"Ye hurt Big Ralf's feelin's, Raj-boy," the hoarse call came back. "Ye wouldn't play with Big Ralf. Ye sent that Raver t' warn Ralf off, ye did. But Raver, he ain't here now. Now it's jest me an' you."
He could run; he could shed that heavy pack and run back along the safe path until he came to one of the branches. Then he could get into an area he knew better than Ralf, where he could outdistance him and get safe back to town—
Without what he'd come for. And it was just possible that without May's medicine, Tom Mondragon would die, fighting for breath, choking—literally drowning as his lungs filled. The way Raj had almost died.
His knife was in his hand without his really thinking about it, and he slipped the straps of the pack off his shoulders, dropping it to the reed hummock he was standing on. With the feel of the hilt in his hand, his breathing steadied. He wasn't eleven anymore—not thirteen, either. He wasn't armed with nothing but a scrap of glass. He had most of his adult growth now—and a good steel blade in his hands.
"I'm warning you, Ralf—get out of my way."
"Ye gonna make me?"
"If I have to," Raj replied unsteadily; Big Ralf had sloshed a step or two closer, and now his knife seemed all too small. Ralf stood as tall as Raj—and Raj was still standing on a hummock a good foot or more above the underwater surface of the trail.
And Ralf had a knife too; Raj could see the lightning flickering on the shiny surface of the steel. It was ribbon-thin, honed almost to invisibility, but Raj would bet it could leave bleeding wounds on the wind.
Ralf cackled again, and there was no sanity in that sound. "Ye try, Raj-boy, ye g'won 'n try! Big Ralf don't care. He c'n play wi' ye live—or he c'n play wi' ye dead."
Raj's nerve almost broke—so before it could give out altogether, he attacked. Before Ralf had a chance to react, he threw himself at the bigger man with an hysterical and suicidal leap. One thing only in his panicked state he remembered from his rough-and-tumble lessons with Raver. 'If yer willin' f take hurt, boy, ye c'n take anybody's knife away from 'im.'
So he slashed the open palm of his left hand frantically down on Ralf's knife—aiming for the blade, not the knife-hand—hoping to impale his hand on that blade and render it useless.
His dive off the hummock caught the crazy by surprise. Raj had always run before—Ralf's twisted mind wasn't ready for him to attack.
So Raj's half-sketched plan worked better than he hoped.
The point of Ralf's knife sliced into his palm and he rammed his hand right up to the hilt, the pain splitting his arm like the lightning was splitting the sky. He screamed, and closed his fist around the crossguard anyway, wresting it out of the bigger man's hand. Then, as his feet skidded in the mud, he fell forward, throwing all of his weight awkwardly behind an impromptu lunge with his own knife.
Ralf s screams were a hoarse echo of his own as the knife sunk up to the hilt in his gut. He beat at Raj's head with both hands; Raj slipped and slid some more, and fell to his knees, but held to the knife-hilt, ripping upward with it.
Ralf howled and tried to pull himself off the blade, pushing at Raj. But Raj slipped more, falling underneath the bigger man, and he lost his balance on the slimy rock of the trail, falling forward farther onto the knife blade. As thunder crashed, he collapsed on top of Raj, screams cut off, pinning Raj under the muddy water.
All of the air was driven from his lungs as the crazy fell atop him. He tried to fight free but the slimy mud was as slick as ice under his knees. Then he lost what little purchase he had, and the knee-deep water closed over his head.
The surface was just inches away from his face—but he couldn't reach it!
He clawed at the twitching thing that held him there; tried to shove it off, but could get no leverage. Raw panic took over; he thrashed and struggled, his lungs screaming for air, his chest and throat afire with the need for a breath. He was caught like a swamp-hopper in a drown-snare. He was going to die, trapped under the body of his enemy—
The mud conspired to hold him down, now sliding under him, now sucking at his limbs. Sparks danced before his eyes, and he wriggled and squirmed and flailed at the air that his hands could reach, but not his head. He had a strange, crystal-clear vision of himself floating lifelessly beside the trail, touched by the morning sun—
Then a last frantic writhe freed him, and he felt himself slip off the trail into the deep water on the right side of it. His head broke the surface, and he gulped the air, great, sobbing heaves of his chest. He reached for and caught a clump of reeds, and pulled himself to the firm trail. He hauled himself back up onto the hummock where he'd left his pack, crying with pain and fear, and gasping for breath, while lightning flashed above him and thunder followed it, nearly deafening him. He clung there with only his right arm, for Ralf's knife still transfixed his hand.
