“I’d be very surprised,” said Lily. “When do you usually bathe?”
“In the morning,” said Hope.
“Usually the afternoon, for me,” said Patient, “to get the sawdust and sweat off. But I have a wash in the morning to freshen up for the day.”
“You bathed before you came here?” asked Lily. He nodded.
“I suggest, then, that you spend the night as usual, and do this exercise in the morning. Will you be alone in the house?”
“Yes,” said Hope. “My flatmate spends Threeday night down in Gulfport with a group she’s part of, and gets back late on Fourday.”
“Good. Take your time, enjoy the exercise as much as you can — I know it will feel awkward — and report back to me next time.”
They held hands as usual when they emerged from the office to wait for the horse bus, but this time they laughed nervously when their gazes met. Hope clutched the book.
“How do you feel about that?” asked Patient.
“Strange,” she said. “I mean, I do want you to see me, but… as an exercise? It seems so…”
“Wait,” he said, “you want me to…”
“Yes, of course. Eventually, I mean. So I suppose it might as well be now.” She glanced down, then up, with those enormous eyes, and his heart missed a beat.
“Well, let’s try to forget about it until tomorrow and enjoy this evening,” he said. With her head injury much improved, they had decided to go to Honey’s Tavern to hear Hope’s musician friends Reed and Marsh perform and meet Briar before she headed down to Gulfport.
Hope wasn’t allowed alcohol until her head cleared up completely, and Patient limited himself to a single glass. He didn’t want to be too relaxed and let things get out of hand. They sat with Briar, eating Honey’s stew-in-a-loaf, a speciality of the tavern. He took the opportunity to chat with Hope’s friend, getting to know her as best he could, and enjoying her sardonic remarks. She and Hope, he saw, acted as well as looked like sisters.
The tavern was noisy, and Hope’s posture was drooping a little, her voice becoming harder to hear as it lost force. “Do you need to go?” he asked her.
“Let me just say hello to Marsh. Then, yes, I think I would like to get home.”
“Big evening planned?” said Briar with a cheeky smile.
“Hush, you,” said Hope, returning the smile with an affectionate one.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mister Patient,” said Briar. “I know you only cuddle. Good for you, by the way. She needs looking after.”
“Oh, I do not,” said Hope, but her disagreement seemed more a matter of habit than conviction. “Marsh! Good to see you.” The musician brothers had just finished their set and come to sit down. They exchanged greetings and commonplace enquiries, and then Patient quietly but insistently steered an increasingly limp Hope out of the tavern.
“Thanks,” she said, leaning against his side.
They took a cab home, even though it wasn’t far, and changed for bed in separate rooms after a nervous, wordless exchange of glances. Hope was already in bed when Patient returned from the bathroom, and he slipped into the other side of the bed and held her in what was now an accustomed, comfortable posture.
“You ready to go to sleep?” he said.
“I’m pretty weary, yes. Let me just look at Patient the Eagle and trigger my sleep spell, and I’ll go out at the same time as the light. You all right?”
“Fine,” he said, and when she had invoked her spell, he touched the lamp and said the word that extinguished it.
He himself, not as tired, lay awake turning over everything in his mind. What if, as was looking increasingly likely, they ended up getting oathbound? Where would they live? Could he move his business? He liked his village. Almost everyone he knew, apart from Hope and the military comrades who he had taken no steps to keep in touch with, lived there. He had grown up there and inherited his father’s and grandfather’s shop. But did he want Hope driving that airhorse thing every day to and from Illene? He sheered off from thoughts of the morning, every time they arose, and went determinedly back to thinking about the more distant future in terms as pragmatic as possible.
On about the eighth inconclusive round of these thoughts, lulled by Hope’s peaceful breathing and her warmth beside him, he fell asleep.
As always, he woke first (she needed a lot of sleep to heal). He disentangled himself without waking her, and made breakfast, skipping his usual morning wash and leaving his night clothes on. His stomach was imitating a diver-bird, and he didn’t really feel hungry, but he carried the tray into the bedroom and called his beloved’s name.
