She pitched her voice low, kept it soothing, and carefully lifted her hand. “He’s not dead,” she told him, putting as much force as she could into the words without changing their cadence or tone. “But if we don’t move him, he will be. It’s cold, it’s wet, and he’s injured.”
“I can’t carry him—”
“You don’t have to, Lefty. We’re here. Rath is here.”
Wide-eyed. Too wild.
Jewel took a deeper breath and held it until she was uncomfortable. Rain wet her lips, her face, made her hair even more cumbersome. At least this time she could shove it out of her eyes. She turned her attention from Lefty to Arann.
Touched his forearm, saw that it was bent. And not at a joint. “Arann,” she said, daring urgency and volume.
To her great surprise, Arann moved. His moan was most of his answer. Answer enough. “Rath, I think his arm’s broken.”
“If it’s just his arm, he’s damn lucky.”
Thank you, she thought, but she was smart enough to keep that to herself. Rath didn’t like sarcasm when he wasn’t the one using it.
“Arann, we have to move. Lefty needs you to move.”
The giant boy’s face rose from the cushion of dirt and stone. It was a mess; bleeding, nose broken, skin abraded.
“Jay?” he said, incredulous. Shaky.
She nodded. “Jay,” she said softly. “Can you . . . can you get up?”
But Lefty was weeping openly. “I’m sorry,” he said, gulping air, swallowing it as if it were liquid. “I’m sorry, Arann, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Lefty.”
Lefty froze and then turned to stare. At Jewel. At her eyes.
“Arann needs you to stop the damn crying. Do you understand? He needs you to be stronger.”
“Arann,” Lefty said, although he was staring at Jewel now. “Arann, what do I do?”
“Listen. To her.” Broken words. Wheezing breath.
Rath was her shadow, although she hadn’t seen him move. Jewel broke eye contact with Lefty as she became aware of him.
“Ribs,” Rath said quietly. “That was quite a beating.” His frown made him look older than she’d ever seen him look, although she couldn’t say why. Not then. “It’s going to be hard to move him. Hard to carry him. I don’t know if his ribs have pierced his lungs or not.”
She didn’t ask what would happen if they had.
“Boy,” he said to Arann. He held out a hand, inches from the arm that didn’t seem—at least to Jewel’s eye—to be broken. “You have to stand, if you can. I have to know how much of your own weight you can bear.”
Arann reached out and caught Rath’s hand; the older man stiffened as he caught Arann’s forearm and elbow and began to lever him up off the ground.
Arann’s legs held. But blood trickled out of the corners of his mouth. Hard to tell if teeth would follow. Lefty did a little dance of anxiety. Jewel caught his shoulders and held them in a death grip.
And he allowed it.
“Legs aren’t broken,” Rath told her. “It’s not that far from home,” he added. Arann swayed. Rath slid an arm under the boy’s arm, taking care not to put weight against his side, against the ribs.
Together, slowly, they began to walk away, leaving the dead behind.
It took hours to get back home. But if it had taken days, Jewel would have spent them gladly. Some words were curled on the wrong side of her throat; her throat was thick with them, and she couldn’t speak. She wanted to tell Rath something, but one look at his face made it clear that whatever it was—and she honestly didn’t know—it would have to wait. Maybe a day. Maybe forever.
Lefty was hers to watch, for the moment. Arann had told him to listen to Jewel, and he had always done what Arann told him to do. She knew it, and was oddly comforted by the knowledge.
Money was not a problem. Not yet. Not for months yet.
A doctor, on the other hand, was. The thirty-fifth holding was not exactly a popular place for doctors, because no one who was living in it had money, and doctors didn’t work for free.
The Priests and Priestesses of the Mother did, but the nearest temple was over two holdings away, and the Priests didn’t like to leave. They were happy enough to see you if you came to them—but getting to them when you could barely walk and could breathe even less easily, was a bit of a challenge. Jewel knew it all.
