Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  Shit! A sharp bolt of pain burst up Nels’s arm and down his spine. The cask slipped and precious air pushed past his lips in agony and frustration. Reini will kill us both. His toes brushed against something slimy and hard. Rock.

  The river isn’t deep here.

  The fingers digging onto Nels’s shoulder and neck lost urgency. He gave up on the cask and swept an arm through the water until he made contact with wet wool. The cask shot upward, scraping his face as it went. His lungs squeezed shut. He fought against an overwhelming urge to breathe—underwater or not. In a last desperate effort, he jumped for the surface. The murk brightened briefly. He heard a muffled rumble and footsteps. A steering pole sliced through the water inches from his nose, startling the last of his air out of him. With one hand, he grabbed at the pole. His head cleared the water, and he gulped air once before sinking again. Reini was heavy. Nels gripped the wet cloth with all his might. He felt it rip. Finally, someone plunged into the river with a splash. Reini was stripped from his grasp. With both hands free, Nels pulled himself up the pole. Cold slapped his face. He swallowed muddy river water and a certain amount of air. He choked. His head slammed into the side of the riverboat. His water-soaked hair blinded him. Then strong hands felt for the top of his head. He was pulled upward and dumped unceremoniously onto the deck. The mate’s heavy step drummed away from him and up the ladder.

  “That was a very foolish thing you did,” the captain said. The wrinkles in his face were set into grim lines that could’ve been a smile.

  Nels spat. “Reini?”

  “Didn’t manage to drown, it seems. Did a fine job of trying, though.”

  A coughing fit forced Nels’s forehead to the deck. Once it passed, he rolled onto his back. Lightning traveled among the clouds, and a blast of thunder vibrated the deck. As if on cue, fat raindrops smacked his face. He blinked. The sky moved. “We’re under way?”

  “Couldn’t risk staying. Not after all that.”

  Nels heard someone retching and sat up. He recognized Reini’s jacket. The sleeve was torn. Reini—in marginally better shape than his uniform but still whole and alive—lay draped face-first over a large barrel, vomiting up water. Nels stood, staggered once on heavy feet, and felt the captain capture his elbow with an iron grip.

  “Don’t go pitching over the side again. Can’t say as I’ll bother fishing you out a second time with what you paid me—not that there’d be much left if I did, by the look of you.”

  Exhausted, Nels nodded and then crossed the deck. His body was drenched in river water and dull pain. Chilled rain slapped the crown of his head. Reini slid off the barrel in a heap. Nels weakly tugged a discarded blanket over the lieutenant’s shoulders with shaking hands. The barrel did a lazy roll, thumping into the railing. Nels adjusted the blanket so that it covered Reini’s back better. After that, he righted the barrel. Then he tugged up his own collar in a futile attempt to protect his neck from the rain.

  “You went in after me.” Reini’s voice was hoarse.

  Too weary to stand any longer, Nels sat. His buttocks hit the deck with a teeth-jarring thump. Another bolt of pain shot up his spine. His entire body ached, and it was hard to breathe without angering his ribs.

  “Thought you couldn’t swim,” Reini said.

  “I can’t,” Nels said, staring at Reini through a wet tangle of hair. “My sister joined the navy at fifteen. Was well on her way to an officer’s rank before I—” He stopped. He didn’t wish to blurt out anything he might regret. “Suvi attempted to teach me to swim, but I couldn’t manage. Said my head was made of wood. But she said luckily for me, wood floats.”

  Reini laughed until tears poured down his face. Nels squinted in mild offense until he recognized the note of hysteria. He turned away. Watching the rain slap the deck boards, he gave Reini time to get control of himself. Throbbing pain in Nels’s shoulder kept time with his heart. Several minutes seemed to pass before the laughter finally dissipated.

  Reini cleared his throat. “Call me Viktor.” He took a long, shuddering breath and held it before letting it out slowly. “You’re bleeding, sir.”

  Nels noted it was the first time Reini had used the word “sir” without an edge of sarcasm. Tugging at his blood-soaked sleeve, Nels peered at the cut underneath through the rent. “I’m fine.”

