Earstripe walked beside him. There was a new swatch of fabric draped across one shoulder. It was bright turquoise. Piper wondered if it meant anything. Congratulations on leaving the guard? Shame on you for leaving the guard?
Maybe it just meant that the gnole had gone shopping. Piper didn’t pretend to understand the details of the dress code among the nobility, and those were other humans. Trying to comprehend gnole fashion was probably a lost cause. For all I know, their eyes are as different as their noses, and there’s markings that I can’t even see.
There was still a great deal of traffic at this hour of the day, but most of it was flowing into the city of Archon’s Glory, not out. Wagons passed them, probably full of eggs and milk to feed the city’s appetites. Piper picked out women carrying baskets of vegetables and cages of live chickens. A fisherman went by with a string of eels on a pole over his shoulder. Hardly anyone was going the other way.
They passed human guards stationed at the gate, who eyed the trio expressionlessly.
Do they recognize Earstripe? Do they know that he’s going to investigate something outside the city? Will they try to stop him?
No. No, it’s not illegal. And I’m hardly a prisoner in Archon’s Glory. Paladins are allowed to investigate things, and we have a paladin with us.
He glanced over his shoulder at the paladin in question. Galen walked a little behind them and to the left, one hand on his sword hilt. He did not look at the guards, but his eyes were always moving, scanning from one person to the next, obviously looking for threats.
Does he think someone’s going to attack us? Would the guard retaliate against Earstripe? Wasn’t sacking him enough?
“Are you expecting trouble?” he asked quietly, when they were out of earshot of the gate.
“I’m always expecting trouble,” said Galen easily. “But no, not really. Should I be?”
“I don’t know. The way you were looking, I wondered.”
“I don’t think the real trouble will start for a while yet.”
“A gnole thinks a gnole has had plenty of trouble already.”
“Sorry, Earstripe.”
“Eh. Humans can’t smell.”
No trouble found them. They left the city behind, and then the little village of merchants and stables outside the city, and then the outlying farms. It was cold and the road was still dusty. Eventually, Galen reached into his pack and took out a drop spindle and began spinning handfuls of wool into thread while he walked, a surprisingly domestic activity for a paladin.
Piper switched his pack to the other shoulder and wondered if they were simply going to walk all the way to the various manor houses, and what they would do when they got there.
“Sorry,” he said, when he had to call a rest for the third time. “I’m not used to forced marches.” He gave a weak smile and tried not to think about how Galen must despise him for being a soft city-dweller. Of course, he lives in the city too, it’s just that I don’t spend hours a day marching around and smacking things with swords. And to think, I believed I was actually fit before this…
“Don’t worry,” said Galen, sounding much too cheerful for the early hour and the brisk pace. “We’ve got a ride waiting at an inn a few miles ahead.”
“A ride?”
Galen grinned. “An old friend of mine. You’ll like him.”
* * *
They reached the inn at midday. Galen was glad to arrive. He could tell that Piper was not enjoying the walk. Which is down to equipment as much as anything else. He hasn’t had to optimize the straps on his pack so they’re absolutely comfortable after the third mile, and his shoes are probably fine for standing for hours, but not so good for walking on uneven road.
He didn’t say anything, because the doctor was clearly embarrassed by his inability to match the pace of the other two, and Galen suspected it would come out condescending. Fortunately, he’d already arranged for a solution before he was even aware of the problem.
The gnole waiting outside the inn was older than Earstripe and the dark stripes on his face were mottled with brown and gray as well as black. “Brindle!” called Galen, waving.
“Tomato-man,” said Brindle, lifting a hand. “You made it.” He gave a drop-jawed gnole grin to Earstripe and said something in liquid gnolespeech. Earstripe replied and they both arched their whiskers forward.
“You two know each other?” asked Galen.
“A guard-gnole is family,” said Brindle proudly.
Earstripe sagged and muttered something. Brindle asked a sharp question and his ears went back. Galen and Piper exchanged worried looks. Earstripe scuffed the ground with his foot.
Brindle straightened. “A gnole is family,” he said, then leaned over and licked Earstripe between the eyes. He turned to Galen. “Brought a wagon,” he said. “And an ox.”
“Not a mule?” Galen had travelled for weeks with Brindle the prior autumn, during which the gnole had been saddled with a wagon drawn by mules. Brindle had very strong opinions about mules and their inferiority to the noble ox.
“Tomato-man thinks he is amusing.” Brindle rolled his eyes and turned to Piper. “A human has a name?”
“A human is a bone-doctor,” said Earstripe, before Piper could reply.
“Oho!” Brindle flicked his ears and studied Piper with great interest. “A human is ours, then?”
“Err…” Piper tried to remember how the complicated gnole pronouns worked.
Galen looked amused. To Brindle, he said, “Doctor Piper is he, among humans. Because we can’t smell.”
Brindle looked skeptical. Earstripe explained something, involving many hand gestures and ear positions. Brindle finally nodded and said to Piper, “A gnole will call a bone-doctor what he wishes, but a bone-doctor has a gnole’s respect.”
That seemed to settle that, so far as everyone was concerned. Piper wondered if there was a book available on gnole language for humans and made a note to pursue the matter when he returned to the city.