"My God, boy—" Raver's eyes glared out at Raj from the shelter of his basket-like hidey. He and May had anchored their rafts and their hideys, side-by-side, on a bit of old wood Raver had driven into the muck of the bottom to use as a safe tie-up.
"Lemme in, Raver," Raj said, dully. His hand felt afire, he was shivering so hard it was only because he was holding his jaw clenched that his teeth weren't rattling. He swayed back and forth, drunk with exhaustion and pain. He could hardly use his arm, much less his wounded hand—it felt like a log of wood. He'd tied up his hand as best he could, but he hadn't done more than stop the bleeding. He knew he was probably falling into shock, but didn't care any more.
"Wait a sec." Raver propped the edge of the basket up with a stick, reached out, and shook May's hidey. "Wake up, ye old witch—it's Raj, an' he's hurt."
"What? What?" The edge of May's basket came up, and she peered out at Raj. For some reason, the sight of her struck him as funny, and he began to laugh hysterically—and couldn't stop.
He was still laughing when they propped the baskets together, like two halves of a shell, and helped him up onto their combined rafts—then, unaccountably, the laughter turned to sobs, and he cried himself nearly sick on May's shoulder.
May held him, wrapping her tattered old shawl about his shoulders and keeping him warm against her. Rain pattered on the baskets, and for the moment, there was no place Raj would rather have been. There was light in here, dim light, given off by some phosphorescent gook they both kept smeared on the inside of the baskets. May's wrinkled face and Raver's weathered one were a heavenly sight.
"Drink this, boy—" When the sobs diminished, and the shivering started again, Raver thrust a bottle into his good hand. "Let the old gal see t' yer hand."
He drank, not much caring what it was, or what germs might be lingering in it. It was harsh, raw alcohol, and it burned his throat and brought more tears to his eyes. He put the bottle down, gasping, then gasped again as May took it from him and poured it liberally over the wound. The clouds were clearing now, and the Moon emerged; you could see it under the edge of the basket. May propped up one side and held the hand in its light, examining it critically.
He had occasion to stifle a cry and seize the bottle back from Raver more than once before she was through with her probing.
"Should be stitched—but I got some stuff on it t' kill th' bugs an' the pain, an keep fever offen it, an keep it from swellin' too much. Ye tied it off right well, don' reckon ye lost too much blood. Ye'll do once I get 'er tied up good. Wha' happened?"
"Ralf," Raj coughed. His throat was still raw from screaming and crying. "He must've seen me; followed me in. Ambushed me." May was smearing something on the wound that first burned, then numbed the pain. Raj recognized it as numbvine sap. Then she reached back into the darkness behind her, locating rags by feel, and bound his hand tightly.
"I settle that one t'morrow." Raver's eyes narrowed.
"You won't have to, Raver."
May looked up into his face with stunned awe; Ralf was the legend of the swampies for viciousness. That Raj should have taken him out—
The alcohol had shaken Raj out of h
is shock, and he was beginning to take account of his surroundings again. The expression on May's face both pleased and obscurely troubled him.
"Well." Raver said. Just that one word, but it held a world of approval.
"Boy, you needin't' hide again? Ye didn't come crawlin' out here in th' dark an' the' rain fer the fun 'a it." May came right to the point.
That woke him fully—reminded him of his purpose.
"No—no. I'm okay in town—May, I need something from you, one of your 'cures.' I got a sick friend in town, he's got the fever with the coughs and the aches—the one where you can't breathe 'cause your chest starts to fill up—"
"I know it," May nodded, her face becoming even more wrinkled with thought. "Only it don't gen'rally get that bad."
"Except my friend's not from Merovingen."
"Then that's bad, boy, that's real bad. He'll die, like as not, 'less ye can get 'im t' take my weeds."
