Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  He held out a hand to her, and as she wiggled through she noticed that the panes were not dark glass as she had thought, but black iron. The window was actually a vent damper, and she found herself in a pitch-black shaft that led down at a shallow angle.

  “Lad?” she said, trying to keep the tremor of fear out of her voice. She waved her baton ahead of her as she shimmied down.

  “Yes, Wiggen. I’m coming.”

  Then she heard the creak of the damper and she realized that it really wasn’t completely dark, at least not until the door clicked closed and her vision failed her completely. She waved her hand in front of her face, but saw nothing. Now that was dark!

  “I can’t see anything! I’m afraid to move!”

  “Don’t worry, Wiggen. I can see.” She looked toward his voice and saw the two faint motes that she knew were his eyes. She didn’t know how some of the magic in him had remained while some had been broken, but he seemed as strong, quick and agile as ever. The burns that outlined the shattered runes, however, had failed to heal, and she’d seen him grimace every time he brushed one of the rows of tender blisters. Pain was a new experience for Lad, as were all the whirling emotions that she knew were now rattling around within him like beans in a cup. She’d caught him smiling on more than one occasion for no apparent reason, and he kept watching her as if the mere sight of her was entertaining.

  He squeezed past her in the narrow shaft—it was big enough to crouch in, but not a lot more—and she felt his hand on her wrist.

  “Come on. It’s not far.”

  “What’s not far? How do you know this place?”

  “I did a lot of exploring in the weeks I worked for Forbish. I found this place one night. I think it used to be a laundry. This shaft opens up under an old furnace they used to heat big pots of water.”

  “Like the one on Copper street?” For years she had taken their sheets and blankets to the big laundry house run by a family of Westerners a few blocks from the inn. “Do you think we could wash?”

  “I hope so; we won’t get far smelling like this.”

  She felt him step down into a depression, then thought she caught the glimmer of light from around him.

  “Hold still for a moment, Wiggen. I’ve got to get this old door open.”

  She held as still as she could while she listened to him tinkering with some kind of metal mechanism. Then rusty iron squealed, and a dim light flooded the low area ahead of them.

  “Come on.”

  She wasted no time in crawling through the underside of the furnace and out the old ash door that Lad had opened. She stood up and stretched in the early morning light that streamed through the cracks in the boarded windows. The furnace room was cavernous, ceilings of brick arched high over her head. The place was strewn with strange equipment and tools. It seemed as if the owners had barely taken anything when they left.

  “Come on upstairs,” Lad said, smiling at her and taking her hand again. “This place is big, and the room where they washed the clothing is right above us.”

  She followed him up the steps, daydreaming of soap and water and piles of crisp clean sheets to fall asleep upon. They’d been slogging, crawling, wading and scrabbling through dark dank tunnels all night. She was exhausted and more than a little hungry. At the top of the stairs Lad pushed open a heavy, oaken door and they entered the laundry proper.

  “Uh...”

  The place wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping for.

  “It’s kind of dusty,” he said, running his hand over a heavy iron press and leaving a streak of black metal behind. Before, it had been gray. “But the cisterns are full.”

  “This is nothing like Mister Feng’s laundry,” she said, gaping at the wrist-thick bronze pipes and big copper pots, each chest high and shaped like an oversized teacup on great, wheeled trolleys. “This place is huge!”

  “I think they moved these big pots around to carry water. The pipes over there,” he pointed to a row of bronze pipes along one wall, “come from the cisterns on the roof. They filled the pots, wheeled them over there,” he pointed to slotted grates in the floor where heated air would come up from the furnaces below, “and when the water was hot, took them over there to do the scrubbing.”

  “I can’t believe they left all this here. Why didn’t they take it with them?”

  “I don’t know.” He pushed down on the edge of one of the deep pots, and it tipped in its trolley. There was a geared mechanism and a crank to tilt the pot even if it were full. “These tip to pour out the dirty water. See?”

  “Hmmm.” She peered down inside the pot; it was dusty and there were even some desiccated insect parts amid the filth. “Needs a good scrubbing.”

  “Let’s see if the water will flow,” he said with another smile, pulling her over to the wall with the pipes. There was already a pot under one of the pipes. He reached up to the rusty iron lever that controlled the flow of water and pulled. It opened with a horrendous screech, and out poured...

  “Dirt!” Wiggen gasped, waving her hand at the wave of dust and dander that rose from the pot. “Nice.”

  “Well, maybe one of the others will work. I know there’s water in some of the cisterns. I’ve seen it.”

  “Maybe we should just go up to the roof to wash.”

  “This will be better,” he assured her, tipping the dusty contents of the pot out on the floor, then pushing it under the next spigot. He pulled the handle, and a torrent of dirty water plunged into the dirty pot, swirling in a turbid mess.

  “Ew!” Wiggen said with a cringe, backing away. The stagnant water smelled horrible.

  “It should clear,” he said, and as they watched, the water went from brown to tan, and finally clear. “There! See?”

  She cupped her hands under the flow and scrubbed at her face and arms, still wrinkling her nose at the smell of the water in the pot.