Assuming we ever return, and aren’t killed by some murderer out in the wilderness who is impaling people or chopping their legs off.
“Is this the same ox you rescued in Morstone?” asked Galen.
“An ox is, yes.” Brindle patted the animal’s flank with pride. “An ox is called Wise-nose.” He scrambled up onto the wagon seat and tapped the animal’s flank with his stick, and they were off.
The ox’s top speed was approximately three miles an hour, which suited Piper fine. He no longer felt as if he was slowing the party down. The two humans walked alongside or sat in the back of the wagon. Earstripe sat up front, next to Brindle, the two of them with their heads close together, chatting.
“Do you think Earstripe is all right?” asked Piper softly. “He and Brindle, I mean? It seems like being a guard-gnole was important.”
“I don’t know. Though I do know Brindle, and once he said, ‘A gnole is family,’ as far as he was concerned, that ended the matter. Earstripe may feel a bit differently about it, though.”
“I wish we could help,” said Piper. “But we know so little about them, and I feel like we could easily make it worse.” He thought back again to Earstripe’s sudden switch in language when he’d asked Piper for help, and how startling it had been. “Or at least leave him having to reassure the dimwitted humans, and I can’t imagine he needs that right now.”
Galen chuckled. “Spoken like a man who’s been there himself.”
“I think every doctor has been at some point. You give someone bad news and then the person with them panics, and the patient winds up having to reassure the person who isn’t even sick. It’s part of the reason I prefer working with the dead.”
“Ah…” Galen nodded. “You worked with live ones first, then?”
“I did. But I’m a great deal better with the dead.” That was as much as Piper wished to say about the matter. His particular trick had given him a great advantage when identifying cause of death. At first he had hated it and trie
d to avoid using it. Later, he had simply been grateful for that advantage. Anything to stop working with the living. They feel too many things and they want you to feel them, too. And half the time you cannot save them, no matter what you do, but you cannot tell them that.
And they act as if you are a fool or a god, and honestly, sometimes you feel like both.
It had all been too much. Too many feelings. Too many emotions. He had fought for a post where there were only the dead, who felt nothing any longer, and he had won it, and everything had gotten so much easier.
“Even the ones who die by violence?” asked Galen, looking at him with those flawed jade eyes.
“Even then. Sometimes I can help get a little justice. And even if I can’t, they’re not suffering any longer.”
Eight
The wagon was large and mostly empty, despite several crates that Piper guessed were full of food for the ox. Plenty of room to stretch out. The Temple had included a pair of thick bedrolls. Piper had somehow assumed they’d be staying at inns and hadn’t thought to pack any, so when evening came, he was grateful for the foresight. He took the small lamp from his pack and lit it.
“Ah!” said Galen, stepping up onto the back of the wagon. “You brought a lamp?”
Piper nodded, setting it in place atop a crate of provisions. “In my line of work, you always need light, and there’s hardly ever enough.”
“Ingenious design.” Galen moved past him, bent over to clear the ceiling, and inspected it. A short little chimney, a glass hood, and an extremely wide base to keep it from tipping over.
“They use them on ships,” said Piper, “for reading charts below decks.” He unrolled his bedroll on one side of the wagon, leaving plenty of room for Galen on the other. And I suppose that means we’ll be sleeping together. In a sense.
A purely platonic sense.
Yes. Purely platonic, of course.
He sat down cross-legged on his bedroll and wondered if he should start undressing or if there was something else you did when camping out on the road. He settled for pulling his boots off.
“I was surprised you came along on this trip,” said Galen, startling him.
Piper looked up. “Why, because I’m a city boy?”
Looking up was a mistake. The lamplight woke fiery highlights in Galen’s hair and fell kindly across the sharp planes of his face, softening the lines of worry. There was a sharp dip in the center of his upper lip, and Piper had a mad urge to run his finger across it.
To distract himself, he said, “I may not be used to staying on the road instead of at inns, but I learn quickly. Just tell me if I’m about to walk off a cliff or set myself on fire.”
Galen shook his head. “It’s not that,” he said. “This could be dangerous. We may have a murderer, or more than one.”
“As opposed to the city, which is notoriously free of murderers?”
The paladin gave a short huff of laughter. “All right, that’s true enough.”
Slightly offended that Galen thought so little of him, Piper began stripping off his gloves. “I may not be a warrior, or even a guard-gnole, but I’m not completely helpless. People have broken into the morgue before.”
Galen was quiet for a little time, digesting that. Then: “Why would someone break into a morgue?”
“To hide a cause of death. Or in this case to steal the papers where I wrote it down.” Piper shrugged. “They tend to back off when you wave a bonesaw at them.” He kept his voice light and amused, even if the memory made his mouth go dry. The burglar had tried to hit him over the head and Piper knew intimately, even if most people didn’t, just what damage a blow to the head could cause. He’d heard it in time to dodge sideways and then he’d picked up the bonesaw and started screaming and the burglar had panicked and bolted.
