The Bone Cave

by Sarah Remy

  Mal rubbed the ball of his thumb between his eyes where once Jacob had pierced skin with his sharp beak. “I’m well now, safely on dry land and grateful I did you no lasting harm.” He smiled small. “You appear hale and hearty but for battered knuckles, and grown another inch.”

  It would have been easy to sham peace, to pretend Mal’s chambers felt like safety when Liam thought they never would again.

  “You liked it too much, my lord,” he said sadly. “What you did to me, the taking. I felt how much you liked it. You would have kept on, until everything I was belonged to you and there was nothing of me left, not enough to walk this world after death or sleep peacefully beyond.”

  “That’s not true. I would never have let that happen.”

  Liam stared hard at the clutter on the surface of Mal’s desk because he couldn’t look any longer at his face.

  “Mayhap. You’re a good man, I know that. But, my lord, I won’t lie to you. I’ve been reading. Temple pamphlets, and even scrolls. Most of them are difficult, meant for the sort of people with book learning, more than I have. But the pamphlets, my lord, some of them were written for the common people, back when Eric the Gold wandered the land—”

  “—singing the temple’s lays on the temple’s coin, and the throne’s, planting the seeds of uprising. Eric was but the best known of many minstrels the theists employed in their campaign against the magi. I’ve read those pamphlets, and scrolls, and books. Are you suggesting the Aug had the way of it and I should be tied to a post and burned?”

  Now Liam did look at Mal. The vocent sat tall in his chair; fury drove deep grooves around the corners of his mouth. Regret clogged Liam’s throat and made him cough twice before he could speak. When the words finally erupted they came in a frantic stream.

  “Of course not, my lord. Of course not. Only, mayhap it’s a bit like eating the Flower Lord’s opion, that thing you did, to me and the first mate and before that to Tajit and before that to the ghosts on the ship, my lord, and once you’ve had a taste of it mayhap you want more and mayhap you lose your head just a little, just like the opion eaters did.” Liam lifted his chin, refusing to flinch before Mal’s rage. “And that, my lord, that makes you dangerous.”

  Chapter 11

  Mal pushed back his chair and rose. Liam held his ground. There was no point in reaching for his knife. If the magus intended to drain him dry of life the sharpest blade was of no use. The ship’s first mate had swung a ship’s hatchet in desperate defense but Mal had taken his living spirit from across the deck with only a flick of his fingers and a muttered word. The mate had been dead before he hit the boards—worse than dead: extinguished. There was nothing Liam could do to save himself if Mal meant to end him for speaking the truth.

  But Mal padded around his desk and around Liam, robes whispering. He set one hand on Liam’s shoulder as he passed, squeezing lightly. Liam stood firm though his pulse raced and his body betrayed fear with a shiver. Releasing him, Mal continued across the room. He yanked open the chamber door.

  Arthur tumbled across the threshold. Avani, standing behind the boy, managed to retain her dignity by looking down her nose at Mal.

  “We knocked,” she said. “You didn’t hear.”

  “Did you?” Mal looked down at Arthur. “Who’s this?”

  Liam moved before he thought, putting himself between Arthur and the magus. Arthur squeaked indignant protest. Avani’s eyes narrowed. Mal didn’t say a word.

  “I found him lurking outside in the hall,” Avani said, watching Liam. “One of your three, is he?”

  She’d given him the space he needed since he’d stepped off the boat. He knew she was worried, that she didn’t understand why he’d fled Mal’s service. Eventually she would come to him and demand an explanation, but not before she’d given him time to come to her first. She knew how to be patient. Liam thought mayhap she’d been born that way, popped out of her mother’s womb serene as the lambs she’d once tended. But serenity didn’t mean passivity. He should have expected she’d be keeping tabs on his comings and goings.

  “One of my three,” he confirmed, nudging Arthur back into the hall. “Who is supposed to be safely out of the heat, not tailing his betters through the palace.”

  “I wanted to see if you were going to punch him again, and if you were good as me with the fisticuffs,” Arthur explained, unrepentant. “You left the yard looking like you’d swallowed shit instead of puddin’ and were like to puke it up if you didn’t hit someone. So I followed. In case you punched him again and were hauled off to the dungeons and needed help.”

