by Amy Raby
• • •
Lucien slept most of the way to Tasox. When he was awake, he was irritable and snappish, and sometimes not even lucid. Once he seemed to believe he was a soldier fighting with the White Eagle battalion in the mountains of Riorca. He spoke of slitting a man’s throat.
That evening, while he slept, she unwrapped the crude bandage tied around his leg and found the wound swollen and red. It looked wrong, and it didn’t appear to be healing at all.
“Will the bandits prevent us from entering the city?” she called to the driver.
“We’ll bribe them,” he said.
“You’re aware the battalion is on the way there?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m in a hurry. No one will want to buy vegetables after the bloodletting starts.”
“People need to eat, always,” Vitala protested.
“If they’re smart, they’ll have stored supplies. Better to go hungry than get staked.”
They arrived in Tasox the afternoon of the following day. A group of gaudily dressed bandits caught them at the entrance and demanded a “city access fee.” The farmer paid it, and they drove on to an open-air market, where Vitala and a semiconscious Lucien disembarked. Even though she’d had to force the farmer at gunpoint to take them, she paid him for their passage. Perhaps he would keep his mouth shut if anyone asked about them.
Though called a city, Tasox wasn’t as large as Riat; it was more properly a town. Vitala could see at a glance that it was well-to-do, or had been before the bandits took over. Kjallan cities housed their poor in rickety three-story apartment buildings, but she’d seen none of those on her way in. Instead, they’d passed rather nicer apartments, built in little squares around shared, central courtyards, as well as large, single-story villas.
The streets were clean and well maintained, but not bustling. Only about a third of the market stalls were open, and the queued-up customers looked nervous. They glanced about frequently, taking in the packs of bandits that roamed the streets—easily identified by their openly carried weapons—and, when business was concluded, disappeared furtively into their apartments and villas.
A bandit pack, seated on the edge of a public fountain and eating lunch, stared at her and Lucien. She had little doubt they would approach and perhaps harass her after they’d finished eating.
She beckoned to a street urchin. “Do you know Madam Hanna?”
The child nodded.
She handed him a tetral. “I’ll give you two more of these if you’ll fetch her here immediately. Tell her I’ve got a man here with a Shard in his leg. Use those exact words: a Shard in his leg. Have you got it? Repeat it for me.”
The child repeated the words, and Vitala sent him on his way.
Madame Hanna arrived, puffing and panting, fifteen minutes later, with the urchin and a Riorcan slave in tow. She was a graying woman in her fifties, a little overweight, with her hair pulled back from her face and tied at the base of her neck. She wore a silver chain around her neck and a collection of silver bracelets on her wrists.
“Aunt Hanna,” Vitala greeted her.
Hanna’s eyes briefly took her in—they’d never seen each other in their lives—and went to feverish Lucien. “You say he has a Shard in his leg?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let’s get him back to the house. It’s not safe on the streets.”
Vitala paid the urchin, then lifted Lucien’s upper body while the slave took his legs. Hanna guided them several blocks to one of the apartments surrounding a central courtyard. They went inside, and she shut the door behind them. A copper-colored dog with white markings trotted up to Vitala, waving its plumelike tail. It was carrying something soft and gray and unidentifiable in its mouth, which Vitala hoped wasn’t a dead rat.
“I’m not a Healer,” said Hanna. “I’m a midwife.”
A quick glance gave Vitala the layout of the apartment. They were in a sitting room, which had a hearth and doubled as a kitchen, and there were two doors in the back that led to what she presumed were bedrooms. A third door led to the courtyard. The room smelled of herbs and home cooking.
The slave indicated one of the back bedrooms. Vitala helped her carry Lucien there and settled him on one of several empty cots. The dog padded after them and curled up on the floor at the base of the cot, still carrying its mystery object. “Is there a Healer in Tasox we could bring him to?”
“No,” said Hanna. “Gordian’s men killed one of them, and he’s holding the other hostage.”
Vitala stood, discouraged by the news. She doubted Lucien would survive without a Healer. “Can we speak to Gordian? Offer money in exchange for use of the Healer?”
