by Janny Wurts
Then he stood on his rankled dignity and added, ‘You can hand me a second-rate blanket.’
Mirag glared back at him. ‘A blanket’s too good, you uncivilized madman.’ Shaken to the brink of hysteria, she shouted down his astonished, hurt protest. ‘Whatever you touch won’t be left fit for rags, with you reeking of fox piss and bear scat. Climb into this tub and scrub yourself down. When you’re clean, we can talk about clothing.’
Mykkael drove his limping step to the wash tub, wet his finger, and flicked a sizzling droplet to test the heat in the fire iron. ‘I’ll bathe for you later,’ he suggested, calmed at one breath as he grasped the denial that caused Mirag to fixate on trivia. No comfort held the power to ease what her instincts already told her.
Her boy on the floorboards was dying.
‘Benj,’ Mykkael urged with the utmost soft clarity, ‘please lend me your help. If we don’t stop the bleeding, there’s no chance at all. Let Timal not go without trying to save him.’
The poacher clung to his son’s chalk-pale hand. ‘You know what you’re doing? You’ve done this before?’
Mykkael shut his eyes, swallowed. ‘In war. On the battlefield, more times than I wish to recount.’
He chose not to broach the imperative precaution, that when he was done, the cottage and all of its unsalvaged contents must be burned to the ground. He had not survived three conflicts with sorcerers without learning the bitter necessities. Lacking the permanent presence of wards, or the protections afforded by talismans, he could not shield Benj or his family from the enemy’s arcane scryers. That left no choice but to eradicate every last shred of evidence that the patrol sent by Devall had come here. Fire laced with green cedar must cleanse the trace imprint of the recent dead, and all that remained of the corpse of a catspaw, infused flesh and bone by the deadly, left sign of a sorcerer’s lines of compulsion. Day wore away, and sundown had faded to twilight, with Jussoud still unable to share Mykkael’s warning message with the learned physician from Fane Street. The strain of that urgency wore at his patience. He opened the curtains, while the early stars burned above the high peaks of the ranges. The gold flare of kerrie fires plumed against the indigo sky as the creatures soared through their aerial hunt on outstretched, scimitar wings. While darkness gathered, and lights from the palace spilled through the boughs of the cherry trees, Jussoud listened to the draw of Taskin’s breath. He noted small signs of improvement. The rhythm had strengthened, with the depth of each inhalation approaching the reflex of natural sleep.
Encouraged, the healer made rounds to brighten the candle lamps. He weighed the risks, undecided whether he should snatch the brief chance to slip out. Taskin’s delicate state still demanded attendance. The dosage of remedies and herbals required constant adjustment to keep pace with each shift in his life signs.
Vensic’s watch at the door could not address setbacks, and Lindya’s adamant vigil forestalled every chance to summon the physician in privacy.
Time passed. The windows darkened. Jussoud nursed his silent, agonized fears, until the opportune servant sent up from the nursery asked Lindya to help settle her son.
‘Go, lady,’ the nomad was quick to assure her. ‘Right now, your father’s condition is improving. Your child needs you far more. You could help most by retiring to the nursery, and showing a composed face to the household.’
Lindya stirred in the looming shadow by the bedside. Deep-set weariness and heart-torn appeal conflicted her delicate features. ‘You won’t leave the room?’
‘Rely on that.’ Jussoud arranged his lamps on the marquetry table used for a makeshift pharmacy. He sorted through his herb packets and tinctures, and began the demanding, meticulous process of mixing an elixir by the eastern method of imprinting subtle substance as catalyst into the essence of water. ‘If you’re worried, you could do me the favour of calling for the physician. He mentioned earlier he had obscure knowledge that might speed your father’s recovery.’
Released from her quandary of pained indecision, Taskin’s daughter left with the servant. Jussoud waited, using the fixed steps of his recipe to constrain his scalding impatience.
The physician arrived shortly, pink-cheeked and alert, but lacking his usual ebullience. His greeting to Vensic was perfunctory, and his cautious manner as he latched the door bespoke his masked agitation.
‘I don’t like the complacency shown by this court,’ he opened point-blank. ‘The crown council and the palace guard have no concept to fit the gravity of their situation.’ He pushed up his spectacles and rubbed tired eyes, then added in embarrassed afterthought, ‘Your lancers downstairs are recovering nicely. I think by tomorrow two can be released into the care of their families.’
