Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2)

by Patrick W. Carr

  On the aft deck their captain employed the rough side of his tongue on Rokha as she stitched up a jagged cut on his arm. Ru’s daughter just smiled and yanked the thread holding his flesh together.

  “You evil woman! You did that on purpose. Don’t pull so hard.”

  Rokha flashed him a saucy smile. “I thought sailors were tough. You cry more than a soft-handed courtier, Salo.”

  Her words seemed to have the desired effect; Salo stifled his complaints in spite of Rokha’s obvious pleasure at employing more force on the stitches than necessary. When she knotted off the last one, she approached Errol, swaying with the movement of the ship like a dancer.

  Rokha moved in so close her breath brushed Errol’s ear like a caress. “I thought I’d give Captain Salo a little of his own back for your seasickness.” She moved on to the next injury, her hands clutching her pack.

  “Captain,” Rale said, “we need to circle back and see if there are any survivors on that longship,” Rale said.

  Salo spat. “You want us to stay out here in the strait? Who knows what other ships may be out there hunting us? No. By all the gods of the sea, no.”

  Errol brought his staff up, waved the bloody end of it in front of Salo’s face. The man’s eyes followed it as if it were a venomous snake. “Captain, if any other vessels were within striking distance of us, they would have attacked along with that first ship. Valon doesn’t strike by half measures. He didn’t expect us to be aided.”

  The captain’s eyes bulged at the mention of the secondus, as if Errol had invoked a malus.

  “Without the men on the longship, we’d be dead. Yes?” Errol asked.

  The captain didn’t answer. He continued to watch the end of Errol’s staff as if it might strike him at any moment.

  “Nod your head, Captain.”

  Salo bobbed his head once.

  Errol allowed a measure of his helplessness and frustration into his hands. The staff twitched a fraction. “I think we should go back and see if there are any survivors.”

  The matter proved to be more complicated than Errol realized. Sails had to be reconfigured to turn about and tack against the wind in a zigzag course to bring them to the drifting form of the longship. From his vantage point on the aft deck of Salo’s ship, Errol witnessed the carnage the cog had wreaked on the watchmen who’d appeared to save them. No one moved. Crossbow bolts by the score had turned the vessel into a floating prickle hog of wooden skin and iron quills.

  Salo thrust his arm at the derelict. “Are you satisfied?”

  Rale stood next to Errol, his gaze focused on the longship as he scrutinized one body after another. “Pull her in, Captain. I want to board her.”

  A torrent of muttered imprecations poured from Salo at this command, but he gave the order, and within minutes the longship bobbed alongside. Errol’s feet rocked underneath him as the two hulls bumped together. The carnage looked even worse up close. Those men had fought death to the last. He followed Rale across the rail, dropping to the lower deck of the longship.

  Dead watchmen lay everywhere. Errol found himself examining each pale, lifeless face, but none of these men were known to him. As far as he could tell not one of these men dressed in black had ever graced the courtyard in Erinon. Rale collected crossbow bolts as he went. Then he jerked in surprise and rushed to a man lying next to the main mast.

  “Errol, get Rokha.”

  He rushed back to the other ship, pulled Rokha away from stitching a deep but not life-threatening cut on a sailor, and ran back to Rale. They found him next to a tall watchman, a captain’s sword emblem stitched to the breast of his cloak. Sweat matted blond hair so light it was almost white. The man lay unconscious, or nearly so. Strong hands clenched his thigh so that the tendons corded.

  Rokha ripped a strip of cloth from a dead man’s cloak, wound it tight around the watchman’s leg just above his hands. She snatched a length of a broken crossbow bolt and inserted it through a knot in the cloth.

  The captain’s eyes flew open at the first turn. “No, not the tourniquet,” he gasped. “I need my leg.”

  Errol caught sight of familiar icy blue eyes.

  Rokha brushed aside the captain’s objection. “I want to make sure you live, Captain.”

  The watchman jerked his head toward Errol. “And I want to make sure he lives. You’ve stitched arteries before?”