  “Here,” he said, turning off the flow and pushing the pot out of the way. He wheeled it over to a wide, bowl-like depression in the floor and tipped it. The filthy water swirled down the drain. He pushed it back and ran some more water into the pot. “There are some old rags in that bin,” he said, pointing. “We can scrub this out and use it like a tub.”

  “Uh...” She retrieved a rag and helped clean the pot, her mind wavering over the idea of Lad’s suggestion. Not that the thought of a bath didn’t sound wonderful; she was just unsure of where it might lead. Lad no longer had a magical inhibition suppressing his emotions, and she knew that he had strong feelings for her. She had strong feelings for him, too, but she didn’t want things to go too far either. “You first. I’ll wash your clothes out while you scrub, then you can do the same for me.”

  “Alright.”

  Wiggen breathed a little easier. There was no hint of disappointment in his tone. She didn’t know what she was scared of, really. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. She loved him, but he still frightened her a little.

  When the pot was clean and rinsed one more time, he stripped from the black silk shirt and trousers without hesitation. She had intended to avert her eyes, but was caught unaware by the rows and rows of raised blisters from his neck to his ankles.

  “Oh, Gods, Lad! I just thought these were on your chest and arms!” He looked down and turned around. There were areas where the blistering was less severe, and even a few patches that were relatively free of damage, but, for the most part, his skin was a patchwork of red raised flesh. “These must be killing you!”

  “I don’t think they will kill me,” he said, brushing some of the blisters on his flank and wincing, “but they hurt. I’ve never felt this before. It is distracting.”

  “Well, the cool water should help.” She opened the valve and let the clean water fill the pot. “Can you climb in without tipping it over?”

  “Yes.”

  He did so easily while she tried not to watch. Muscle rippled in corded waves under his blistered skin as Wiggen gathered up his filthy clothes and looked around for someth
ing to wash them in. There were some smaller pots stashed in a corner. She retrieved one of these, along with a washboard and soft bristle brush. This place was obviously geared to handle vast amounts of dirty clothing and linen. When Lad’s tub was full enough, he closed the valve.

  “Does that feel better?” she asked, dipping her smaller pot into his.

  “Yes. The cool water takes the pain away.” He ducked his head under water and scrubbed his hair vigorously.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any soap?” she asked when he surfaced.

  “I don’t know. There are many things in that bin with the rags.” He astonished her by splashing her and smiling with mischief. “Ha! You look like the cat in the barn after it is caught in the rain!”

  “Thanks!” She laughed despite the remark. He’d actually made a joke! And laughed! “You’ve never laughed before, have you?”

  “No. Why?” He splashed at her again, missing intentionally. “Am I doing it wrong?”

  “Only if you want me to wash these,” she said, smiling and holding his clothes over the drain hole. “It’d be a shame if you had to walk around the city naked!”

  “It would draw attention to us, Wiggen,” he said, serious once again.

  “I was joking,” she said with a sour look. He might be regaining his emotions, but he had far to go before he developed a sense of humor. She opened the bin and began rooting through the piles of rags, blankets, brushes and stirring rods. There were several large blocks of harsh lye soap, but she knew that would be no good for regular clothing, let alone Lad’s silks. In the bottom of the bin, she found a small box that held four colored balls of scented soap, each of a different fragrance.

  “Here,” she called to Lad, tossing him one that smelled of spices. “Use that, but be careful of the blisters. Try not to break them open.”

  “It smells like Forbish’s pumpkin bread.”

  “I like his pumpkin bread.” She smiled at him as he sniffed the soap and applied it gingerly to his skin.

  She applied a second ball of soap to his clothes, scrubbing off the grime. She rinsed them three times before the water stayed clear. By that time Lad was standing beside his tub shivering. He reached for the clothes, but she pulled them out of his grasp.

  “No, Lad. Find a sheet or something from the bin to wrap yourself in. These will have to dry before you put them on, or you’ll just get a chill.”

  “Oh. Yes, I am cold.” He turned to the bin as she pushed the heavy tub to the drain. Tipping it out wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be. The crank on the side was geared, and the tub was balanced to make it easier. There was a locking catch to keep it from tipping by accident. By the time she’d pushed it back under the spigot, Lad was wrapped in two reasonably clean blankets and was watching her, his shivering gone and his smile intact.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes!” He shook his head and droplets of water scattered from his hair. He winced as the blanket tugged at his tender skin. “The burns still hurt, but less.”

  “I don’t know what caused the burns—the magic, I guess. I’m sorry you hurt, Lad.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Wiggen. You freed me. I would still be a slave and you would be dead if you hadn’t loved me.” He reached out a hand that brushed her cheek, and she leaned into the caress. “Thank you, Wiggen.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled back at him, lost in his strange, wonderful eyes.

  “Do you want me to take your clothes off now?”

  “What?” She gaped at the question.

  “Your clothes. You’ll need to take them off to wash, and I can wash them like you did mine. Do you want help?”

  “Oh! Uh, no Lad. I can take them off.”

  “Okay.” He stood there watching her, waiting.

  “Um, you stay here and fill the tub. I’ll go over there and take my dress off, okay?”