He loved watching her wake up. First her eyelids fluttered, and she stirred, and then the first signs of her powerful intelligence returned to her face and firmed its expression as she rolled her head upright and opened her glorious eyes. She rubbed her eyes, sat up, and stretched like a cat, then rewarded him with a smile for making the breakfast (more than a fair exchange, in his view). He slipped into the bed and placed the tray between them.
“How are you this morning?” he asked, taking up his second cup of tea of the morning and sipping to try to calm his stomach.
“Refreshed,” she said. “I always sleep so much better with you here.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Looking forward to this morning?”
He blushed. “Nervous,” he said.
“Who’s going first?”
He swallowed hard, and nibbled on a piece of fruit to delay answering. Did he dare?
“I am,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Unless you specially want to?”
“No, no. You go.” She smiled uncertainly, then brightly, with a hint of mischief.
“What?”
“Just anticipating what I’m going to see.”
They finished up the meal in silence, casting occasional glances at each other. Finally, it was obvious that neither of them was going to eat anything else. He visited the separate lavatory first, then waited for her in the bathroom while she did the same. She had set the bath running. He watched the level and turned it off when it reached three-quarters, just as her footsteps padded in behind him.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and took a few breaths. “Read me the instructions again.”
She fetched the book and did so.
“Right,” he said, and faced her. Swallowing his nervousness, he pulled his nightshirt quickly over his head and dropped it to the ground.
She looked him up and down, bright-eyed, in a way that he thought was more interested and appreciative than critical, then met his eyes and gave him a slow smile. He stepped into the bath, wincing as his feet transitioned from the cool tiles to the hot water, and slowly sat. He soaped up a sponge, and began to wash.
“You have to talk, remember,” she said. “Tell me about each part as you wash it.”
“Face,” he said. “Ordinary. Not a very strong chin. Nose too big. Neck. Thick, sunburned.” He washed as he spoke. “Shoulders,” he said. “They’re… strong, I suppose. Broad. I lift things with them.”
“Do you like them?”
“They’re all right. Arms. Some muscle. A few scars. That one was from a chisel that slipped, and this one… this one I got in the war.” He fell silent briefly, and she kept her peace as well. “And this one was when my father and I were carrying some wood between us, and I slipped, and a splinter tore into my wrist. Over on the other side…”
He kept on, describing his scars (there were a couple more), and then moved to his chest.
“Hairy,” he said. “I’m a hairy man. Keeps me warm, I suppose.”
He bypassed his crotch for now, and washed first his good leg, then his bad leg. “And these,” he said, lifting himself out of the water so she could see clearly, “are the scars I got when… the scars I got.” They were a matched pair of puckered marks, one at the front and one at the back of his thigh muscle.
Neithe
r of them said anything for a minute.
“You don’t have to tell me now,” she said.
“It was a wet day,” he said, almost across her sentence. His eyes weren’t seeing the bathroom in Hope’s flat, but a green valley in Denning, full of soldiers.
“It’s amazing, when you’re living in the open, how often it’s wet weather,” he went on. “You don’t notice when you’re in a house. Or maybe that part of Denning rains a lot. I don’t know. Anyway, two of us were sent off to construct a forward watch post in a tree, and because I know wood I was one of the two. Though I’m a carver, not a carpenter. Distinctions like that are lost on the military.
“The other man, Big Berry, was the size of an ox, he was there to lift and carry things. I’ve known big men who are smart, but… Berry wasn’t one of them. Nice fellow, gentle, but not sharp.
“We had some rope, and I was up the tree, with Berry hauling on the rope to take the toolbox up to me, and I look down the valley and see a quad of birds start up out of some bushes. Black and white birds. I saw the white flashes under their wings. And I thought, wonder what they saw. So I hunkered down on the branch I was standing on, and gestured to Berry to keep quiet.