  Both Mal and Avani turned their censure on Liam’s bandaged knuckles.

  “Who—” Mal began, but Avani cut him off with a groan.

  “Ai, Baldebert. He was in a foul temper last we crossed paths. I assume he’s feeling the pain of a broken nose and the Masterhealer’s distaste, both.”

  “Sir punched him right in the face,” Arthur agreed, gleeful. “I wish I’d seen it.”

  “That’s why you braved my lair?” Mal blinked at Liam. “To confess to pugilism? Or do you need my help?”

  “Nay, my lord. It’s finished,” Liam promised. Arthur wriggled, trying to peer into the vocent’s room. Liam restrained him with a firm hand and a warning squeeze. “But that pirate’s been sneaking about, disguising himself and walking the streets, sniffing where he doesn’t belong and risking his hide. I came to tell you just that.”

  “Thank you.” Mal left the doorway and returned to his chair. “That’s exactly the sort of mischief that could turn perilous quickly. I’ll put a stop to it.” He drew parchment and a stylus across the desk, reached for the inkpot, then appeared to recall it was empty. “As soon as Sanders finds his way back. He’s never so quick as you were, Liam. I fear he’s dallying betwixt errands.”

  “Russel will go into paroxysms when she learns Baldebert’s slipped his leash.” Avani winked at Liam then smiled at Arthur. “What are you called, page?”

  “Arthur,” the boy replied. “I know who you are, my lady. You saved us from the Worm, best you could. I wished you’d done it in time to save my mum, but I suppose you needed to practice to get it just right. Some things are very hard.”

  “Yes,” agreed Avani, “some things are. I’m sorry I wasn’t in time for your mum.”

  “There’s Sanders with your ink, my lord,” Liam said, relieved to see the liveried page hurrying down the hall. “Arthur, it’s time to go. Say your farewells.”

  Avani looked as if she wanted to protest. Mal sat stone-faced in his chair. Arthur bowed to each then moved aside, letting Sanders through the door. Liam’s replacement—a muscular, sandy-haired man—looked more suited to the practice yard than service. Puffing and pink-cheeked, he mumbled apologies as he scurried toward his master. He smelled strongly of peppermint and honey. Avani cocked a slim black brow at Liam in secret amusement.

  “I hear the beekeeper’s trade is thriving,” she said. “I suspect her success has more to do with bosoms and dimples than sweets, at least amongst the yeoman. What say you, Sanders?”

  Sanders bobbled his pot. Only Mal’s quick grab kept the fresh ink from spilling over his papers. The magus snarled in pained irritation. Sanders flinched, mumbling apologies.

  Avani ignored them both. “You’ll visit me tomorrow,” she told Liam, “if those knuckles continue to swell. Armswoman Lane’s skill does not necessarily extend to poulticing.”

  “Aye.” Liam relented. He bent for her embrace. She clinched him tight before stepping away. “Good lad.” She smiled again at Arthur. “And you, too. If ever you’re in need of a friend, you’ll come and find me.”

  Arthur ducked his head in solemn agreement then dogged Liam’s hasty retreat away down the hall. Liam scowled at the torches flickering wanly against gray stone walls until he had schooled away the threat of angry tears. Arthur wisely held his tongue all the way through the palace and outside into the heat. The bailey was loud with livestock and the ring of the farrier
’s hammer and the remote rise and fall of unintelligible exhortations.

  “He’s still going,” Arthur said, grudgingly impressed. “Dawn to dusk, even in this weather.”

  “Have you changed your mind?” A steady trickle of men and women eddied through the bailey, following the echo of the priest’s cries, braving the pounding sun for the sake of curiosity. Liam, noting the buzz of quiet excitement bouncing in whispers and nods around the bailey, was reluctantly intrigued.

  But Arthur shook his head. “I’ve no use for preaching,” he said, “and him saying we deserved the plague after all, for His Majesty’s choice in bedfellows. Plenty of them priests died eaten by the Worm, didn’t they, and if it was god’s will the plague came down tell me why’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bad luck, is all,” Arthur said. Then he continued, “Can we stop for a sweet on the way home?”