  “Alright,” he said with a shrug. He reached up and pulled open the valve, watching the water rise in the tub as she walked quickly over to the bin and snatched up the biggest blanket she could find.

  She managed to wrap the blanket around herself, hold it in her teeth and squirm out of her dress, all without exposing herself, a feat of which she was secretly proud, especially since Lad kept glancing over his shoulder at her, cocking his head quizzically. When she finally stepped out of the filthy dress, slip and underclothes and tiptoed across the dusty floor to the tub, he was looking at her as if she was painted blue.

  “What?” she asked defensively, tucking the blanket around herself more tightly.

  “I don’t understand why you did that with the blanket. It looked uncomfortable.”

  “It was uncomfortable, but I couldn’t just peel out of my clothes right in front of you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be decent, Lad.” He reached up and shut off the valve. “It’s different for you. You were never taught to feel modesty.”

  “Modesty?” His forehead crinkled in question.

  “It’s feeling uncomfortable without clothes in front of people,” she explained, trying to keep it simple, “especially in front of someone you don’t know well.”

  “But you know me, Wiggen.”

  “Yes, but... Well, I’m just uncomfortable, alright?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, will you not watch while I get into the tub?”

  “Oh. Alright.”

  He turned away and busied himself sorting through her grimy clothes, putting some into the smaller pot to be washed. While he was busy, she tried to figure out a way to get into the tub without losing her blanket. Lad had simply climbed in like a squirrel up a tree. She couldn’t match his agility, let alone while holding a blanket around herself. With a glance at Lad, she let the blanket drop and scrambled up and into the huge copper pot, splashing loudly and cracking her knee sharply on the edge. She bit back a cry of pain and massaged the injured joint. The water was cool, but not cold, and it felt absolutely wonderful. Slowly, she began to scrub away the caked-on filth.

  “Do you feel better?”

  “Wha--?” She whirled in the tub. Lad stood right beside the tub, looking down at her with that same quizzical smile. “Lad! What are you doing?”

  “Getting water for your clothes.” He lifted the smaller pot in emphasis, obviously surprised at her manner. “Do you not want me to wash them?”

  “Uh, sure.” She crouched in the tub. “Could you push me away from the spigot and fill it there?”

  “Yes.” He pushed her several feet away, and filled the smaller pot. Just as she started to relax again, he said, “Oh, and here is some soap for you.” He handed it to her and smiled. It smelled of lavender.

  “Thank you, Lad. Now, please, let me wash without you watching. Okay?”

  “Oh.” He took a step back, understanding dawning on his face. “I’m sorry. Yes. I will wash your clothes over here. I won’t watch.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned his back and began scrubbing her clothes.

  Wiggen slowly relaxed and washed away the grime, sweat and fear of the last half day. Her hair took three washes before it felt clean, and when she was finished the water, turbid.

  “Wiggen?”

  “Yes?” She looked, and smiled. He was standing ten feet away, turned sideways, his eyes carefully averted. He wore his damp trousers, but his shirt still hung over the corner of the bin.

  “I should go out while it’s still early. I need different clothes and we should have some food. Do you need anything before I go?”

  “Oh, uh, actually, yes.” She hadn’t thought about this before, but the inside of the pot was very slippery, and it was all she could do to kneel on the bottom. “I can’t get out of here by myself. Could you just tip it over a little near the drain so I can climb out?”

  “Yes.”

  Still averting his eyes, he pushed her over to the wide funnel set in the floor and worked the mechanism that tipped the big pot over.
She managed not to let herself slip out of the pot with the water, and to her surprise, when she stepped gingerly out onto the floor, Lad was waiting with her blanket, his head turned to the side.

  “Thank you.” She enveloped herself in the material and smiled up at him. “You can look at me now.”

  “Good.” He looked at her and smiled. “I like looking at you.” He settled his palm onto the side of her face again, a strange gesture that she was learning to love. She stood there for a moment, relishing the feel of it. “I should go now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Okay,” she said, brushing her cheek where he’d touched her. “Be careful.”

  He nodded and waved as he disappeared down the stairs. She settled onto the blankets near the bin, listening to the rattle of the furnace door and then the outside flue vent. She laid her head down, her fingertips brushing where he had touched her face. Briefly, she wondered if her life would ever be the same, and if she wanted it to be. And not once while she lay there thinking did she remember the scar that marred her cheek.

  Chapter XXIV

  “Bloody, damn waste!” Norwood cursed, clenching his jaw against his temper as he watched a cloak being drawn over the last dead guard’s face. He looked around the barracks lockup with a glare that could have melted the locks off the cell doors. “Eleven! Right here in the Gods-damned barracks! This can’t happen, Sergeant! Not in my city!”

  “No, Sir!” The guardsman stared past his captain at nothing, his face like stone, neck as stiff as an oak tree.

  The man was scared, Norwood realized, and not just of his commander. All the guardsmen were. They were terrified and trying desperately not to show it! Well, he was getting a little scared too, but not of this ghost of an assassin who seemed able to cut through his men like a scythe through so much wheat. He was scared for his city, for his Duke, and for what would happen to both if these killings continued and he remained impotent to stop them.