  “We should get you to the infirmary when we get back.”

  Nels shook his head. “The regiment’s healer will ask too many questions. I’ve no wish to land in the disciplinary barracks for dueling any more than I’ve plans for being hung for smuggling.”

  “That’s good to know, sir.” Reini sniffed. “I could manage a field bandage.”

  “Leave it. It’s only a scratch.”

  TWO

  It was very late when the coach stopped in front of the small birchwood-and-stone cottage where Nels kept house. The rain had lost enthusiasm over the journey, slowing to a drizzle. Nels heard the coach driver pull a lever, and the coach step unhinged, clattering open with a bang he could feel through the soles of his boots. His heart suffered a similar jolt when he spied the hooded figure waiting at the front door. He glanced down at his now torn and bloody uniform. Then he grabbed his overcoat and draped it over his shoulders to hide at least some of the damage.

  “Who is that?” Viktor asked.

  Blond curls spilled from the hood as the small figure ran along the path to the front gate. Nels jumped out of the coach before the door was fully open. He banged his shoulder in the process and winced.

  “Thank the Mother,” Ilta said, circling his waist with her warm arms and then stretching to kiss his cheek.

  “You really shouldn’t touch me. I’m tainted.” Nels attempted not to glory in her affection too much. Remember, she’s only being nice.

  “Nonsense,” she said.

  “My turn.” Viktor stood on the coach step and threw his arms wide.

  Ilta stared at Viktor. “Who are you?”

  Nels didn’t bother with introductions. It was best if Viktor couldn’t name names. “You shouldn’t be here. The Narrows is no place for a lady—”

  Ilta gasped, shoved the overcoat off his shoulder, and ripped at the blood-blackened wool sticking to the wound. Searing pain penetrated deep into the base of Nels’s neck with a spasm, and fresh blood oozed down his arm. He jerked out of her grasp and barely saved his coat from the mud with his good arm.

  “Why didn’t one of the others bandage this for you?” Ilta asked.

  Viktor said, “He wouldn’t let me.”

  “Get inside,” Ilta said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “No wonder you didn’t want to go to the infirmary.” Viktor gave out a low whistle. “You have your own healer. It must be good to be a prince.”

  Ilta peered at the cut without touching the sleeve. “It’s too deep for plasters. It needs stitching. Do you have any mugwort?”

  “No,” Nels said, giving Viktor a glare. Go home, he mouthed.

  “I might have mugwort somewhere,” said Viktor. “Care to come to my apartments and check?”

  “Go home, Lieutenant. That’s an order,” Nels said, dodging Ilta as she reached for his good arm. “Send for Private Ketola. I need him to run a message.” He waited for Viktor to climb back into the coach and then slammed the door. “See you in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir, Captain-Highness, sir.” Viktor leaned out the window. “Tomorrow is a rest day, you know.” He mock-whispered, “I hear sleeping late after a good long swive speeds healing.”

  Nels checked Ilta’s face, prepared to apologize, but her gaze was focused somewhere else. He knew that distracted look. She was in one of her trances. She hadn’t heard Reini, if she remembered him at all.

  “Good night, Viktor,” Nels said.

  Viktor didn’t seem to notice that Ilta couldn’t hear him. In Nels’s experience, it wasn’t all that unusual for others to miss the signs. There had been times when he’d missed them himself.

  “And a very good night to you, d
ear lady.” Viktor winked and then waved out the coach window. “Until we meet again.”

  The coach rattled and splashed down the cobblestones. Relieved, Nels returned his attention to Ilta. Nothing had changed. Afraid to touch her, Nels decided not to lead her out of the rain and merely waited until the trance ended. He wondered what she was doing in the Narrows at this time of night and then began to notice the sorry state of his residence. The poorly tended dooryard looked even more forlorn in the rain, but the darkness did a fair job of hiding the chipped green paint on the door.

  I’ve got to get her out of here, he thought. Before she’s spotted by someone who knows her.