“And before I know it, out of the bushes comes a Denninger scout, in the grey uniform their rebels used. I kept watching — the foliage was pretty thick, and I was in my brown shirt, didn’t have a proper blue uniform like the regulars, just a brassard, so I didn’t think he’d see me.
“The scout took a good look round, and he gestured behind him: come up. The next thing I see, a sergeant’s squad of enemy are slipping out of those bushes. That’s twenty-seven,” he said, then mentally kicked himself; of course, she would know that, the Pektal word for “sergeant” came from the Elvish for “twenty-seven”. He looked at her, and met her fascinated eyes. She nodded for him to go on.
“Now, this particular tree had a bald spot, a place where it was missing a limb after some storm or other, on the side towards the enemy. If I slid down the tree, they’d be likely to see me. They were close enough, too, that if I shouted down to Berry, they’d probably hear me, but I knew he wouldn’t leave me without some explanation.
“I searched my pockets. There was a bit of paper in one of them, some document I’d got when we shipped out and hadn’t thrown away, but nothing to write with.
“I had my knife, of course. I thought about cutting my finger and writing in blood, but not only would that be melodramatic, but it probably wouldn’t work that well, either. Instead, I grabbed a dry stick and carved into it: ‘27 enemy SW coming’, and dropped it into Big Berry’s hands. I could see him at the foot of the tree, looking up at me. He caught it, read it — slowly, but he could read — and nodded.
“He gestured for me to come down, but I shook my head and made shooing motions. He put his hands on his hips. I looked around for another stick of wood, didn’t find one, and tried to communicate “they will see me” with gestures. He didn’t look happy, but he headed off. Back to camp, I assumed, to report.
“I grabbed the rope and started pulling it up. It ran through a pulley attached to the tree just above my head. I needed it to get down again safely, but if it was draped down the tree the enemy would notice it and find me. I hauled it up, both ends, bundled it together and sat it on a branch, then I tucked myself up into the tree and hoped for the best.
“Well, that tree was the tallest tree around, so it shouldn’t have surprised me too much that the rebels assembled under it and started talking about whether they’d climb up it to see what they could see. I was praying Nine that they’d decide it was too much work, that they’d realise that the view was mostly back the way they’d come anyway. But no; they sent someone up, and started moving off to a little clearing just up the track for a bit of a rest and a snack.
“There was one man, a young man, climbing the tree, and his mate as a spotter, standing pretty much where Big Berry had been standing. I was hidden up in the leaves, but as soon as he got near I’d be seen, sure as anything. I didn’t have many options left. No rifle, I’d left that down the bottom of the tree and Berry had it.
“You have to understand, we’d all been told about the First Siege of Lakeside Koslin, where they drove women and children and old people ahead of them to set off the mines that Realmgold Determined and his people had left behind them when they evacuated the city. Someone who could do that… we didn’t want to get captured if we could help it. I was up that tree, calculating in my head, what could I do? What could I do?
“I had a carabiner on my belt, and I clipped it as quietly as I could through one end of the rope. Then I dropped the toolbox, which was still tied to the other end of the rope, in his face. He yelled, and fell onto his mate. I jumped after the toolbox.
“The friction of the rope and the counterweight of the toolbox coming up slowed me a bit, though not much; I still hit hard. He was underneath me, and his mate was underneath him, so I recovered first, rolled off, unclipped, and legged it through the bushes, back the way they’d come. I thought that would be the least likely place for them to have men. I was planning to circle round back to camp. We knew the area reasonably well by then, I’d been sent out to get firewood, and had explored a bit. I knew there was a ridge over to the left, past a stream. I could get up that and over it and come out behind the camp. We were using the ridge as a natural defence, and they’d follow the path round it, the long way. I could be back before them.
