“It’s Hal,” I told Mistress Baynor. “He’s hurt. I need water and cloths, maybe some cooking wine to clean the wound.”
“What happened?” she asked as she gathered them.
I gestured at my arm. “He cut him.” No need to specify who. “Wanted more wine. I don’t know any more.”
“Philip must see reason,” she hissed, putting a small bottle of cooking wine in my hand. “It goes without saying you should keep that out of Domon’s sight.”
I tucked it into the pouch hanging from my belt beside my knife sheath. “Thank you.”
“I’ll send soup.”
“Thank you,” I repeated, and hurried back down the stairs as quickly as I could without slopping water out of the bowl.
***
“How are you?” I dropped the cloths onto the table but set the bowl of water on the floor.
“Well enough.” He watched as I returned the manuscript to its shelf. Only then, with the book safely away, did I move the bowl to the table. “You always remember to protect the books, no matter what is happening?”
“Training.” I dipped a cloth into the water. “I was only switched twice in Vere before I learned.”
“Harsh.”
“Necessary.” I reached for his arm but he shied away. “Start with the one on my head, please, if you don’t mind, lady.”
“All right.” We wouldn’t be able to avoid the real injury, not for long, but if he wanted to work up to it, that was fine. Maybe he wanted to know I was competent before trusting me with it. Fair enough. I washed away the dried blood, patted the cut dry with a clean cloth, then watched it for a few moments. It did not start bleeding again. “You were lucky. Just a scratch.”
He glanced down. “Not so lucky with this one.”
“No.” I picked up a dry cloth. “Move your hand now.”
When he uncurled his fingers, the bleeding quickened. I pressed the cloth down. His lips thinned.
“Can you move the hand? The fingers?”
He wriggled them gingerly. “Seems so.”
“Good.” I reached for his torn sleeve and began to roll it up one-handedly, the other hand still compressing the wound. “Might as well save your shirt as much as possible. It can be mended.” I kept talking, trying to hold his gaze, to distract him. “You should mend all right too, as long as it doesn’t fester. You were lucky, even with this one. An arm is full from wrist to elbow of things that work much better unsevered.”
“I know.”
“I see you do.” His forearm lay exposed beneath my fingers. I hadn’t noticed, until that moment, that no matter how hot the weather, he never rolled up his sleeves. The scars were fearsome. Two were so thick I was surprised he still had the arm below. “Did he do this?”
“No.” He glanced uncomfortably at the scars as if he’d rather I roll the sleeve back down. “That was before I came to Ragonne.”
I considered him more closely. He must be older than he looked. At least I hoped so. Not even in Bruster would someone who seemed barely eighteen come by such scars fairly. But he offered nothing more, and it was not my place to pry. “Very well,” I said. “Let’s get it stitched while Domon is safely occupied.”
I threaded my needle. Holding it in one hand, I peeled back the cloth with the other. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped. I sluiced the wound with wine, then jiggled the bottle at him, offering the remainder, but he shook his head.
“Ready?”
He took a deep breath and nodded. I pushed the gaping edges together. It was not the first time I’d done so. Like all nobles I’d been taught to clean and care for wounds. I also knew how to cut a man’s throat if his injuries were beyond help or hope. This I had not yet had to do.
“At least the sides are smooth, not jagged,” I said, trying to give him something to think about beside the bite of the needle, the strange sensation of thread sliding through flesh. “What did he get you with?”
He looked bemused. “His belt-knife, of course, lady.”
I stared. “After everything he’s done, Philip lets him wear a belt-knife?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “How else would he eat?”
I washed the now-closed wound and bound a clean cloth over it. “Wait here.” My knife was in my hand before I reached the doorway. Behind me, I dimly heard Hal call. I ignored him.
I flicked my wrist. My knife thudded into the table between Domon’s hands. His head snapped up.
“He can read,” I said. “He can read.” I stepped forward, and then my knife was back in my hand, its tip inches from his nose. “He is not a common boat slave, to lash at your whim.”