But she didn’t care. Arann managed the stairs down to the apartment. He managed to lean against the wall while Rath opened up the bolts and the locks that separated home from the rest of the world. He managed to stumble in, Rath balancing his growing weight. He even managed to smile at Lefty, and had there not been so much red in that smile, Lefty might have taken comfort from it.
Jewel took command instead. She opened the door to her room, threw everything that was on the floor to one side or the other in unceremonious haste, and flattened her bedroll. It was a Rath castoff; he’d obliquely offered to buy her a bed when she’d managed not to get herself thrown out of his life in three months. Where “when” was a lot like “if.”
“Careful here,” Rath told her, as Arann’s knees collapsed. Arann’s weight was suspended for a moment between them, and Rath’s brow rose slightly when Jewel managed to both stagger and hold up.
Arann’s clothing—the clothing that was two years too small—had been torn; it was threadbare enough that sneezing would have done that. Jewel hesitated for just a moment, and then she began to unbutton the shirt front as Rath very carefully lowered Arann to the ground. She couldn’t quite remove it, and suspected that it would have to be cut away.
“Keep an eye on them,” Rath told her quietly.
She nodded.
He made his way to the door, passing Lefty, who failed to either acknowledge him or be acknowledged by him, and turned once he’d reached the frame. “Don’t answer the door if anyone knocks. Unless,” he added, voice heavy with sarcasm, “there are other friends you’ve failed to mention who might be in need of rescue.”
“Just these two,” she said, staring at Arann’s closed eyes. The left one was almost swollen shut, bruise purpling to black; she couldn’t remember what color his skin had been. Now, it was red, purple, black. “Lefty,” she said, as she knelt on the creaking boards. “Get the bucket in the kitchen. There’s a towel hanging on the far wall beside the cupboards—grab that, too.”
Lefty did as she ordered because it was an order. “Don’t touch anything else,” she called out after him. “We can worry about food after we’ve cleaned Arann up.”
From the look of Lefty, it would be a day or two before the thought of food occurred to him.
“Rath’s gone for a doctor,” she added. “He’s got enough money. He’ll find one stupid enough to come here.”
And, she knew, he’d hate that. She wondered if it would mean they had to move again. Rath wanted no one to know where he lived, or how. Arann couldn’t be moved without some kind of stretcher, and a couple of strong men to carry it. Either way, he’d opened himself up to discovery.
Because of Jewel.
And Jewel would care more later. Now, as Lefty returned, lugging the bucket, the rag of a towel thrown over his dirty shoulder, she knelt against the ground. Towel hit water; she wrung it out carefully, and just as carefully began to sponge Arann’s face clear of dirt. Everything about her was gentle. She knew how to do this. Even four years ago, when she’d truly been a child, she could do this much. For her mother, when she was ill. Or her father. For her Oma, although her Oma complained constantly, words like a stream of thin smoke.
She took care not to press against his side—either left or right—or his chest; she took care not to apply pressure to his broken arm, although she did slowly remove the dirt there as well.
“What are you doing?” Lefty asked, sitting in her shadow. Staring at Arann.
“What?”
“You’re humming.”
“Was I?”
He nodded.
“I don’t kno
w,” she said. “My Oma used to sing, sometimes. And sometimes she’d just hum.”
“Who was she?”
“She—oh. You’re not a Southerner. She was my grandmother. Oma. That’s the Torra word for it.”
“You knew your grandmother?”
She nodded. Didn’t ask him if he’d known his; the question made it obvious.
“Arann knew his mother,” Lefty said quietly. “I mean, really knew her. He liked her, I think.”
“I liked mine, too.”
Lefty said nothing else. He didn’t offer to help her, either; instead, he stared at his hands. At his right hand, exposed, as it hovered above Arann’s face.
“He’ll be all right,” she told him. And as she said the words, she smiled. Soft smile. Certain smile.