  Ru’s daughter nodded. “But not on a rolling ship, and never without something to knock the patient out.”

  “Do it,” the watchman ordered.

  Rokha stared down at him, her face unreadable. “If you flinch, you’ll die.”

  “Then I’ll have to make sure I don’t flinch. Hurry. I don’t know how long I can stay conscious.”

  Ru’s daughter loosened the tourniquet just long enough to place a pad of cloth underneath it against the artery. “Lie back, Captain. Errol, elevate that leg and keep it steady. Rale, keep just enough pressure on the tourniquet to keep him from bleeding. Too much and you’ll crush the artery, too little and he’ll bleed to death.”

  Rale took the tourniquet from Rokha. “Release your grip, Captain. Let the lady do her work.”

  A rope of blood squirted across Rokha’s tunic. “Tighten it.”

  The bleeding slowed. Rale turned the bolt by increments as Rokha wiped the blood away.

  “That’s it. Stop.”

  Errol could see the ends of the watchman’s severed artery. With deft movements, Rokha threaded a small needle and began sewing the captain’s leg together. The watchman clenched his teeth and stared at the sky. Sweat poured from him, but he never moved.

  At last Rokha tied the last knot and put away her needle. As Errol watched she dug through her pouch, unstopped a bottle that held a gray powder, and sprinkled a generous amount on the captain’s wound. The watchman hissed, his lips drawn tight against his teeth, and then appeared to lose consciousness.

  Rokha drew a deep breath and nodded to Rale. “Release the pressure slowly, very slowly.”

  Errol’s gaze locked onto the watchman’s artery, willing Rokha’s stitches to hold. Blood welled in the wound.

  “It’s not holding,” he said.

  Rokha watched for a moment longer. “Yes it is. The blood is from smaller veins—serious, but not life-threatening.” She wrapped the wound with long strips of cloth in a figure eight and tied them off.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  Rale sighed. “We’ll drop him off at Port City. There are healers there who can take care of him.”

  “No,” Errol said. Every gaze turned to him where he still held the watchman’s leg. “He’ll want to come with us. And we won’t be going to Port City. I made a mistake planning our route too far ahead. The only way to avoid Valon’s net is to make our decisions quickly, randomly. That way, by the time he knows where we’re headed, it will be too late for him to catch us.” As the words left his mouth, his eye twitched. His plan was sound, but he was missing something.

  “Makes sense,” Rale said.

  “He won’t be able to travel for at least a week, Errol,” Rokha said. “That artery needs time to heal.”

  Errol shrugged. “Then we’ll get him some urticweed to help with the bleeding so he can recover more quickly.”

  Rale regarded him with serious brown eyes. “How do you know he wants to come with us?”

  Errol met his gaze. How much could he say? He glanced down at the captain of the guard. “He said he wanted to make sure I lived. When he wakes we’ll ask him what he meant. In the meantime we’ll need a stretcher.” He turned away before they could ask him any more questions.

  The ship heeled over to bypass Port City and sailed for the next major port north, a hundred-league journey to Steadham, the capital of the Einland province. Merodach woke halfway there, his eyes sharp, darting. Errol held vigil by his side. Everyone else had been kept away, ostensibly by Rale’s orders, but in reality by Errol’s request.

  The watchman nodded. “You’re alive.” />
  Errol’s fingertips floated across the smooth grain of his staff. “You seem to be of two minds about that, Captain. First you try to kill me, and then you seem bent on keeping others from doing that very thing.”

  Merodach didn’t smile, but something in his countenance lightened for a moment before he grew somber again. “My men?”

  Errol shook his head. “You were the only survivor, Captain. I’m sorry.”

  A sigh. “They wanted you very badly, Errol, to chance so many men in the strait.”

  “Why would the number of men make any difference?”

  Merodach stared at the ceiling of Salo’s cabin, commandeered as the watchman’s makeshift infirmary. “That ship is a declaration of war. I have no doubt the Merakhi had hoped to keep us asleep for a while longer, preying on our desire for peace.”