“No. Do not approach Gordian. Who is this man?” Hanna pulled off Lucien’s boot and began to undress him. The Riorcan slave moved to help.
Vitala glanced uncertainly at the slave.
“You can speak freely, child,” said Hanna. “Glenys is one of us.”
Vitala smiled. It was an ideal setup for a spying operation. Hanna looked Kjallan. Like Vitala, she was probably a half-blood, while Glenys was full Riorcan. A midwife and her slave could move freely about the village and would spend time in many households, learning much. Probably little went on in Tasox the two of them didn’t know about.
“He’s the Emperor of Kjall.”
Hanna snorted. “Not funny.”
“I’m not joking. That’s Emperor Lucien. His men turned against him, and I barely got him out alive.”
“I’ve heard no news of that.”
“It only just happened,” said Vitala. “And there’s a battalion on the way here to deal with the bandits. I don’t think they’ll be looking for Lucien—they probably believe he’s dead—but I don’t know for sure.”
Hanna ran her eyes over Lucien’s sleeping form, taking in the wooden leg with its gold bands, his wasting body, his pale face and sculpted features. “Can he hear us?”
“I don’t know,” said Vitala.
“Let’s assume he can.” She laid a blanket over him. “We’ll speak in the other room.”
They left Lucien behind, shut the door, and moved to the sitting room.
Hanna took a seat, her bracelets clinking. “If he’s the emperor, we should let him die.”
“No.” Vitala sat down opposite her. “I’m to bring him to the Circle in Riorca.”
Glenys spread her hands. “Why? The Circle wants him dead.”
“Not anymore,” said Vitala. “There’s been a coup. A man named Cassian has taken the imperial throne. If Lucien dies, Cassian will rule the country unchallenged. We need Lucien to raise an army and start a civil war, which will give Riorca the chance it needs to win its independence.”
“That young man doesn’t look capable of raising an army,” said Hanna.
Vitala bit her lip. She had to agree; that was a sticking point. And yet something told her Lucien was capable of more than he seemed. “He’s the best chance we have. Besides, I’m under orders.” That was true; she was under orders. Just not those orders.
“What are you? Spy? Assassin?” asked Glenys.
“Assassin and wardbreaker.” She lifted her hair and showed them the two hard spots on her neck where her obsidian riftstone and deathstone were implanted.
They came over and felt them, then sat back, exchanging a glance. Assassins were well respected in the Obsidian Circle. “All right,” said Hanna. “I’ll try to save him, but I make no promises. What does he know?”
“Only that I rescued him. He doesn’t know I’m from the Circle.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
They returned to Lucien, who was still unconscious on the cot, with the dog keeping him company.
“What’s your dog’s name?” asked Vitala. “And what’s that in her mouth?”
“Flavia, and that’s a rolled-up bandage she likes to carry around. Do you know what’s wrong with him?” asked Hanna.
“I think it’s wound fever. His Warder was one of the
traitors.” Vitala pulled up Lucien’s syrtos and unwrapped the bandage.
Hanna hissed at the sight. “Yes, that’s wound fever.”
Vitala bit her lip. “Will he die?”
“Probably not,” said Hanna. “It’s not streaky yet. But we need to get him warded before the sickness spreads any further. Glenys, get Antonius.”
The Riorcan hurried for the door.
“Once warded, he shouldn’t get worse,” explained Hanna. “But curing the existing sickness may be difficult.” She examined his back and sides. “He’s got burns, too.”
“Are they serious?”
“I imagine they’re very painful, and they’ll probably scar. But the blisters haven’t broken, and that’s a good sign. I’ll put ointment on them.”
“What can I do to help?” asked Vitala.
“Nothing yet,” said Hanna. “But you’ll have to nurse him back to health once I get some medicine and wards into him. Glenys and I must continue our midwifery. Do you understand? We could be called away at any time.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”
“For now, I’ll do what I can for him.” Hanna left the room and bustled about the hearth, lighting a fire, putting a kettle on to boil, and mixing an herbal concoction. Vitala discarded the blood-soaked bandage, unstrapped and removed Lucien’s wooden leg, and covered his lower body with a blanket to make him less recognizable. The former emperor’s face was not well-known to the general population of Kjall, but his leg was distinctive.