"Look, I brought stuff to trade you—here—" He shrugged out of his pack and passed it to her. "Whatever you want—I got two blankets, a couple sweaters, fishhooks, a knife—"
"Haw, boy, haw! Ye got enough here t' trade me fer every last dose I got!"
"Then give it all to me, May. I got more friends; this fever is startin' to go through town like a fire—more of 'em may get sick. Janists came in town at Festival—been claiming there wouldn't be any plague this year—" Raj noticed Raver stiffen at that, out of the corner of his eye "—but I guess they were wrong. You can get more, can't you?"
"Yey, yey; stuffs jest weeds—know where there's a good bit 'a it, still good enuf t' pick. Ain't no cure though—ye know that— "
"I know; it just keeps you from dying—and feeling like you want to! Remember? I got it first winter I was out here."
"An' ye c'n get it agin—"
"So I'll keep some for myself. Deal, May?"
"Yey—oh yey, boy, 's a deal." She grinned, a twisted, half-toothless grin, as one hand caressed one of the damp blankets. "This stuffll make livin' right comfy out here, come winter. Tell ye what—I'll pick all I kin find, dry it up nice. Ye figger ye got need fer more, why jest come on out here—by daylight this time, boy!—an' ye bring old May more things f trade fer."
"You got yourself a bargain—"
"Ye gotta go back t'night?" Raver interrupted.
Raj looked out at the swamp and shivered, but nodded reluctantly. "Got no choice, Raver. My friend's bad sick, and you heard May."
"Ney, ney—not soaked through like that, an' it gettin' chill. May, pack the boy's sack up. This old man knows the Harbor day or night. I got a dry blanket here—you wrap up in't; I'll pole ye back t' the Wharf."
Raj accepted the shred of a blanket, speechless with gratitude.
Even with the ride to Dead Wharf, he was out on his feet by the time he got to Mondragon's apartment on Petrescu. Even if he could have found a poleboater at this hour, he had nothing to pay him with—all his money and Jones' had all gone into trade-goods for May. He stopped at Fife long enough to boil some tea and get into dry (if dirty) clothing; figuring that a half-hour more-or-less would make little difference in Mondragon's condition. Once dry and warm, he slipped on a waterproofed canvas poncho (the rain had begun again), cast a longing look at his bed, and went out again into the night.
He was ready to drop and staggering like a drunk by the time he got to Mondragon's door—a process that was not aided by the fact that he had to get down to water level and over to the water-stair (and convince Jones' friends tied up for the night that he was himself) before actually reaching the door. But there was no other choice for him to make; he was not up to an argument with the guard on the gated walkway. The stair seemed to go on forever, and the door looked like the portal to Heaven when he finally reached it. He leaned wearily against the lintel and let his fist fall on it.
The door opened the barest crack. "Who's out there?" said a muffled voice.
" 'S me, Jones. Raj. Lemme in before I fall down."
The door opened so quickly he almost did fall in. "Ye get th' stuff?"
"How is he?"
"Sleepin'. Don't seem no worse, but I had t' pour a helluva lotta whiskey in 'im t' get 'im t' sleep."
Raj slogged the few steps into the sitting room, let his pack fall to the floor, peeled his poncho over his head and dropped it beside it. "I got the stuff. Where's Denny?"
"Sleepin' too, upstairs. I figgered if I needed 'im I could wake 'im up. And it's no bad idea havin' him bedded down across the door up there, ney? The least, somebody forces it, he c'n scream his lungs out. May kill a boarding party by scarin' 'em to death!"
Raj made his way lead-footed into Mondragon's bedroom (you don't try and walk silently around an ex-assassin!), and stood in the dark listening to the sound of his breathing. A little wheezy—a little bubbly—but not bad. He'd gotten back well in time; there would be no need for a "real" doctor.
Satisfied, he dragged himself back out. "Boil me some tea-water, would you, Jones? I gotta get this stuff measured right—"
As she trotted back to the kitchen, he sat right down on the soft, warm carpet beside the pack and began taking out parcels of herbs wrapped in rags, identifying them by smell, eye, and sometimes taste. One or two could be tricky to use—too much and you got unwanted side-effects. Although—
He chuckled a little, and set aside a particular bundle. Wiregrass was to bring down fever; but a double-dose was somewhat narcotic. One danger was that Mondragon might get to feeling too frisky and try to get out and about before he should. A double-dose would take care of that problem— Mondragon would be seeing fuzzy—and be more than a little happy—for as long as Raj wanted.
