He nodded at Riss gratefully and began the challenging ascent. Stopping several times, twice to let giggling girls and soldiers stumble past him, he finally reached the second-storey landing which had only three rooms. Tor opened the first door and closed it hurriedly when he saw a young prostitute, hard at her work.
‘Damn!’ he muttered, feeling the colour rise in him instantly.
There were two choices left. He lumbered towards the door at the end of the airless corridor. This room was empty. It was also tiny. He tried to lay Cloot gently onto the mattress of the cot but he was so weary his load slipped and Cloot dropped with a crunch. Tor flopped down on the floor beside the bed, worried and exhausted. A short while later there was a knock and a young girl, about ten summers old, entered balancing a jug of water and bowl.
‘The physic is behind me,’ she gabbled.
A man spoke. ‘Are you Gynt? The one with the retard?’
Tor sighed and stood tiredly. ‘Yes, I suppose that sums things up.’ He nodded towards the bed.
The doctor, whose name was Freyberg, laid his walking cane against the cot and immediately began tut-tutting to himself. Together they removed Cloot’s rags and both drew a sharp breath at the palette of colour across his body. Angry purple bruises from the earliest wounds blended with the dull pink of the most recent, with promise of a much deeper colour to come. These were interspersed with distressing bright red splotches showing bleeding close to the skin’s surface, due most likely, Freyberg commented absently, to broken bones.
Doctor Freyberg kept up a quiet, continuous muttering to himself as he examined his patient. Finally the old man rolled up his sleeves and opened the satchel he had brought with him. He pulled the cork from a bottle of a dark, viscous substance which smelled strongly of cloves and handed it to Tor.
‘Pour some into his throat. It will help take the edge off the pain.’
Tor obeyed, holding Cloot’s head gently as he tipped the blackish liquid into his swollen mouth.
‘His teeth, sir? I mean, could he be swallowing any broken teeth with this?’ he asked as he handed back the bottle.
The doctor snorted, then eyed the boy from beneath bushy brows, one of which expertly held a monocle in place.
‘Well, I should imagine swallowing broken teeth is the least of this man’s problems, but if it reassures you, my boy, I have already checked and it appears his teeth remain whole…though that seems to be the only part of him which is.’ He looked at Cloot and then back at Tor, adding gently, ‘However, I’m impressed that you thought to mention it, Gynt.’
This pleased Tor. Long before Merkhud had put the thought into his mind about training as a practitioner of healing, Tor had felt a similar calling.
‘I’m heading for Tal, Doctor Freyberg,’ he blurted. ‘Physic Merkhud has taken me on as his apprentice. I’m to learn the healing arts.’ He was unable to help the pride which swelled in his chest at finally saying this out loud.
The man returned Tor’s smile. ‘Why, that’s just marvellous. I haven’t met the great Merkhud but he is very well known to the Tallinese. His reputation, however, is known to everyone. I can’t imagine you’d have a more talented teacher and at the Palace too.’ At this he blew out his cheeks. ‘What an opportunity for a boy…But now wait, I seem to remember some talk of Merkhud having never taken any scholars under his wing—’
‘You’re right at that,’ Tor cut in excitedly. ‘I’m his first apprentice.’
‘Then I shall have the honour of giving you your first lesson, young Gynt.’
The doctor returned to surveying his patient.
‘But I must tell you, your sad friend here is very damaged from the cursed beatings of his captors. I’m not sure of the extent of his problems—not yet anyway—so if you are going to be of any help, you must promise to be brave. He is hurt terribly,’ he added.
Tor nodded gravely. He could hear the sounds of the early merrymaking in the square cranking up a notch in intensity. Through the tiny window the soft late afternoon light gave the attic room a warm glow.
‘His name is Cloot, sir. I’m called Tor.’
The doctor acknowledged this with a barely perceptible nod before continuing briskly.
‘From what I can tell immediately, Tor, Mr Cloot has several broken ribs, a broken arm on his left side, a disjointed shoulder on his right side and a broken wrist on the right side too. He is severely concussed, probably from a particularly nasty blow just here,’ he said, pointing to Cloot’s temple. ‘And if his jaw is not broken then it is cracked badly around this point.’