“Someone probably heard the first soldier shout, because I heard a couple of pairs of boots running back even as I got up off the ground, and before I made it to the bushes I heard a shot behind me. That was this scar,” he touched his arm. “I plunged into the bushes like a rabbit and pushed through, heading for the ridge as directly as I could. But I needed to put them off the trail.
“I know trees. It’s part of my living. Not all the trees are the same in Denning as here, but enough of them are that I knew what I was seeing, and I headed for a grove of whitebarks as soon as I spotted it. Whitebarks entangle their roots together, and the whole ground around where they grow becomes a big mat of roots. Doesn’t take footprints very well. And they form big groves, so I could go in and then come out the other side and be hard to track.
“Problem is, you can see a running man against whitebarks, so it didn’t work as well as I’d hoped. There were several of them after me by this point. I think only one or two had rifles. Most of the troops in the rebellion weren’t very well armed, but one of them had a crossbow, and wasted his bolt before he was close enough to get a good shot. It hit a whitebark off to my left.
“I picked up the pace. I’m not a fast runner, but it’s amazing how fast you can go with guns behind you, especially in a whitebark grove, with springy ground and no undergrowth. I dodged back and forth among the trees and hoped the grove went all the way to the stream.
“No such luck, of course. I hit a bramble-brake. I could hear the stream on the other side of it, and I slid under the bushes and started to crawl. By this time, the woods were full of shouts, Denninger accents calling out to each other. They assumed I was a watchman, I suppose, aiming to report back to his unit, which was close enough to true.
“I tore myself and my clothes up pretty thoroughly getting through the brambles, but I got out on the stream side, and headed downstream, away from the camp but also away from the shouts. I stayed on the rocks and tried not to disturb any until I found somewhere I could swing myself onto an overhanging branch and climb out into a tree. No footprints on the bank.
“They had to look for me, but I only had to run, see? I could move faster. So I made it up to where the ridge started, into the rocks at the foot. My plan was to get over the ridge without being seen and hurry along the other side, back to camp. I assumed Berry had already made it back and warned everyone.
“Well, that plan didn’t work out either. That crossbowman, or another one, most likely, had a lucky guess at where I might be and was way out in front of his unit,
and when I was just about to the top of the ridge he lined up a good shot and…” he gestured to his leg.
“I fell between a couple of rocks. I was heated up enough that I didn’t feel the full pain yet, but I knew it was coming. I cut a piece off my trouser leg and wrapped it round the bolt to stabilise it, keep it from moving round and doing more damage. I sawed off the two ends that were poking out, too, for much the same reason. Knew better than to pull it out. Hurt like a… It hurt a lot.
“While I was fixing it up, I could hear the crossbowman approaching. He wasn’t sure where I was; his footsteps kept stopping while he looked for me among the broken rocks. I heard him call out.
“‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’ve got your big mate, and the Major’s coming up behind. You might as well come out now.’
“Well, that changed everything. If they had a major, they probably had more men than we did, and if Berry had been captured... I had to get to camp and warn them, leg or no leg.
“My first problem was the crossbowman. I’d heard him reloading on one of his stops. It’s a distinctive sound, you can’t mistake it. I grabbed a piece of rock and lobbed it so it would strike behind where I thought his voice was coming from.
“Must have worked, because he turned round and repeated himself. I bit down on another piece of cloth to keep myself from yelling out, and peeked round one of the rocks. He was right there, closer than that wall,” he pointed to the far wall of the bathroom, “peering round with his crossbow up, his back to me.
“Have you ever played target-knives?” She shook her head. “I have. I’m village champion. Partly because I have a knife in my hand all day, and I can practice any time I like. I keep a target in the shop, and a throwing set to hand. I…” he dropped his eyes. “I think you know what I did.”
“You threw a knife into his back.”
“Yes. I’m not proud of it. It was war, and it wasn’t just him or me, it was him or my mates, you understand? I don’t… I’m not a killer. I regret it to this day.”
“Of course you do,” she said, her voice soothing him. “What then?”
Hope and the Patient Man Page 11