He wasn’t stupid. Awkward, yes. Frightened, yes. But stupid? He could see her expression clearly, and she saw the line of his shoulders relax; saw his hand begin to tremble.
After a moment, he said, “Can we stay here?”
A question she wondered herself. “Until Arann’s well,” she told him. “At least until then.” She straightened her shoulders and dropped the cloth back into the bucket. “There’s another towel on the floor. By the far wall. I think. You can dry off.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll wait. I’m not as cold as you are. And I’m not as wet.”
He was smart enough not to call her a liar.
Chapter Seven
THE DOCTOR CAME and went. He was watched at all times by Rath, but not with the suspicion that Jewel would have expected. If the doctor—whose name she never heard—was not a friend like the locksmith was, he obviously knew Rath from somewhere. He had thin lips, pale white hair, and a pinched face; his skin was highborn white, and his eyes a crisp, cool blue. He was not a young man. Not even compared to Rath.
He was certainly less friendly.
But Rath trusted him to know what he was doing.Arann’s arm was splinted—which caused a lot of screaming, while Rath restrained him—and his sides were bound.
“Make sure he stays in bed.” As the doctor said this, his brows drew in; the floor wasn’t much of a bed, in his opinion. He didn’t bother to say it in so many words.
“For how long?”
“At least two weeks. He’s cracked three ribs, but he’s lucky; they didn’t pierce his lungs. His legs are bruised. They’ll heal. His arm will heal properly only if he doesn’t try to use it.”
“He can use it in two weeks?” Jewel asked.
The doctor replied—to Rath. “The arm will probably take four to heal. He’s young. If he were your age, Ararath, it would be at least six. At least.” The man carried a large black case. He had opened it for bandages, and the bracing pieces of wood he called a splint; he closed it now with a distinct snap. “I do not consider this wise,” he added, as he stood. It was clear that he was not accustomed to kneeling. His pants were too fine, and far too unwrinkled. They were also—or had been, when he’d arrived—very clean.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
But the older man had not yet finished. “I answered your call,” he continued, “because of our history. Your family will, of course, learn of my visit.”
Rath said nothing.
“And they will ask questions. I consider them inconvenient,” the man answered, “because none of the answers will be to their liking. Ararath, Handernesse is still open to you. Will you not reconsider your choices?”
Rath said nothing again, but it was a louder, colder nothing. At this point, Jewel would have backed out of the room quickly and closed the door for good measure.
The doctor, however, seemed either ignorant of Rath’s growing anger, or immune to it. Maybe it would be something she could learn, with age.
“Very well. Understand that I had to ask.”
Rath nodded curtly. “I will, of course, send money.”
“Of course.”
“You will not bill Handernesse.”
“No. It was not to Handernesse that I was summoned. But it was,” the doctor added, the lines of his face shifting suddenly into weariness, “because of Handernesse that I chose to respond. I do not understand.”
“No. You don’t.”
“But if you can find it in yourself to show charity to these, you might find it—”
“Enough.” Rath bowed. It was a perfect bow. As perfect as his sword stance, and not, Jewel realized, much different in meaning. It was a warning.
The doctor accepted it. “Keep him warm, if you have the wherewithal to do so. Keep him dry.”
Rath nodded, and showed the doctor out. Jewel heard the bolts of the door being drawn; heard them being slammed home. Then she heard his stillness, the silence of breathing.
Lefty had hidden in the kitchen the entire time.
“Jewel,” Rath said, when he at last left the door and returned to her room, “these two are your responsibility. You found them. You led them here. I expect you to watch them. I expect you to stop them from doing anything stupid.”
“Rath—”
“No, I did not walk the streets of the holding with my grandfather’s sword in order to leave the boy dying in the street. Two weeks, the doctor said. I give you two weeks.”
She nodded. It was more than she should have hoped for. But less than she had. Still, two weeks was a toehold in an open door. She could work with that.
“I have business to attend to. I will be in my study, and I do not expect to be interrupted again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Rath.”