The Warder, Antonius, arrived and was directed to the back room. He was an elderly man with a kind, wrinkled face. “The standard wards?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, including fertility,” said Vitala. “The patient first, then me.”
She liked to watch wards being placed, since, unlike most people, she could actually see them. She relaxed her mind as the Warder’s fingers traced the symbols in the air, calling the magic from the Rift and anchoring it within Lucien’s person and then her own. He was highly skilled and called forth what he needed with minimal hand movements. Vitala smiled at the perfectly formed blue and violet threading his handiwork left behind. She paid and tipped him with Remus’s coin.
After Antonius had gone, Hanna brought the steaming kettle into the bedroom and set it by Lucien’s bed. She poured some powder into the boiling water, stirred, and dipped a cloth into it, then removed the cloth with tongs and held it out to Vitala. “Let this cool for just a moment, then hold it on his leg. You need to soak the wound for fifteen minutes.”
Vitala took the tongs. She waited until the cloth was cool enough to touch, then placed it on the wound.
Lucien groaned and shifted in his sleep.
Hanna left the room, and returned a while later with a basin and a metal instrument that looked like a large set of tweezers. She took the tongs from Vitala and set them aside. “Hold on to him,” she ordered.
Vitala gave her a questioning look. “He’s unconscious.”
“He may not stay that way.”
Vitala pushed Lucien’s arms into the bed, holding him down.
“No,” said Hanna. “Go behind him. Pull his arms behind his back.”
Vitala climbed onto the bed behind Lucien, lifted his upper body, and laid him against her chest. She twisted his arms behind his back and held them there.
Hanna used the tweezers to pry open the infected wound. Vitala winced and looked away.
Lucien, who had been deadweight in her arms, became a writhing, twisting force of nature. His arms ripped out of her grip. Something struck her on the chin. His arms flailed, and she ducked. The basin overturned.
“Be still! Be still!” Hanna shouted.
Lucien was yelling something incomprehensible.
Vitala tried to grab Lucien again, but he twisted out of her grip. She was afraid to try again. She was no match for magically enhanced strength.
Hanna righted the basin. “Lie down, you fool! I’m trying to help you!”
“What’s going on? Who are you?” cried Lucien.
“Lucien, it’s me!” Vitala circled around the room into his view.
He recognized her and quieted.
“You’re in Tasox,” said Vitala. “This is my aunt Hanna. She’s helping you with your leg.”
“Helping me with . . .” He looked at the leg wound, then at Hanna with her tweezers and basin. “What quackery is this? I need a Healer!” He tried to stand, but his injured leg buckled underneath him. Vitala caught him and maneuvered him back onto the bed. His voice sounded strange. Though his words seemed to be the product of a clear mind, she suspected they were fever induced.
“Shh,” said Vitala, laying her hands on his arms and pushing gently to get him to lie down. “There is no Healer available. Of the two in Tasox, one is dead and the other is a prisoner of the bandits.”
“Soldier’s hell! When is the battalion getting here?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but their arrival won’t be a good thing for us.”
“Pox it all,” fumed Lucien. “Let’s get out of here and move on to the next town. There are Healers in Worich.”
“You’ll never make it that far,” said Hanna. “Not until we drain that leg.”
Lucien paled. “Drain it?”
“You have wound fever,” Hanna explained. “We have to drain the sickness out of the leg. Otherwise you’ll lose the leg, and considering it’s the only good one you’ve got left, I don’t think you want that.”
“Pox that. You’re not opening up my leg. I’ll kill you before I let you do it.”
Vitala turned to Hanna. “He’s not lucid—not rational. How about I take his riftstone out of range so he loses his magic? Then Glenys can hold him while you drain the leg.”
Hanna frowned. “You shouldn’t be on the streets. Not with Gordian’s men out there.”