  Errol waited for more. Merodach lay with his eyes closed. Only the twitch of his sword hand gave evidence of wakefulness.

  “What is your part in this, Captain? You seem determined to go to extreme lengths to keep me alive.” Errol’s pulse quickened. Each time he’d encountered Merodach, the captain of the watch had appeared without warning—to fight or save him and then disappear without explanation. Now the captain’s wounds held him captive. An unexpected opportunity to interrogate Merodach presented itself.

  Merodach opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling.

  If only Errol could find the key to unlock the man’s tongue. Desperate acts meant desperate motivations. Attacking a three-masted cog loaded with crossbows was definitely desperate.

  Errol leaned in, drawing closer to his erstwhile assassin. “We’re headed north, Captain. Our plans for Port City were made too far ahead of time. Valon, or one of his circle, knew of them.”

  The captain acknowledged this but didn’t speak.

  “I’ll send Rokha to you now that you’re awake.” Impatience rankled Errol like an itch he couldn’t scratch. “We’ll make provisions for your care once we reach port.” He rose, turned his back to the watchman. Merodach’s voice caught him at the entrance.

  “You cannot afford to leave me behind, Errol. I will be able to ride as soon as it is necessary. Valon gambled much on this attack and lost. It will take him time to marshal enough men for another strike—but when he does, you’ll need me with you.”

  12

  THE CATHEDRAL

  MARTIN STARED AT HIS FEET while he worked his way toward the cathedral. A light drizzle, unexpectedly chill in the early autumn air, aided them. The people of Windridge who had cause or desire to be on the streets went with their heads down. Martin and Luis wouldn’t attract attention.

  He hoped.

  In the week since the solis rescued them, Cruk had strengthened, but his ability to travel was still some days off. Martin chewed on this thought with resentment. Time spent with the solis, implacable as a Frataland glacier and sometimes as distant, had left Martin shaken. Every argument of theology and training he’d used to refute the herbman’s statements had been ruthlessly turned aside.

  Karele’s rejoinders put Martin on the defensive. They all came down to a simple position: If Deas was supreme in power, then how could a simple herbman frustrate a consecrated benefice and the secondus of the conclave?

  Luis walked next to him in silence that defined their interactions in Windridge. An urge, like a desire to shed a physical burden, filled him, and he turned to the secondus to speak, to voice his desperate doubts. He swallowed his words, forced them down deep to his belly, where they churned. Tell the church the spirit of Deas talks to men directly? Me?

  They’d never believe it. The only real question was how they would kill Martin after he uttered such blasphemy. He stumbled at the thought and righted himself. He’d done his part. The priests in his diocese were forbidden to persecute the solis. Since Deas wanted someone to tell the Judica that Aurae spoke to the herbwomen directly, let someone else do it.

  If, he corrected with self-excoriation. If Deas wanted someone to tell the Judica!

  “Not a sign,” Luis said.

  Startled, Martin pulled his gaze from the grimy cobblestones to search for the object of Luis’s comment. “What?”

  The secondus almost sounded mournful. “There’s no sign of pursuit, Martin. Not a trace. We’ve been out on the street for at least an hour, walking in a straight line toward the cathedral. The worst reader in Erinon could have tracked us by now.”

  “Thank the three they cannot find us,” Martin said. Yet even to his own ears he didn’t sound very thankful.

  “It will mean the end of the conclave,” Luis said.

  Martin nodded. Yes, and who knew what else?

  They turned a corner, and the cathedral rose before them. A weight like a cloak of lead settled onto his shoulders. They’d come to Windridge looking for answers; now he wasn’t sure he wanted them.

  They crossed the broad plaza to the cathedral. The local guards, dressed in faded red uniforms of the church, stood watch over the approach, ignoring the complaints of those they ordered to raise their heads in the gray drizzle. Martin lifted his head, shivered a bit as the damp found his neck, and approached the lieutenant.

  “We would like to see Abbot Gerold.”

  The guard took in their nondescript clothing and shook his head. “So would most of the supplicants who come to the cathedral. The abbot can’t see you all. I’ll let one of the brothers know you’re here.”