“Get Lefty out of the kitchen. They will stay with you,” he added. “If your room is crowded, you have no one to blame but yourself.”
She nodded, striving for meek. Almost achieving it.
But when he left, she rose and retrieved Lefty. “Did you hear what he said?”
Lefty nodded.
“We’ll have to find bedding,” she told him. “And in this rain, it’s not going to be comfortable. But I’ve got some money left.”
He nodded again. Looking at her room as he did. It wasn’t a small room. In her old apartment, three people wouldn’t have made much dent in it. She’d lived with four in a smaller room. A colder one.
“He said you could stay.”
“For two weeks.”
She caught his face in her hands, and his eyes rounded in sudden panic. But she held him there anyway, waiting until his breath was less short and sharp. “You’ve lived in places for less than that,” she told him, forcing his gaze to meet hers. “And a lot of things can change in two weeks. We have to be good,” she added. “And we have to be quiet while Rath works. But maybe if we are, two weeks will be a long time.”
Lefty tried to nod, but it was hard with her hands on his cheeks. She let him go slowly.
Thinking that she should have been worried.
That it was stupid not to be worried. Rath was angry, cold angry, and that was always bad. He probably wouldn’t speak more than two words to her all day. And all of the next day.
But worried wasn’t what she felt. And cold wasn’t there either. “You can help,” she told Lefty. “We’ll take care of Arann for now.”
He was looking at her, waiting.
“I know you trust Arann,” she said, picking up the cloth from its wet resting place. “You’ve known him a long time. I want you to trust me.”
Lefty said nothing.
The words hung in the room, a simple adornment to plain, painted wood, flat slats, and the accumulation of only a few weeks of life with Rath. Blankets. Clothing. Daggers. The odd piece of paper, two slates, chalk. An empty basket, a full bucket. A lone metal box.
“Family’s a funny thing,” she said, as she released Lefty, knelt, and once again began to stroke Arann’s face with the towel. “I never had brothers, you know? I always wanted one. Well, an older one.
“Now I have two.”
“But we aren’t your brothers.”
“Not yet,” she said, and she
felt the hum in her throat, her grandmother’s pensive, wordless song. “But if we stay together for long enough, you will be.”
As if he could hear the words, Arann’s eyes opened. Or at least the right eye did; with the left, it was kind of hard to tell. “Lefty?” he asked. But he asked it of Jewel.
She nodded, smiling. “He’s here. He’s safe.”
“Why . . . here?”
“He came,” she told Arann, understanding at last the odd source of her happiness, “to get me.”
Arann’s lips were also swollen; they were damp enough not to crack as he moved them. But she pressed the cloth against them, stilling his words. “And I,” she said, as she did, “came to get you.
“I always will.”
Spoken words. Intense words. A smile framing and containing them. As she said them, she knew they were true. Not in the way that she had known the wagon was coming; not in the way that she had known how little time Arann had if they were to rescue him. This was a different sort of gift.
Choice. Promise.
Her first, but not, although she did not see it clearly, her last.
The first week passed slowly. Rath would have appreciated it had it passed quietly. Had he been able to blame the boys for the arrival of noise, he would have thrown them out in a minute, promise to Jewel notwithstanding. They were hers. He acknowledged this because it was safe, and because it was true. She didn’t see it, of course. Her ignorance was bitter, appalling, and entirely in keeping with her age.
No, the noise was hers. The chatter. The speech. The endless drone that accompanied her jaunts to the kitchen, shadowed by Lefty; the endless humming as she tended Arann. The stories that her Oma told, broken by pauses and poor memory, which she offered the boys when the night had fallen and the streets were entirely off limits. She did not have the storyteller’s gift, and narrative came in fragments.
To Rath, it was almost agony.
To the boys, it was different. Perhaps they had come to the streets so young the memories of such stories and songs were precious and distant enough that these broken imitations were not insulting. Or perhaps they had never been offered them at all.
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