Tor remained silent.
‘His cheek may also be fractured and his nose is quite obviously broken. He will have a couple of shiners by tomorrow—if he lives that long—and this ear has a nasty tear…Did they nail him to that damn post?’
Freyberg did not wait for a reply. ‘There’s some bad bleeding here and here—if he has ruptured inside then there’s very little we can do but I’m hoping against hope that it is due to the broken ribs. The man’s a marvel, though. How he is still alive is a wonder.’ He began to rummage through his bag again.
Tor didn’t have to wonder. The increasingly intense headache and weakness he felt told him enough about how Cloot was still alive. He desperately needed to rest. Cloot was draining him. The doctor was still talking but Tor did not hear.
‘I’ll need your help…What’s wrong, Tor? You look as white as fresh milk. Are you squeamish, is that it? Sit down, sit down.’
The old man fussed until Tor did sit down on the small stool near the window. He dragged in some air, willing the nausea and faintness to dissipate. Taking the black phial which the doctor held outstretched, he looked up confused.
‘Just sniff it—it should help.’
Tor sniffed and regretted it the same instant, gagging and then coughing and spluttering. His eyes watered and his nose ran. He must have glared through his noisy discomfort because Doctor Freyberg snorted loudly, this time with humour, then handed him a second, even smaller phial after breaking the glass seal.
‘No, doctor, I won’t, thank you—I like not your herbals,’ Tor croaked.
‘Trust me, Tor. This really will make you feel better. The other—simple but powerful smelling salts. I apologise.’
Tor didn’t think he looked in any way chastised but took the phial and swallowed the contents. It had a pleasant taste. Not sweet but not bitter either, with a soft flavour of something he had never tasted before. He liked it and did, indeed, feel brighter almost immediately.
‘Good, isn’t it? It’s called arraq,’ Freyberg said, looking his way.
‘What is it?’ Tor licked his lips.
Freyberg began to clean Cloot’s face gently as he spoke. ‘It’s a berry. Violet-skinned with bright red fruit. The berries are tiny and rare. They bloom only during Thaw and for a very short season. As soon as the ice and frost show the first signs of melting, I’m out hunting my arraq berries. But ’ware the raw berries—exquisitely poisonous, young Tor.’
‘I’ve never heard of them before.’ Tor smelled the empty container and committed the bouquet to his excellent memory. ‘How do you prepare them?’
‘Perhaps I’ll be able to show you one day. It’s a messy but simple process of boiling them furiously down to a syrup. But if you want to poison someone, the juice of a few berries will kill them efficiently; a few drops will paralyse. Not many people know this.’
The doctor was now gently sponging Cloot, removing the grime which added to the mess of his body. He began humming softly as he did so. Tor stayed quiet, inwardly marvelling at the renewed strength he felt and even took the risk of sending another silent bolt of it into Cloot.
‘I need your help, Tor, to set Cloot’s broken bones—are you feeling up to it?’
‘Yes, I want to help.’
They worked for the next hour or so, gently easing joints and limbs back to their positions and sweating, despite the early evening’s mildness, over straightening his bon
es as best they could. After this the doctor instructed Tor where to apply the special salves and ointments he pulled out of mysterious pockets in his bag and showed him how to bind the broken bones. Finally, as twilight claimed the dusk and the noise in the street and from the inn below began to overwhelm their voices, the doctor straightened his back and sighed.
‘That’s it, Gynt. He’s in the hands of his gods now; I can do no more for him.’ He looked searchingly at Tor. ‘I lie. There is one more thing I can do.’
He dragged a small bottle from his bag. Inside was a pink liquid.
‘I use it on fatally injured patients. If the worst happens and you see more of these red splotches appearing, or if your friend starts to cough blood, you give him this. Tip it down his throat and say a prayer for his soul.’
Tor was shocked. Pure arraq juice, he guessed.
‘We won’t need it, Doctor Freyberg.’ His voice was raspy and he was embarrassed to realise his eyes were misting up.