  “The people feed him,” Parsnip reported. She sat cross-legged in the shade against the barrack’s wall, a book balanced on her knee, a battered buckler abandoned by her feet. She’d finished her drills with acumen, turning the duck and dodge into a fluid dance, and once even landing a painful blow across Lane’s knees, using the curved edge of the training shield to bruise instead of block.

  “And bring him jugs of water to wet his throat, and a pot to piss in,” the lass continued. “He stands up on a barrel with a stick. He’s got yellow desert eyes, but his flesh is pale as yours, Liam.”

  “He calls himself Brother Tillion,” Morgan added. He, too, sat in the shade, wooded sword across his knees, stealing a brief respite while Liam and the armswoman faced each other across flagstone. Soon the servants would come through with their torches, kindling the great caged bonfire that burned in the yard until the sun woke once more.

  “They say he was a farmer before he gave himself over to the temple as acolyte.” Morgan wrinkled his nose. “But he speaks as prettily as a courtier, and when I passed him a coin his hands were soft as any gentleman’s. Whatever he did before he put on the robes, it wasn’t working in the field.”

  “H’up,” Lane said. She swung the two-handed sword she’d chosen from the practice rack, stirring the warm air near Liam’s chin. “Pay attention, squire. Brain wanders in battle and you’re a dead man.”

  She’d place a similar long sword in Liam’s hands only minutes earlier. It felt awkward in his grip. The weapon was much heavier than the dirk he was used to, or the slim blade he’d carried to war in Roue. His arms and shoulders ached though he’d barely lifted the blade. He forebear to mention he’d killed four desert rogues with naught but cunning and a small sword, partly because he could tell Lane was still smarting from Parsnip’s triumph and wouldn’t appreciate his interference in her lesson, but mostly because he knew he would indeed have to learn the long sword if he intended to be successful in the king’s service.

  Still, he grimaced with the strangeness of the motion as he brought his blade up high overhead to block Lane’s next blow. The blades kissed and crossed. Lane grinned as she pressed her substantial weight forward through her arms and down good steel. Liam pushed stubbornly back. Above their heads the blades scraped but held firm. Briefly Liam felt the armswoman falter beneath the leverage of his greater height.

  Then she laughed and dropped her sword. Liam overbalanced. While he tried to keep his feet and retain his sword, Lane bent double and barreled forward, head-butting him solidly in the groin. Liam saw stars. Gasping, he dropped to his knees. Lane caught his sword as it slipped through his fingers.

  “First lesson,” the armswoman said as Liam rolled off his knees and onto his back, fighting for air. “Unless a man’s lucky enough to be born a lord, or canny enough to earn position as that lord’s quire, a man fights on foot, and on foot a man’s best weapon is his own mass. Don’t try for fancy or fair. Knock the bastard down then stab him. Used correctly, a broadsword’s as effective as any halberd when it comes to bludgeoning. Rapier’s mostly useless against mail.” Her shadow fell over Liam as she extended a hand. “Again,” she ordered. “H’up.”

  Liam found his feet with difficulty then had to brace his hands on his thighs and breathe while his head stopped swimming. The armswoman waited until he straightened before again handing over his sword. Her weathered face split in a grin as he adjusted slippery fingers on the pommel. His forearms quivered.

  Lane snorted. “What you’ve gained in height you lack in bulk, squire. It’s heavy work and there’s naught for it but practice. There now. Forget what little you learned on the wooden sword. Don’t feint, wallop.”

  “She means fight dirty,” Arthur suggested from behind Parsnip, supper in hand. “Pretend she’s a bloody blond-headed Rouen pirate prince.”

  Liam’s laugh choked to a snarl when Lane aimed a kick at his kneecap. He stepped sideways. The armswoman staggered, but her sword came up. Blades crossed again, and Liam’s muscles screamed. Lane bared her teeth, dancing out of his reach. The tip of Liam’s broadsword dipped toward flagstone, unbearably heavy. Lane hooted derision.

  “Again!” she called, then used the flat of her blade to club him mercilessly about the shoulders.