"Jones," he called softly, "Think you can find me a couple big jars or bowls or something? I need something to put this stuff in besides a rag."
"Lemme look." She clattered down the stairs a moment later. "These do?" She brought him a pair of canisters, the kind tea came in, with a vermin-proof lid.
"Perfect."
May had gone by "handful" measurement—but it was a very precise handful. Although it was a little awkward to work one-handed, Raj weighed the herbs in his palm, adding or subtracting a few leaves at a time, until he was satisfied, then crushed what he'd selected carefully into the tin, trying to get it as fine as possible. Wiregrass for fever—and to keep Mondragon in his bed; there wasn't any redberry bush bark— but that was all right, it was the same as asprin and they had that. Marshcress for the cough; jofrey-leaf for the chest (the important part); tinwisle for the sneezing. And two others, amfetida and threadstem; May would never say what they were for, just swore they were important. Raj shrugged and added them—they wouldn't hurt, and May might be right.
He crushed the resulting canisterful yet again, until he had a mixture as fine as the best tea, then crushed a second bunch of wiregrass into the second canister. "Jones, that water ready?"
"Yey." She must have seen how tired he was, and brought the pan of hot water and spoon and cup to him. "Show me—"
"I intended to—you're going to have to do this from now on. Look, exactly two flat spoonfuls of this for every cup of water—you can put it in the cup or the pan, don't matter which." He measured two spoonfuls into the cup and poured the still-bubbling water on it. "This stuff—" He picked up the canister of pure wiregrass "—it's for fever, but a bigger dose gets you higher'n the Angel. Makes you happy and tends to keep you where you've been put. I figure we want to keep Mondragon where he is, ney?" She grinned a slow, comprehending grin and nodded. "Right, so I'm taking another half a flat spoonful of this stuff and adding it. You want to keep him down, you do the same. Now you let it sit for as long as it takes you to count to a hundred—''
He concentrated on the dull throbbing of his hand to keep from nodding off while the mixture steeped. He noticed with a tired little chuckle Jones's lips moving silently as she marked off the time.
"It ready now?"
"It's ready. Here—" He handed the cup to her while he got hims
elf slowly and painfully to his feet. "Let's wake him up."
Jones brought a candle with her, and lit the oil-lamp beside the door across from Mondragon's bed. Some of his instincts, at least, were still holding; he was awake and wary as soon as the light touched his eyes.
"Got som'thin' fer ye, layabout," Jones said cheerfully— real cheer; Raj was touched at her implied trust. "Raj here says it'll fix ye right up."
"Oh—" Mondragon blinked, but before he could continue, began coughing, great racking coughs that shook his entire body.
"Tom—" Raj had never used Mondragon's first name to his face before, but it slipped out. "I mean, m'ser Mondragon—"
"Tom is fine," Mondragon said wearily when the coughing fit was over.
"Tom, I've had what you've got—honest, this will help. And if you don't drink it, you could get a lot sicker. Believe me—I almost died. I swear to you, it'll help. On Takahashi Honor, I swear."
Mondragon gave him a long, appraising look—then wordlessly took the cup from Jones, and drank it down in two gulps.
"Feh—that—is—vile!" he choked, face twisted in distaste. "This better work fast, because if it doesn't, I'm not drinking more!"
"That's more words in a row without coughing than you've managed yet tonight—" Raj pointed out. "We'll sugar it next time." Without being asked, Jones brought the whiskey and a pair of asprin tablets, and looked inquiringly at Raj.
"Good notion—" he approved, thinking that a bit more whiskey wouldn't hurt and might help the wiregrass keep Mondragon in his bed. "Tom—I hate to ask, but is there anything around here I could use for a bandage? I love old May, but I hate to think where her rags have been."
"Bathroom," said Mondragon around the asprin, and: "I'll get it," said Jones.
Mondragon sagged back against his pillows, eyes going unfocused again. Raj carefully unwrapped his hand. The numbvine was working quite well—and May had included a bit of it and some other things in his pack for when this dose wore off.
Fever Season Page 9