  She blinked and sighed.

  “Are you all right?” Nels asked. He made a point of never asking her what she’d seen. Much as he wished he had some form of power­ful magic, he didn’t envy Ilta. Knowledge of the future seemed more of a maddening burden than a blessing.

  She bit her lip and then searched inside her cloak pocket. She found the gold watch she kept with her and checked the time as she always did after one of her spells. “How long was I gone?”

  “Not long. Let me get you a coach.”

  “Did I say or do anything?”

  “No.”

  Looking relieved, she put away the timepiece as well as her anxiety. “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

  He took a deep breath and released it. If someone finds out, Saara will punish her. “We both know I can’t.”

  “It’s not as if I’ll acquire a death taint, you know. I’m a healer.” She placed a hand on her hip. “It’s ridiculous. As if a battlefield or hospital contains less death energy than a soldier’s home. We both deal in life and death.”

  “Encountering death and causing it are two very different things, and you know it. Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your letter. About Acrasian pox-proofing for variola vera.”

  “I gave you all the information I had. Private Ketola would have the details. You can contact him tomorrow. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “As you can see, I’m home.”

  “Stop being so stubborn and invite me in.” Then she gave him a look that made his stomach flutter.

  Committing himself, he pushed past her, and as he did, he caught the faint aroma of winter roses, mint, and rosemary. It sent a delicious shiver down low. He swallowed, forcing away thoughts he shouldn’t have and then threw open the door. “After you, Lady Healer.”

  She retrieved her healer’s bag from where it had rested in relative safety on the roofed porch and followed him inside. The lamp that Mrs. Nimonen, the housekeeper, kept lit in the parlor revealed a shabby room of minimal furnishings—a settee, the battered writing desk, a wingback chair, and a small table near the hearth. One rug. No paintings. No decoration outside of the few tokens Suvi had given him. At the first, he hadn’t even bothered with a bedstead, sleeping on the floor when he could manage to stagger home from the local alehouse. Mrs. Nimonen, who he suspected was far too efficient a housekeeper for the amount he paid her, had taken charge out of desperation. Two months, one broken nose, an untold number of bruises, and twenty-seven demerits later, he had finally sobered up. Although more than a year had passed since then, he still hadn’t bothered to do much with the house. He hadn’t seen the point. Watching as Ilta tugged down her hood to survey the furnishings, he suddenly did.

  “It’s … smaller than I imagined,” she said.

  What were you expecting? It’s not like I live in a palace anymore. Forgetting his shoulder, Nels shrugged. He held his breath until the pain faded. “Would you like some tea? Mrs. Nimonen, my housekeeper, is gone for the night. I think I can manage boiling water without burning myself.”

  Ilta’s nervous retort echoed through the empty house. “Point me to the pantry. You’ll only get blood in the pot. Anyway, your Mrs. Nimonen is bound to have some mugwort stashed somewhere.”

  Ilta slipped through the door he indicated, and the sounds of clattering porcelain followed soon after. The cottage was old, and therefore the kitchen was little more than a storage shed with a door to the root cellar. The cooking was done outside in summer and at the hearth in foul weather. He went to the fireplace and stirred the banked coals, then checked the water level in the kettle before swinging it over the heat.

  He absolutely avoided thinking about the proximity of his bedstead in the next room. As if you’re in any shape to do anything about it, even if she was interested. Which you damned well know she isn’t.

  Ilta returned, balancing a tea pot, biscuits, and other odds and ends on a tray. Her hair threw shadows across her face, masking her expression. “The pot has a crack in it. Did you know that?”

  He hadn’t noticed. “I’ve been too busy to replace it.”

  Setting the tray on the small table next to the hearth, she armed herself with a surgeon’s needle and motioned for him to sit. Threading the needle, she spoke without looking away from it. “I’ll get started while the water boils. Take off your shirt.”

  He settled into the upholstered wingback where he took his meals, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Too bad this is only about my shoulder.