‘I know, my boy. I hate to lose any patient, but if and when he regains consciousness he may be in tremendous pain and could die in agony. This will speed him on his way, that’s all.’ He pressed the bottle into the boy’s hand. ‘It’s a gentle death, Tor,’ he added softly.
Tor could hardly bear it. He was exhausted physically and emotionally.
‘How much do I owe you, doctor?’
The doctor almost winced at his tone and busied himself clearing things back into his satchel.
‘I am offended greatly by this person’s suffering. I will not accept your money, Tor.’ His kind smile overwhelmed Tor who slumped on the stool. ‘And as for you, son, I recommend you use the money to get a hot bath, a hearty meal and a few ales. Mr Cloot is going nowhere for a while so rest and get your strength back too. You look strapping enough and yet you seem weakened—are you sickening for something?’
‘No, sir—I’ve just been travelling for several weeks and skipped too many meals.’ He lied expertly and hated himself for it, particularly to this generous soul.
‘Until tomorrow then, Tor.’
Tor listened to the doctor climbing down the stairs, the sound soon lost in the noise of men’s voices soaring from the inn’s front room. He studied the strange, sleeping man’s face, trying to look behind the puffiness and horrible bruising. This was not a handsome fellow. His large nose swooped down almost to touch his protruding bottom lip, whilst his forehead appeared unnaturally deep. Oversized ears and a mad thatch of dark hair would have made him seem freakish if not for the intelligence Tor had seen mirrored in those pained eyes earlier. The man was mute but he was certainly not cretinous as most instantly assumed.
Tor gave his umpteenth sigh as he contemplated, once again, the thought which had niggled since Doctor Freyberg had said there was nothing else he could do. His attention was momentarily distracted by frenzied movement at the foot of the bed and he watched with horrified fascination as a small army of ants dealt with a struggling, dying cockroach. They began expertly to dismember the wretched creature while its rapidly decreasing number of legs thrashed furiously in the air. One particularly enthusiastic foot soldier was doing his damnedest to haul one enormous leg off on his own. Tor admired the tiny ant, up against a seemingly impossible task but unwavering in his dedication. Perhaps the ant inspired him.
Tor took a long, deep breath, pushed up the sleeves of his rough shirt and gently laid his hands on Cloot’s chest. He closed his eyes, summoned the Colours and felt his fingers begin a familiar tingling as the room turned silent and grey.
6
King of the Sea
In spite of his fatigue, Tor felt refreshed after washing and changing his dusty clothes. He joined the boisterous crowd of soldiers downstairs, feeling lost and a bit lonely amongst men who all knew each other.
His spirits were boosted when the roasted meat and a cup of strong ale were set down in front of him. The girl melted away again, lost between the shoulders of beefy men. The colour of her hair reminded him of Alyssa and he was swamped by a fresh wave of despair about where she had gone and why she had left without word. Almost unconsciously he cast, seeking her out, begging inwardly for her response. Nothing. Just the blackness. He poked at it. There was no hint of Alyssa’s familiar scent.
Too occupied with eating a sorely needed meal and thinking on Alyssa, he did not notice company had arrived until the soldier had undone his scabbard and set the blade on the table. Tor picked up his own mug and, raising it slightly towards the newcomer, took a long draught.
‘To your good health, Gynt,’ Prime Cyrus said quietly. ‘How goes it with the freak?’
‘His name is Cloot, Prime Cyrus. The doctor holds little hope that he will survive this night.’ He held the soldier’s keen gaze.
The Prime leaned back and rubbed his battle-grey eyes. ‘Tell me about yourself, Gynt, you intrigue me.’ His voice was friendly, open.
Tor could not help but like Cyrus. He sensed a sophisticated man not afraid to resort to violence. His senses also told him this was a loyal man, one who would put his men before himself and his sovereign before anyone.
‘So little to tell, Prime Cyrus. Not long ago I left my village where I’ve lived all of my life and now I’m on my way to Tal.’
Cyrus nodded towards Tor’s cooling meal. ‘Please.’
Tor returned to his food. The Prime gestured to a passing serving girl for a refill of his ale. ‘How old are you?’
‘Old enough,’ Tor said awkwardly, his mouth full.
