle in Zodesti’s study, half empty), splashed some on the physiker, poured the rest on the ground, and pressed the empty bottle into Zodesti’s right hand. From the smell that wafted up around them, Jean guessed he’d just wasted a very valuable kameleona.
“Now,” said Jean, “you’re my drunk friend, being escorted to safety. Keep your head down.” Jean pressed Zodesti’s bag into the physiker’s left hand. “I’ve got my arms around you to keep you from stumbling, and my knife closer than you’d like.”
“You’ll boil alive for this, you son of a bitch.”
“Let’s keep my mother out of this. Mind your feet.”
It took about ten minutes for them to stumble to the rooming house together. There were no complications. The few people out in the rain had better things to pay attention to than a pair of drunks, it seemed.
Once safely inside their suite, Jean locked the front doors, shoved Zodesti into a chair, and said, “Now we’re well away from anyone else. If you try to escape, or raise your voice, or call attention to yourself in any way, I’ll hurt you. Badly.”
“Stop threatening me and show me your damned patient.”
“In a moment.” Jean opened the doors to the inner apartment, saw that Locke was awake, and quickly gestured in their private sign language:
Don’t use any names.
“What am I,” muttered Locke, “an idiot? I knew he wasn’t coming back here of his own free will.”
“How—”
“You wore your fighting boots and left your dress shoes by the wardrobe. And all of your weapons are missing.”
“Ah.” Jean tore off Zodesti’s blindfold and disguise. “Make yourself comfortable and get to work.”
The physiker hefted his satchel and, sparing a hateful glance for Jean, moved to Locke’s bedside. He stared at Locke for a few moments, then pulled a wooden chair over and sat down.
“I smell wine,” said Locke. “Kameleona, I think. I don’t suppose you’ve brought any with you?”
“Only what your friend bathed me with,” said Zodesti. He snapped his fingers a few times in front of Locke’s eyes, then took his pulse from both wrists. “My, you are in a sad state. You believe you’ve been poisoned?”
“No,” said Locke with a cough. “I fell down some fucking stairs.
What’s it look like?”
“Can’t you ever be polite to any of your physikers?” said Jean.
“You’re the one who bloody well kidnapped him.”
“Since I appear to have no choice,” said Zodesti, “I’m going to give you a thorough examination. This may cause some discomfort, but don’t complain. I won’t be listening.”
Zodesti’s first examination took a quarter of an hour. Ignoring Locke’s grumbling, he poked and prodded at his joints and limbs, working from the top of his arms to his feet.
“You’re losing sensation in your extremities,” said Zodesti at last.
“How the hell can you tell?”
“I just stuck a lancet into each of your large toes.”
“You poked holes in my feet?”
“I’m adding teardrops to a river, given the blood you’re losing elsewhere.” Zodesti fumbled in his bag, removed a silk case, and from this extracted a pair of optics with oversized lenses. Wearing them, he pulled Locke’s lips back and examined his gums and teeth.
“Ahm naht a fckhng horth,” said Locke.
“Quiet.” Zodesti held the clean portion of one of Locke’s discarded bandages to his gums for several seconds, pulled it away, and frowned at it.
“Your gums are seeping blood. And I see your fingernails are trim,” said Zodesti.
“What of it?”
“Were they trimmed on a Penance Day?”
“How the hell should I remember?”
“Trimming the nails on any day but a Penance Day weakens th
e blood. Tell me, when you were first taken with your symptoms, did you think to swallow an amethyst?”
“Why would I have had one close at hand?”
“Your pig-ignorance of basic medicine is your own misfortune. You sound like an easterner, though, so I can’t say I’m surprised.”
The rest of the physiker’s work took an hour, with Zodesti performing increasingly esoteric tests and Jean hovering behind him, alert for any sign of treachery. Finally, Zodesti sighed and rose to his feet, wiping his bloody hands on Locke’s sheets.
“You have the unfortunate distinction,” said Zodesti, “of being poisoned by a substance beyond my experience. Given the fact that I have a Master’s Ring in alchemy from the Therin Collegium—”
“Gods damn your jewelry,” said Jean. “Can you do anything?”
“In the early stages of the poisoning, who could have said? But now …” Zodesti shrugged.
“You maggot!” Jean grabbed Zodesti by his lapels, whirled, and slammed him against the wall beside Locke’s bed. “You arrogant little fraud! You’re the best this city has? DO SOMETHING!”
“I can’t,” said Zodesti with a new firmness in his voice. “Think whatever you like, do whatever you like. He is beyond my powers of intervention. I daresay that puts him beyond anyone’s.”
“Let him go,” said Locke.
“There must be something—”
“Let him go!” Locke retched, spat up more blood, and broke into a coughing fit. Jean released Zodesti, and the physiker slid away, glaring.
“Shortly after the poison was administered,” said the physiker, “I could have tried a purgative. Or filled his stomach with milk and parchment pulp. Or bled him to thin out the venom. But this thing has been with him for too long now.
“Even with known poisons,” he continued, returning his instruments to his bag, “there comes a point where the harm to organs or humors cannot be reversed. Antidotes don’t restore dead flesh. And with this, an unknown poison? His blood is pouring out of him. I can’t just put it back.”