‘Actually my primary concern was the lack of sound wardings,’ Jussoud reassured him. ‘That’s why we need to consult.’ Finished counting the requisite droplets of essence into a phial of purified water, he lifted silver eyes from his work and shared a glance of suggestive gravity.
The physician fielded that wordless appeal. He closed the short distance from doorway to table, all the while maintaining the thread of casual conversation. ‘You know eastern remedies?’ His interest stayed genuine as he surveyed the array of fine essences, sealed in their blown-glass jars. ‘Which school? Indussian?’
‘The same.’ Jussoud’s shut eyes expressed his relief, as he corked the fresh tincture and began to agitate the contents, shaking the solution end for end for a count of one hundred strokes. ‘I also have notebooks compiled by the seers of the Pinca.’
The physician pulled up a rush-seat chair. ‘Now there’s a rare body of scholarship. My own notes are sketchy. I’d appreciate the chance to share knowledge.’
Jussoud managed the briefest of smiles. ‘You’d be welcome. Do you read Pinca?’
‘Not as fluently as I’d like.’ The physician heaved a soulful sigh, his thinning hair like floss in the dimness. ‘I used to have Mykkael help translate.’
Granted his circumspect opening, the eastern-bred nomad lowered his voice and explained the gist of the message the discredited desertman had sent by means of the saddlecloth.
The physician listened through to the finish, unblinking. ‘Blinding glory!’ he whispered. ‘Why under the light of the risen sun hasn’t anyone acted?’
‘Ignorance.’ Jussoud uncapped the phial in hand, selected a clean dropper, and proceeded to measure the next sequence of dilution into a fresh measure of water. ‘The rote habit that clouds human nature,’ he concluded in saddened disgust, ‘sealed into fixed orders by Captain Bennent’s distrust.’
The physician crossed his arms as though chilled. ‘You do realize there was purpose behind every one of Mykkael’s instructions? The western viziers have written that Perincar’s markings hold mathematical properties. Their geometry will guard the bearer independently, but also, they’re said to cast a ring of protection that grows in exponential proportion when assembled in multiples of three.’
Jussoud all but faltered the count of his next agitation. Lips tight with worry, he withheld from comment until the last hundred strokes of his remedy were complete. ‘Mykkael left us eight, under warded protection.’ Then he set down his phial with dawning dismay. ‘The captain himself was the ninth, don’t you see? Or has he not shown you the pattern that Perincar tattooed at the nape of his neck?’
The physician stood up. ‘Well, he’s set on the run as a fugitive, now, sealed under a legal death warrant. Truth be told, his prospects look poor.’ His quick wit observed that the nomad perceived every daunting political obstacle: that the crown prince was too green to handle the council, and the seneschal too hidebound to see past the blandishment dangled before Sessalie’s landlocked trade. ‘It’s not canny. That young peacock from Devall still has his retainers out scouring the countryside. Everyone seems convinced that Mykkael’s hand harmed the princess. His Highness’s anger’s inflamed to the point where I fear the crown’s archers will shoot on first sight.’
‘On
ly Taskin might stop them.’ Grim as cold iron, Jussoud set his new remedy on a tray. He added a clean glass dropper, and moved to attend the unconscious charge in his care. ‘As things stand, we are helpless targets. I think King Isendon will be lost, and each of us will be dead, if we can’t find some way to enact the precautions Mykkael sent us in warning.’
‘You wrote them down, Jussoud?’
Both nomad and healer stopped short between thoughts. For the words, faint but clear, had issued from amid the pillows of Taskin’s sickbed.
XXI. Setbacks
THE NOMAD DROPPED TO HIS KNEES WITH A STARTLED CRY, AND ALL BUT SCATTERED HIS NEAT TRAY OF MEDICINE. ‘TASKIN?’ Better poised without the heart’s burden of friendship, the Fane Street physician bore the candle lamp towards the invalid on the bed. Under the golden spill of the light, the commander’s grey eyes were open.
‘You still trust that desert-bred, after this?’ Though weak, the whispered demand was imperious. ‘Tell me why.’