  Martin stepped close enough to the lieutenant to shield himself from casual passersby. Then he reached into his tunic and pulled out the heavy symbol of his office, cupping it in his hands so only the guard could see it. “Do you know what this is?”

  The guard’s eyes widened. He nodded, took a step back.

  Martin stepped forward to keep the guard from bowing. “And do you know what it means?”

  “Y-Yes, Your Excellency.” The guard stood, his body twitching as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to genuflect.

  Martin sighed. “Keep your voice down.” The lieutenant was probably a good man, but he wasn’t very bright. Martin waited, but the man in front of him showed no sign of recalling his request. “The abbot?”

  Relief washed over the guard’s face at being presented with an opportunity to leave. “Yes, Your Excellency.” He turned and disappeared into the cathedral at a trot.

  The guard returned a minute later with one of the brothers in tow. He practically flung him at Martin. “This is Brother Gilis.”

  A short man with a bulbous nose and an unruly crop of thick black hair stood in front of Martin, trying to free his arm from the lieutenant’s grasp. The church solider stared at Martin, seemingly unaware that he still held the brother’s arm.

  No, not a bright man. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I think you can let him go now.”

  Gilis nodded his thanks. “I’ll take care of our guests, Otto,” he said to the guard. Otto nodded but showed no signs of moving. The brother looked heavenward, muttered something that sounded like a prayer for patience under his breath. “You can go now, Otto.”

  The lieutenant nodded several times, pumping his head up and down and smiling before he left.

  Gilis lifted his hands. “A nice lad, the third son of a local lord.” He stepped to one side, raised an arm in an invitation to follow him into the cathedral. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the abbot.”

  They passed from underneath the overcast skies into the deeper gloom of the cathedral. Candles burned in the narthex, where pilgrims offered prayers. The shadows of their bent forms danced on the walls in parody. Gilis led them to the right—through the sanctuary, past the sacristy, and down a hallway. He stopped before a pair of double doors Martin recognized as the previous abbot’s personal dining room. With a knock, Brother Gilis escorted them into Abbot Gerold’s presence, bowed, and withdrew.

  Martin paused to appreciate the change in decor. Abbot Gerold was cut from different cloth than Morin, thank Deas. Morin’s opulent furnishings had been replaced with a simpl
e trestle table and chairs. Except for the signs of the abbot’s office and a pair of detailed drawings of the cathedral, the walls were bare.

  Martin nodded to Gerold. “My compliments to your decorator, Abbot. The furnishings are much improved since I visited last.”

  Gerold, tall with a hawklike nose and that bird’s piercing hazel eyes, waved his arms to show his dismay. “You saw that? When I arrived, I thought I’d walked into a brothel. As bad as this room was, Morin’s private chambers were a nightmare. I had Brother Dominic sell the furnishings. He bargains well, but I’m afraid the sheer quantity of Morin’s frippery overwhelmed the market for such things.”

  The abbot’s casual manner melted away, and his eyes became even more piercing. “I’m given to understand that you are a benefice. You’ll forgive me if I seem doubtful, but we live in troubled times, and those who wear the red have been called to the Judica, in Erinon.”

  Martin brought forth his symbol of office. “I am Benefice Martin Arwitten. This is Secondus Montari. A matter of urgency—those troubled times you spoke of—called us unexpectedly away from the proceedings on the isle.”

  Gerold nodded his apology. “Please forgive my hesitation. How may I serve you?”

  Martin pulled a deep shuddering breath into his lungs. “Abbot Morin kept a prisoner here, an old herbwoman guilty of nothing more than helping peasants in the countryside. I would like to have her released into my care.”

  The abbot’s face fell.

  “She’s dead!” Martin waved the bitter truth at Karele. In his peripheral vision, he saw Cruk stir and push himself up to a sitting position on arms that trembled with the effort.

  “Yes,” Karele said. “I know.”

  For some reason that simple acknowledgment stoked Martin’s anger. He closed the distance between himself and the healer. “Do you know how she died?”