  A knock on the door blasted through the room. Nels ran through a list of possibilities. Had someone seen her enter the house? Was it Saara, come to collect her errant apprentice? Had Major Lahtela sent someone to arrest him?

  “Sir? Are you awake?” Private Ketola’s soft country accent filtered through the door.

  Ketola. You forgot about warning Suvi. Stop thinking with your cock, damn it. He shot Ilta a guilty look and pointed to the back door. She seemed to catch his meaning and left.

  “I’m awake.” He found Ketola standing on the porch, waterlogged tricorne in hand.

  Ketola straightened to attention and executed an exact salute. His soggy red curls clung to his face.

  “Come in, private. I’ve a message for the palace.”

  Ketola hesitated before stepping over the threshold. He scanned the room until he spotted the tea tray set with two cups. Ketola’s eyes widened.

  Viktor had better not have said a damned thing about Ilta, or I really will have his braid. Nels went to the writing table. The tension knotting the muscles between his shoulder blades aggravated his wounds. He probed the drawer for fresh paper and then sharpened a quill to scratch out a coded warning in Acrasian. “This message is to be delivered to my sister. No one else. Understood?” Ketola knew the drill and could be trusted. Nels had used him to deliver messages to Suvi before. Blotting the page, he folded it neatly into an interlocking square to hide the contents from prying eyes and sealed it with green wax. “Ask if there will be a reply.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ketola nodded and hesitated. “Should I send for a healer?”

  “No, thank you. Looks worse than it is.” He handed Ketola the folded paper, noting the way the private’s coat sagged on his thin frame. Ketola’s interest in the tea tray took on another meaning. Gods, I am tired. Nels pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his head. “Dispose of the biscuits, will you? Mrs. Nimonen left it. I’m not hungry. And I’m too tired to put the things away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ketola stuffed his pockets and left.

  Ilta returned and looked meaningfully at the front door. “What was that about?”

  “What?”

  “You lied to him. You haven’t eaten.”

  “Ketola bound with an Acrasian woman nine years ago. She died last spring. Left him with eight children. Father doesn’t pay captains all that well. He pays privates even less. Ketola won’t take money. And I’m not one to argue matters of pride.”

  A warm smile spread over Ilta’s face. “You’re wonderful.”

  “Wonderful would be finding him a position with a noble so he could feed his family without selling his ass.” Too late, he spied Ilta’s shock.

  “Do you mean he—”

  “To be honest, it’
s pretty common. Men or women. Often both. Most of the troops don’t have an alternative. As long as we’re off duty, the Jägerpoliisi look the other way. For the right sort of bribe.”

  “Oh.” She looked away. She somehow managed to look even more uncomfortable.

  Then he realized the implication and stammered in panic. “Ah. I don’t. Do that. Of course.”

  Her relieved expression was almost comical. “Oh. I see.”

  “But after two years of misconduct, I don’t have enough personal influence for anything as insignificant as a reference for Ketola. I should’ve thought about that sooner.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I could ask Suvi to refer him, but I’m new to Kauranen’s regiment, and Ketola is one of the few that I know I can trust. Anyway, he isn’t the only one having to resort to … to—”

  “Prostitution. It’s all right. I know the word. I’m a healer. Remember?”

  “I-I’m enough of a burden on Suvi as it is.” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “At least we’re headed to an actual war. He won’t risk dying in a ridiculous skirmish over a rose bush.”

  “It wasn’t a rose bush.” She picked up the needle and thread again. “It was a prize-winning garden.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Are you going to sit down and take off that shirt? Or am I going to have to sit you down and do it for you?”

  An image of Ilta doing just that seared through Nels’s mind quick as a flash of lightning. Blood rushed in his ears and other places. It was accompanied with another quiver of pleasure. Resuming his place in the wingback chair, he painfully hiked his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. With a shock, he registered that the cut in his shoulder was already angry and red.

  “This may hurt a little.” She glanced up from the wet cloth in her hand. He could have sworn he saw her eyes widen before she glanced away. A corner of her mouth twitched upward. “I-I could remove the pain first if you’d like.”