‘Gently’ Jussoud chided him. Quick to recover his sensible equilibrium, he set his remedies aside on a footstool. ‘I could ask what made you try the stupidity of attempting Mykkael’s arrest without backing.’ He touched the pale forehead, found no fever, then added, ‘If you rest, and maintain a slow convalescence, your sword arm could heal without damage.’
Yet if he expected the hopeful prognosis to disarm the commander’s suspicion, Taskin rejected all inclination to settle in peaceful relief.
Jussoud cut off his strained effort to speak. He brandished the dropper of remedy, then smiled as the familiar, irascible spark enlivened the commander’s wide eyes. ‘This won’t make you sleep, I assure you.’
The physician adjusted the lamp, also carefully gauging the response of the wounded man’s pupils. He added, helpful, ‘The essence has no sour taste, and will only help build your strength.’
Taskin gave way, too depleted to argue. His glower of forbearance stayed fixed on the ceiling, while he suffered the nomad to slip the remedy under his tongue. Once the dosing was finished, his husked voice seemed fractionally stronger. ‘Kaien’s do’aa. The garrison captain was proved forsworn. Devall’s interfering marshal brought evidence.’
‘You never asked why? By the stars of my ancestry, I thought so!’ Jussoud settled back on his heels. He gathered Taskin’s left hand, and laid finger to wrist to measure the pulse. ‘Now listen to me. No excitement, understand? Your condition is fragile. We are blessed to have you wakened and lucid, but you cannot withstand undue stress.’
Taskin’s wax forehead pinched into a frown. ‘You want my backing to salvage that desert-bred?’ The pale eyes flicked sideways, still furious. ‘Then speak for him.’
Jussoud bowed his head. ‘Mykkael forswore Kaien’s do’aa for the death of a child.’ In measured phrases, he explained the particulars, while the silence grew thick enough to suffocate.
Taskin stared straight ahead. His chest rose and fell. The raced pulse under Jussoud’s tacit touch fluttered light as a moth’s wing. When speech came at last, the scraped words were reduced as the rustle of breeze through a feather. ‘Mykkael would have entered the second master’s do’aa under a false claim of autonomy’
‘He had to.’ The nomad swallowed and closed his vibrant clasp over the commander’s fingers. No glance could he spare for the stilled presence of the physician from Fane Street. His eastern voice remained firm as he resumed a discussion that must turn revealingly private. ‘The master who finally finished Mykkael’s training was the only man living who knew the technique to curb the conditioning of barqui’ino reflex. His do’aa alone taught the sequence to allow a roused warrior to stop short of a killing blow.’
‘“An awkwardness no one admits,” Mykkael told me.’ Taskin’s confession emerged with demanding effort. ‘That was his fair wording, when he affirmed his past course of study under two masters.’ The commander attempted to turn his head, prevented by Jussoud’s quick restraint before the move pulled at his bandages. The ascetic face on the pillow grimaced, ripped by sorrow too late to redress. ‘I was wrong,’ Taskin finished. ‘The Captain of the Garrison never once lied to me as his senior officer.’
‘They have not made his capture,’ Jussoud assured him, an inadequate effort at solace. ‘He will have gone on to save Sessalie’s princess with all the resource he has left.’
Taskin’s expression showed wounding remorse. For in fact, the direct order given to Mykkael in his audience with King Isendon had been to do all in his power to safeguard the life of the princess.
Taskin sucked a taxed breath, the spirit that infused his faltering flesh fanned to incandescent resolve. ‘Get me to the king. I don’t care how.’
The distressed physician dimmed back the lamp, and broke silence to offer a warning. ‘If we try to move you, please understand, you’re likely to slip into a coma.’ The anxious glance he shared with Jussoud underscored the life-threatening risk, that if the wound tore and started fresh bleeding, additional dehydration and shock would foreclose any chance of recovery.
Yet Taskin rejected the prudence of cosseting. He would but argue, and waste precious strength. The sorcerer’s plot would not rest through the pause for a stricken man’s health to be guarded.
Jussoud matched his friend’s courage, his demeanour grim as hammered gold in the flame light. ‘If we do this, you realize, your daughter Lindya is going to claw us to shreds.’