His eyes narrowed, suddenly much more lucid. “The King my brother allows me to discipline my servant as I see fit.”
My knife did not move. “The King your brother cannot make you less dead. Which is what you will be if you take your knife to him again. Philip may allow you to waste your own training, but you will not waste someone else’s.”
I was not Valenian, and its tongue was not the language of my heart. I switched to Brusterian. From the way his eyes widened, he must have understood part of it, as he should after his years at Vere.
“As you wish,” he sneered. “Doctora.”
Chapter XI
Hal was standing when I stalked back. “That was a kind impulse, lady,” he said. “But...unlikely to be effective. And I suspect you have made Domon eager to settle accounts with you.”
I shoved my knife into its sheath. “I can take care of myself.”
I blinked as a knife appeared in his hand. “So can I, actually. I would not have let him kill me.” He put up his knife as quickly as he’d drawn it. “Unless there was some good reason.”
I wondered what he would consider a good reason. A person only gets one life, after all, coming from dark unknown and soon enough returning to dark unknown, like a sparrow flying from the night into a well-lit hall and out again. Then I shook my head. No doubt it was just dark humor.
“, it’s better for us who have to deal with Domon to...allow a certain amount of ill-temper. It keeps him from striking harder. I’m not sure now what he’ll do to the next person he goes after.”
“You can read,” I said stubbornly. “No one should be allowed to strike you.”
“With Domon, it’s unavoidable, lady.”
I paced to the end of the room. “Philip should not tolerate this.”
“But he does,” he answered. “It cannot be changed, so it must be managed.”
“Someday—”
He held up a hand. “I know, lady. Mistress Baynor and I have spoken about this many times. Domon will, at some point, do something the king cannot excuse or ignore. But this is not it. Until then, my lord Philip gives Domon wide allowance. It is my job to keep him out of trouble as much as possible.”
I stopped by my worktable, both hands pressing its surface, trying to check impotent rage. I could not save him any more than I had been able to save myself from Francis’ derision or my father’s. The unconcerned smirk on Domon’s face even as he’d feigned acquiescence...my warning had accomplished nothing. At least nothing good. “It will be worse for you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, lady. I appreciate your concern.” He flexed the fingers of his injured arm appraisingly. “I should get back to Domon. Thank you for your help.”
***
As May sweated into June, I worked on the histories, spending long hours in the library, except for two days when Philip again demanded clerical work. By mid-June, only half a dozen remained.
Liath took to lying on the table as I worked, flopped flat on hot days, curled into a ball on the rare cooler ones. Closing a completed manuscript, I rebound the strap, then ran a hand down the cat’s back before rising to put the book away. “I believe I now know more about the history of Ragonne than anyone else in the Three Lands.” She gave her loud, gravelly purr. “Or anywhere else.” Every time I finished reading a manuscript and looked around at the well-stocked she
lves, I was awed by the knowledge preserved there, and angered by how little it was esteemed.
She tensed under my hand, then sprang down to stalk a mouse that was ill-advisedly trying to sneak into the outer room, no doubt lured by the ever-present crumbs under Domon’s table.
“It is shameful that a palace cat cares more about these books than the king.” I went to the shelf, exchanging the book for another. “You at least try to protect them.”
***
A week later, I finished the histories and began the verse manuscripts, hoping to return to the speed with which I’d searched the travel narratives. I could read two travel manuscripts in the time it took me to get through one history. After the verse manuscripts, only one section would remain. The vitae. But it was the most extensive, five shelves, and would take at least three weeks. More likely a month. Then—
I didn’t want to think about then.
But to my simultaneous consternation and fascination, I discovered many of the verse manuscripts were compilatios.
Compilatios were common in the library of Vere, and I’d been surprised by their absence here. It was much cheaper to bind several manuscripts together, resulting in a collection of works, sometimes related, sometimes not, within the same codex. The lack of compilatios suggested such wealth expended on these books it made me want to howl in frustration at their neglect.