He folded his gloves on the crate beside the lamp, and loosened the ties of his shirt. Galen watched him in silence, and Piper had no idea what the man was thinking. He could feel a blush starting to rise. Does he think I’m undressing for him? Did he think I was bragging about the burglar? Am I overthinking this?
“Believe me,” he said, talking to fill the awkward silence, “I’m not going to jump into any fights. You’re the one with the sword. I’m perfectly happy to let you use it while I stand back and wring my hands and worry about infections.”
Galen chuckled. “Don’t worry. The Saint of Steel left us all very hard to kill. I’d much prefer to be the one in front with a sword.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pulled his shirt off over his head. Not the pants. I guess I’ll just sleep in my pants.
“Anyway,” said Galen, “sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.” He picked up his bedroll and turned toward the back of the wagon.
“You’re sleeping outside?” said Piper. “But I thought—I mean, there’s plenty of room—”
Galen flashed him a quick smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m used to it. Sleeping underneath the wagon keeps the frost off.”
“But it’s still cold…” Piper trailed off as Galen pushed the cloth flap aside, swung himself over the back of the wagon and was gone into the dark.
He stared at the flap for a moment, then quietly finished folding his shirt. Piper blew out the lamp and lay down on his blankets, trying not to feel as if he’d been rejected for something he hadn’t even been offering.
* * *
Galen lay under the wagon and felt like a right bastard.
He’d seen the flash of hurt in Piper’s eyes as he left. The poor man probably thought he’d driven Galen away somehow. Nothing was further from the truth.
Hell, when the doctor bit the index finger of his glove to pull it off, Galen had briefly lost the power of speech. The slide of leather over skin, barely audible, made him want to howl like a dog. It had taken an effort of will to focus on what Piper had been saying, about someone attacking him in the morgue, and then he had been able to focus because he needed to find out who these people were and hunt them down in the streets.
Then the man had started on the shirt, and Saint’s black and bloody tongue, Galen wasn’t made of stone. He’d seen Piper shirtless before, when he’d woken the man up, and the memory of dark hair and smooth muscle was still fresh, but it wasn’t the same as actually watching him undress. There had been absolutely nothing intentionally seductive about those long fingers working the ties on his shirt, and Galen was still rock hard before he’d gotten the first knot untied.
But Galen couldn’t stay. He couldn’t sleep next to a stranger, not without explaining that if he started yelling in his sleep, under no circumstances was Piper to touch him, or even get too close. And that was a conversation that he just didn’t want to have. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Prospective bedmates tended to get very alarmed when they learned that you were capable of horrific violence in your sleep.
Hi, you’re very sexy, incidentally I’m a berserker and if you touch me during a nightmare I’ll break your arm, wanna bone?
His lips twisted. No, that rarely went over well.
Besides, it might not happen. It’s been over a month since the last nightmare. Brindle knew all about it and would handle matters if it happened, but if he didn’t have to explain to Piper that he was, incidentally, sometimes a raving madman, so much the better.
The thing that no one warned you about insanity was how incredibly tedious it was. You were always having to explain yourself and apologize, over and over, and you got so tired of being crazy. And Galen, at least, was always crazy in the same way, so he was just repeating the same explanation over and over.
Not that I particularly want my madness to develop any exciting new manifestations, but Saint’s teeth, it’s tiresome.
He’d gotten better, anyway. Mostly better. Right after the god had died, waking him up during a nightmare would send him into a berserker fit. Fortunately, the Temple of the Rat had taken the liberty of strapping the broken paladins down until they woke from their comas,
which had turned out to be providential. After that, Galen had taken to strapping himself down, but the healers got very upset by it and lectured him about nerve damage in his hands. But the nightmares had faded over time, and it went from every night to every few nights, to every few weeks. If someone woke him while he screamed, they’d still probably get a black eye, but the tide didn’t rise and it stopped there. It was…manageable. When the Rat sent Istvhan out after the smooth men, Galen had gone with him and slept in a tent alone, and strangely, that had helped even more.
But he still didn’t feel like explaining this to Piper. Not tonight. Not with the image of the doctor stripping off his gloves still fresh in his brain. Whatever will happen with him will happen. But it would be unconscionable to put someone in danger just because I’d like to get in their pants.
He was doing the right thing, and he knew it. He told himself this four or five times, while picturing those long fingers in vivid detail. Then he got up and took a walk because there was only so much that mortal flesh could bear.
* * *
They reached the fishing village the next afternoon. Piper could smell it long before he saw it, which squared with his limited experience with fishing villages. He thanked the White Rat that the cold air meant the smell carried slightly less than it would have in summer.
“So how does this work?” he asked, as the village came into view. They were about half a mile off the main road out of Archon’s Glory, right up against the river. The river bent and split here, with a narrow channel that cut off part of the bend and left an island not much bigger than a city block behind. The fishing village was built on pilings that crossed the channel, two or three stories high in some places. “Do we just walk up and say, ‘excuse me, have you fished any corpses up recently?’”
“We will attempt to be subtle,” said Galen.
Piper raised an eyebrow. His experience with paladins was admittedly somewhat limited, but subtle was not the first phrase that came to mind.
Paladin’s Hope: Book Three of the Saint of Steel Page 5