Taskin shut his eyes, adamant. ‘Strap me to a plank with a sheet overtop. Damn well claim I’m dead if you have to! Keep me here, and the fact I am wearing a talisman will draw in a pre-emptive attack. This house and its occupants would suffer the brunt!’ A bald truth, followed hard by another, as bitter. ‘Nobody else can force Captain Bennent to reverse his misguided decision.’ Taskin opened his eyes again, pleading. ‘Jussoud, you must! For Sessalie’s security, we have no choice! You have to help me carry through Mykkael’s instructions to safeguard the life of the king.’
An hour’s tense labour saw the poacher’s young son strapped in bandages, and wrapped under layers of warmed blankets. If his colour looked grey, and his breathing stayed clogged, the emergency cautery had accomplished its desperate office. No more flushed blood bubbled from the boy’s mouth. He would rally from shock; or he wouldn’t.
While Benj scrounged up canvas and poles for a litter, Mirag flitted about like a gadfly, gathering untidy piles of provisions, and fretfully hovering beside Timal. Throughout, the male target of her railing tongue maintained his unruffled composure: Mykkael perched on the settle and attended the neglected wound in his thigh. A patter of curses hissed through his teeth as, head bent, he cast aside the cut reed just used to flush out the puncture. He tipped back his head, waited with fixed patience for the wave of fresh pain to subside.
‘You think we’re daft, or just dumb as squabs to swallow such outright foolishness?’ Mirag upended a basket of leeks to fish out the one turned with rot. ‘Do as you say, and Timal will perish for certain.’
The desert-bred she accosted stayed tolerant. ‘Timal should not be moved,’ he admitted, point blank. ‘But if he stays here, if you choose not to abandon the cottage, every one of you will lose much worse than your lives. This I promise.’
His conviction left no room for ambiguity. ‘This site has been fouled by a sorcerer’s long spell. When I go, the wardings I carry move with me. Would you leave your family at risk, stripped of every protection? Unless you allow me to banish the last trace imprints with fire, you will be tracked down. Such a creature will have a bound scryer.’
‘Mirag, please, we can’t argue.’ Benj looked up from lacing a patched length of canvas to a litter pole, his eyes overshadowed by lingering fear. He had lost more than his son’s carefree health to the unclean works of the enemy. The trauma of his narrow escape from the horrific force of a spell line might not, now, ever leave him.
‘The sorcerer will dispatch a minion, or worse, when his catspaw fails to return.’ Mykkael could not mourn what had a
lready passed. As a warrior, he turned the sum of his skills to salvage the course of the future. ‘Unless drastic steps of prevention are taken, an etheric trail of disturbance will remain. A sorcerer will use that cold trail to bind you, the same way he snared Devall’s advocate.’
Clad in one of Benj’s castoff nightshirts, the desertman stretched out his hurt leg and tested the mash of warmed herbs just prepared for a drawing compress. Each move methodical, he slathered the paste over the swollen puncture. Then he rinsed his hands in a bucket, and bound up the wound in clean cloth.
‘If I survive to clear my reputation, and if Sessalie remains free of conquest, I promise to see that you receive the crown’s fair restitution for damages. You have your dogs, and the pay I left, meanwhile. That should be enough to sustain you.’ Mykkael knotted the ends of the bandage, looked up with his insolent smile, and finished, ‘You buried the coin, Mirag? It’s safely concealed somewhere outside the cottage?’
She ignored him, offended, and folded her arms, well braced for the irate glare from her husband. ‘There’s no more secure place, Benj! I dug out a hidey hole under the mastiff’s barrel.’
Yet the fact the poacher looked mollified did nothing to appease her attacking rancour towards Mykkael. ‘What about Timal?’
‘See him settled with the nearest trustworthy neighbour. Then send to the physician on Fane Street. His assistant, Cafferty is competent with wounds. Ask him to visit the boy’s bedside.’ Mykkael stood up, tested his scarred knee, then sat down again. He borrowed upon Jussoud’s example and used more binding to wind a support wrap. As he worked, he continued his effort to wear down the goodwife’s hostility. ‘Tell the physician’s man that Sergeant Vensic at the garrison will see his fee paid from my personal funds.’
‘Go to the garrison? Are you mad?’ Benj paused in the act of tying off the sewn canvas. ‘My boy was cut down for a criminal act!’