It also made me even more curious about their origin. Who in Ragonne’s past had valued reading enough to create these books?
All my scholarly instincts were itching to dig through the library and learn whatever there was to be found about these patrons. But as I’d done with the unreadable manuscripts, I suppressed the impulse. It wasn’t what I was here for. But it was difficult. Even if the books, not to mention Ragonne, were still here in a year, I doubted I’d be allowed to return to study them.
***
I shook my head to clear it, forcing my gaze back to the book. Were there a window to be looked out, it would still be dark despite the early rising of the summer sun. I’d been in the library three hours already, and had gotten halfway through one verse manuscript. Like most of its peers, it was a compilatio.
I’d left the library the previous night after midnight. Sooner or later, the short nights would catch up to me, but not yet. Or at least not much. The books were too fascinating, and time too dear. It was nearly the end of June and I’d managed scarcely a third of the verse manuscripts.
By the time the library began heating up to its normal sticky unpleasantness, I’d finished the compilatio and moved on to the day’s second book.
It was not a compilatio, but that was little enough to be thankful for. The writing looked as though the scribe had worked left-handed and with his eyes closed. He had an infuriating tendency to make up his own abbreviations, which he used copiously. He also knew Brusterian. If a Brusterian word conveyed the thought better, he used it instead. I’d worked with macaronic composition in Vere, but it took time. This book might well consume the rest of the day.
But by the time Hal and Domon arrived, I’d partially forgiven the manuscript’s idiosyncratic clerk. It was the first book I’d found in the library that was not about Ragonne. It was, in fact, about Bruster.
Saradena slipped to the back of my mind, fascinating as it was to see an outsider’s description of my homeland. Unsurprisingly given the scribe’s—or perhaps, author’s—familiarity with our language, he wrote from the experience of having visited the clustered islands.
He had even included Vere. I was impressed. Few outside Bruster knew Vere lay on land belonging to Bruster, although the island of Lastland had been lent to the scholars since before anyone could remember. Which did not stop periodic grumblings among Brusterian nobles. I could not entirely blame them. Lastland was bigger than any of the clustered islands. The interior was a rocky, treeless waste, but many Brusterians did not know that.
His description of the Black Keep was properly admiring. I thought of the castle, glinting like a gem, the city of Reud at its feet, the black sand shore rich and deep as velvet, and my breath sat captive in my chest. I would never see it again.
***
I looked up as I heard the outer door open. There were murmurs, then the sounds of Domon settling himself at his table. I glanced back down at the manuscript as Hal walked into the room, as if not wanting to be caught paying attention to their arrival.
“Good day, lady.” He toed the other chair. “May I?”
I gestured assent, realizing I hadn’t seen him or Domon since the day Hal was wounded. What was Domon up to? Keeping Hal away so he could damage him unobserved? “How’s your arm?”
His fingers brushed the site. “It’s healing, lady.”
“May I see?”
He hesitated, then shrugged, presumably recalling I’d already seen the scars he kept so carefully concealed. I pushed up his sleeve and loosened the bandage. The wound was clean and cool, with none of the redness that would indicate the dreaded putrefaction.
I nodded, pleased. If a wound soured and cauterization failed to stem the festering, the only way to save the person’s life was amputation. Half still died. I’d heard the screams of men held down while their rotting arms or legs were cut off. Even these had a better chance than the gut-stung. Belly-wounds were nearly always fatal; rot settled far too easily into such injuries.
“It looks fine. You were fortunate.” My gaze slid uncontrollably to the scars, wondering again what had happened to him, but I did not ask. He would not hide them if he wanted to speak of them. I tapped his arm. “Those stitches could come out now, if you like.”