  When at last Liam fell, still dressed, into bed, stars twinkled in the night sky outside the dormitory windows. He ached all over. He could feel bruises blooming like blushes over his limbs, shoulders, and arse. Lane’s tutelage was more enthusiastic than he recalled. Although she’d never split his flesh or struck so hard as to break a bone, neither had she tempered her attack more than absolutely necessary to spare him serious injury.

  Certainly she’d taken no care to spare his pride.

  Groaning, he curled close as possible on the sagging cot, trying to spare his skin the pressure of the old horsehair mattress. His battered knuckles were a trifle compared to the agony of overworked muscles in his arms and calves. He had no energy left for anger. Only the promise of another chance at redemption come morning kept him from gut-deep mortification.

  He knew that given time he would grow stronger. If the armswoman meant to chase him back to Mal, tail between his legs, she was in for disappointment. He intended to prove himself to Lane, and to the king’s constable, and to any other who looked into his face and saw only the telling marks on his flesh. He was a blooded man, and he’d killed already for the king, even if it was in a foreign land with a light weapon against men who wore silk instead of steel. He would serve again, as Kingsman, and learn the trick of brute strength against enemies.

  A sluggish breeze swirled through the windows, causing Morgan to sigh and stir on his cot. Arthur lay on his belly atop his blankets, snoring lightly, fingers twitching in his sleep. Parsnip’s bed was undisturbed; Liam and Lane had left her in the courtyard, reading in the light of the bonfire. Parsnip struggled with book learning more than either of the lads; she claimed the inked letters danced and changed places on the parchment as if ensorcelled. Captain Riggins despaired she’d ever learn to write more than her name or decipher anything longer than the most basic of words. But a soldier who couldn’t read would never climb the ranks and Parsnip, like Liam, had a point to prove.

  The night breeze was a boon. Liam closed his eyes, chasing sleep. Dawn would come sooner rather than later. His body ached for respite. But his brain wouldn’t let him rest. Vague, disturbing images tumbled across the back of his eyelids: the trapper, spread out like an offering on a mountain of pelts, the barrowman, impassive even in captivity, and Mal, still and small in his chair. He tossed fitfully, wincing when muscles pulled, and tried to think of pleasant things. Avani’s solid embrace had been a comfort, one he sorely missed. Even as he yearned to find his own place in the larger world he couldn’t help but long for the simplicity of boyhood, when his only concerns had been the Widow’s temper and his hollow stomach.

  Eventually Liam would have to confess to Avani Mal’s dark secret. No matter how he ducked her attention, in the end she would suss him out. Already, he thought, she was growing suspicious. What would she do when
he spilled the shipboard tale? She was staunchly disinclined to believe the vocent changed for the worse. Would she call Liam a liar? Or would she take his warning to heart and rush headlong into danger as she was wont to do, demanding explanation from the magus?

  Liam didn’t think Mal would hurt Avani. Anyone with two eyes could see they were close as two pups in a kennel master’s mixed litter, made family by circumstance and like to defend each other till fur flew.

  But surely Mal thought of Liam as family, too. He’d said so more than once, and kept Liam close as any brother.

  The magi were flawed, one way or another. Deval’s collection, the temple histories, the old tales—proof was writ clear for all to see.

  Liam grit his teeth. He pressed his forearm against his eyes to stop the parade of blotchy images. He dozed. But before long the sound of running in the hall stirred him from sleep, and a hand on his knee had him sitting so abruptly he groaned.

  “Liam! Sir, wake up!”

  Muddled by broken sleep, Liam was at first slow to recognize the gap-toothed lass, and tardy in finding his tongue. So she shook him again, harder, until he swore in protest.

  “Stop! Parsnip, stop!” he whispered. Morgan and Arthur slept on, oblivious. “What is it? What are you doing?”

  Satisfied that he was paying attention, the lass stepped back. It was still dark outside, the stars visible. Parsnip had traded her book for her ax; she held it openly in her right hand.

  “What’s going on?” He looked from the ax to her face—little more than a shadow in the night—to the windows. “By the Aug, Parsnip, I just got to sleep.”