‘And you’re heading for Tal…Why?’
‘Why not? The capital seems the most logical place to seek my fortune.’ Tor was beginning to feel like cornered prey.
‘Is your father a farmer, Torkyn?’
So he remembers my name. Tor was impressed again.
‘No, sir, he is the scribe for our district. We live at Flat Meadows. Perhaps you know it?’
‘Indeed. Well, I know its inn. I have stayed there but not in a long time. And the father is prepared to let the intelligent son go and not follow the profession. This seems strange.’
Tor pretended to drink what was left in his mug, though he had emptied its contents already, using the time to think. The Prime was honest, of that he had no doubt, but the man was also being too inquisitive.
‘My father’s a great believer that all men should broaden their minds before settling down to a profession or…family.’ He held the Prime’s gaze innocently.
‘So you plan to return to Flat Meadows?’ Cyrus asked slowly.
‘I have no plans, Prime Cyrus. Why all these questions, if you don’t mind me asking one?’
‘Because whatever happens in Tallinor is my business,’ Cyrus replied. ‘The security of our realm is my responsibility and I like to know when folk with strange friends and even stranger ways are making a beeline for our capital.’
The Prime sat back, his half-drunk mug of ale cradled loosely in his lap. Tor was not fooled by the casual manner; the soldier was clearly enjoying himself.
‘I’m just suspicious by nature, but somehow I know our paths will cross again, Gynt, and then I’ll have your story.’ He stood. ‘Here’s to your fortune then, in Tal.’
Cyrus rebuckled his scabbard and, without much more than a nod, disappeared towards the inn’s door. Soldiers parted shoulders swiftly to let their revered leader pass through.
The interrogation over, Tor decided he needed fresh air. He cast to Cloot upstairs and established that he was still unconscious and would probably remain that way for a while.
Outside the revelry had escalated. The main square, now a riot of colour, dance and music, was lit by hundreds of scented candles burning inside brightly decorated, waxed paper lanterns that hung in long strands. Their gentle, spicy fragrances were blown by a soft sea breeze around the streets.
Tor found himself watching a young couple dancing close, laughing and kissing. Too much seriousness in my life, he berated himself. It is time just to relax. Alyssa would contact him when s
he was ready. Cloot was safe upstairs. The Prime and he had reached a quiet truce and his first carnival was awaiting impatiently. He straightened his shirt, checked the pouch of money and the orbs—which, he noted, now emitted a constant, just perceptible hum—and joined the revellers.
Dizzy from dancing with three of the local lovelies, Tor was in the middle of a challenge to lift the incredibly fat lady in her chair when his fruitless exertion was brought to a sudden end by the loud tolling of a bell.
People immediately began spilling out of inns and various side streets, hurrying to get the best vantage point in front of a makeshift stage in the centre of the square. A robed man stepped up onto the stage and began to quiet the happy mob.
‘Good folk, be welcome. Our sincere thanks to the generous people of Hatten, who have once again given us a memorable day—and night—of festivities. But now the moment we’ve all been celebrating towards has arrived: our new Queen of the Vines must pick her King of the Sea.’
The crowd roared its approval.
‘I would now ask all the bachelors who consider themselves worthy of Kingship to come forward. No more than twelve men will be presented so make haste!’
The bell tolled again and Tor laughed with the crowd as a mad scramble of men, young and old, started trying to climb the stage. The ladder had been taken away so they were having to haul themselves up the hard way. Some tripped in their dash to the platform. A few fell in their desperate attempt to hoist themselves up or others pushed them away much to the merriment of the onlookers. As always a few hardy souls made it and were preening themselves proudly above the crowd.
One minute Tor was enjoying the hilarious antics, the next he was in the air. With a rush and a wild cheer, his captors dumped him unceremoniously onto the podium. Tor spun around just in time to catch sight of six burly soldiers in fast retreat. Scowling, he scanned the back of the crowd and, right enough, there was Prime Cyrus wearing a sardonic smile, his mug raised in a toast.
Tor was furious. He found himself being hastily arranged into the two lines of suitors for the Queen’s hand but consoled himself that she would never choose him, so let them have their fun.
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