He nodded. “If you would, lady. I don’t think the wound will reopen, and it’s better not to wait.” He sounded as if he’d been through this before, which given the evidence of his body was certainly true. I pulled a small, sharp pair of scissors from my belt-pouch. I’d begun carrying my needle, thread, and scissors with me at all times. Just in case.
I cut the stitches, then began pulling out each piece, one by one. It was a strange sensation, I knew, to feel thread being drawn through your skin below the surface, and it did not help to do it quickly. But the discomfort was minor compared to the wound that had necessitated it, or the stitching itself, and Hal sat unmoving until I finished and rebound his arm.
“Thank you, lady.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He laughed, his eyebrows rising, but replied before I could clarify. “Domon has been busy. You got his attention.”
“Good.” Better me than you. My fingers twitched but I kept them from straying to my belt-knife.
He continued, low-voiced. “He is intrigued. He wants to know why you’re spending so much time here, reading these books. What’s here? Specifically, what’s here that he does not know about?”
I felt my lip curl. “Almost anything, since he hasn’t read them.”
He inclined his head. “He is reading them now, lady.” His voice grew even softer. “He believes you are looking for something. He wants to find it first. He has been searching when you are not here. He doesn’t want you to know.”
I looked at my hands. Mistress Baynor advised confiding in him but the Roth wanted the letter kept secret. “King Philip must have told you. I am looking for books touching upon Elbany’s history. My lord Roth might want them copied for his library.”
“As you wish, lady.” He rose. “Domon does not believe that.” He paused. “Neither do I, although I do not discuss it with Domon.” He glanced towards the outer room. “Domon knows you arrived with Lord Orlo. He assumes you are here on his behalf.”
“What?” I sprang from my chair.
“Domon has been uncharacteristically circumspect, which in itself is worrisome. He seems to suspect that Orlo approached Elbany about supporting a bid to challenge the king, that Elbany agreed, and that you are here to find evidence Orlo’s claim is superior to the king’s.”
I stared, startled both by Domon’s logical thought proce
ss and his conclusion. It was wrong, but nonetheless a concern. False rumors can damage as much as true. If the suspicion came to Philip’s ears—and it would—it could bruise his trust of Orlo although Philip knew the real reason for my search. Orlo was his strongest lord, and the relationship between a king and his second-lord was vexed. Real trust between such men was impossible. There was too much power to be had.
“There is more.” Hal leaned closer. “Domon remembers Orlo wanted to make suit for you but King Philip refused.” He was silent for a moment. “Did you know?”
“Orlo told me when we met in Rothbury. Before that, no.”
“Domon believes Orlo went to Elbany in part to offer for you. Now that your marriage would be...” he hesitated, “less politically advantageous, he could press his suit without consulting either the High King or King Philip. If he were planning to challenge the king, he wouldn’t be concerned about his permission anyway.”
I remembered Orlo’s dark eyes, burning into mine. I am not in need of heirs. He had been in earnest?
It was of no importance. I did not want to marry again. Did I?
I recalled how waspishly I’d behaved in Rothbury, and on the ride to Peran. Orlo had most likely returned to Kolon with his odd fascination exorcised.
It was not a loss, not really. My world for the next year was Saradena. After that, it was not likely to matter.
Chapter XII
“I...” I steadied my voice. “I am not here on Orlo’s behalf. Nor is he planning any move against King Philip. Not,” I added hastily, “that there’s any reason I would know. If he were. But I suspect not.”
Hal blinked. “I believe you. Domon will not.”
Mistress Baynor had urged me to confide in him and enlist his help with the search, but I had hesitated, unwilling to break my oath again. Should I tell him my real purpose now, to defuse Domon’s suspicion? Not to protect Orlo, but Ragonne. Internal conflict would be disastrous in the face of the Saradenian threat. I chewed my lip, Brusterian epithets flitting through my mind. I didn’t like the idea of casting aside my vow of secrecy a second time, but Domon could easily cause a great deal of trouble. “You said Domon has been searching the library. When? I’ve been working from before dawn until after midnight every day.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 8