“I’m not defenseless, and it won’t take long. Will it?”
“No, but—”
“Don’t go.” Lucien stared up at her, his eyes cloudy and confused. “Don’t take my riftstone.”
“I’ll stay, but only if you hold still for Aunt Hanna.”
He winced but nodded acquiescence.
Hanna prodded at the open wound, and yellow fluid oozed out of it. She moved the basin to catch it.
Lucien howled in pain. He looked at what Hanna was doing, and his voice rose to an alarming pitch. “What’s that yellow stuff? Blood is not yellow!”
“It’s the sickness.” Hanna continued to prod deeper into the wound, finding more yellow gunk. Bile rose in Vitala’s throat. She’d never seen anything so disgusting in her life. “I’m getting it out so your leg can heal,” continued Hanna. “Are you feeling better yet?”
Lucien’s eyes glazed over. “Can’t even stand up,” he mumbled. “Gods-cursed horse.”
Vitala and Hanna exchanged perplexed glances.
Lucien turned to Vitala and started, as if he’d just noticed her. He raised his hand gently to the sore spot on her chin. “Who did that to you? I’ll poxing stake him—”
“You did that, you sapskull.”
He looked shocked. “I couldn’t have.”
“It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.”
As if in apology, he kissed her on the chin. When she did not protest, he leaned in to kiss her on the lips.
She shoved him away.
As Hanna probed deeper into the wound, trying to extract every last bit of the foul-smelling stuff, Lucien’s body stiffened and he gritted his teeth. He looked again at the yellow fluid draining from his leg. “Gods-cursed horse,” he murmured, and suddenly he was deadweight in her arms.
“Out cold?” asked Hanna.
Vitala lowered him to the cot. “I think so.”
Hanna clucked in sympathy. “Poor creature. It’s for the best.”
9
That evening, Hanna and Glenys were called out to attend a birth. Vitala stayed behind with Lucien and Flavia, following the orders Hanna had left her. Every four hours,
she soaked the wound in boiled, treated water, packed it with powder, and bandaged it. To Vitala’s discomfiture, they could not stitch the gash closed; it had to be left open until the sickness was gone. When Lucien woke, still delirious, Vitala plied him with medicine and water and, when he would take it, a little food.
By morning, Lucien was still weak, but the wound looked considerably less angry. He was aware of the dog and reached down from time to time to stroke her ears.
A few hours later, Hanna and Glenys burst in the door. “They’re coming,” said Hanna. “Down in the basement, both of you.”
“Who’s coming?” Vitala ran to the back bedroom. She would need help carrying Lucien.
“Gordian’s men.” Hanna pulled a rug aside, revealing a trapdoor. “Leave Lucien where he is; they won’t want him. It’s you and Glenys I’m worried about. They take young women. Better take Flavia too, in case they shoot animals for sport.”
“How many of them are there? Do they have magic?”
“Don’t fight them, child. Gordian will just send more.” She raised the trapdoor and gestured to the ladder.
Glenys hurried down. Vitala grabbed her weapons and followed. The rickety ladder creaked under her feet. At the bottom, her feet dropped onto soft dirt.
“Here, take Flavia,” called Hanna from above.
Vitala saw her handing the dog down, and her stomach tightened. She had no experience with dogs. Some of the Kjallan soldiers had them—great war dogs with bulging muscles, spiked collars, and mouths that bristled with teeth. Flavia wasn’t a war dog. She seemed gentle, yet she was a sizeable animal nonetheless.
“I’ll get her,” said Glenys, stepping forward. She took the dog in her arms, to Vitala’s relief, and set her on the dirt floor. The trapdoor shut above them, leaving them in darkness, but Glenys activated a light-glow that revealed a close space and shelves all around them. The shelves were stacked high with powder-filled jars, dried herbs, bandages, and food supplies. There was no furniture. Vitala sat cross-legged on the floor, half cocked her pistol, and rested it on her lap. Above, she heard a scraping noise as the rug was replaced over the trapdoor.