“As long as you’re here, give me a hand,” the healer said. “Vezzam, hold here. Baby, open that vial. And you’d better not even think about moving.
The last phrase was thrown at Artanna and accompanied by a stern look.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, not with Baby holding me like that,” muttered Artanna.
The healer carefully took hold of the broken arrow shaft with his pincers and gave it a swift yank. The smooth arrowhead, without enough time to break off, came out along with the shaft.
“Arzimat’s hole!” Artanna yelped.
Rianos glanced at his charge reproachfully. The mercenary woman switched to cursing in Vagran and focused on evening out her breath.
“Let’s get this over with, boys. I still have to go smooth things out with Guiro and the viceroy.”
“You’re definitely not leaving the infirmary today,” the healer said. “That’s out of the question.”
“I have to.”
“If you want, I can talk with Guiro.” Shrain scratched his shaved dome thoughtfully and stuck an enormous paw in his belt. “I’m not doing any good here.”
“You weren’t there with Vazash, and Guiro is going to ask how it happened. And Vezzam isn’t the easiest person to talk to.” The Hundred leader smiled guiltily when she caught his severe look. “Sorry…”
“You’re not wrong. Talking is your thing, Commander. He’s your beau, anyway.”
“Easy there, my friend. The beau might not appreciate that.”
“But it’s true.”
“Be that as it may, we can’t abuse his position.”
“We’re putting it off till tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.” Rianos dipped a bandage in the goo from the jar Shrain had opened and pressed it against the wound.
Artanna hissed.
“Curses, that burns! Shit!”
While Vezzam and Shrain were talking about something, Rianos grabbed the chance to lean over to the Hundred leader.
“It would be easier if I could use my…other abilities on you. Our people do good work with wounds using spells.”
“You’re the former slave of an Ennian healer, not an Ennian healer yourself. Don’t you think there might be something you didn’t learn before you ran away?”
Rianos sighed deeply, rolled his eyes, and tightened the bandage around the wound. Artanna howled again as she latched her fists onto the headboard.
“Admit it—you get off on this,” she wheezed when she caught her breath.
“Not at all. Although, the fact that I’m probably the only one allowed to cause you pain with impunity does sometimes put a smile on my face. It’s nice to be special.”
Artanna turned her head to watch the healer’s sure movements—nothing superfluous, not a single second wasted. Regardless of the locals’ distaste for Ennians, Rianos had somehow managed to quickly endear himself to the troops. It could have turned south quickly, however, if the clerics had found out that he used spells in addition to usual herbs and poultices, which was why Artanna was the only one who knew his secret.
Another flash of pain pulled the Hundred leader away from her contemplation.
“Everything still works on everyone else, just not you.” The healer wouldn’t let the topic go as he continued to tighten the bandage. “And I wish I knew why not.”
“It’s fine, you’re doing okay as it is. Just get it over with—it still feels the same.”
Rianos started preparing the wrap. Shrain got up and headed toward the door.
“Chow time’s coming up. I’ll go make sure everything’s ready.”
“Thanks, Baby.”
“Want me to bring you some?”
“That would be great, just top it off with some sweet wine.”
Vezzam waited for Baby to leave and then grabbed a mop and started cleaning.
“What’s that for?” Artanna and Rianos asked in unison.
“So there’s less work for the mender. He did enough work saving your butt in every sense of the word.”
Artanna didn’t have anything to say.
It was chilly in the infirmary’s large and once well-lit hall. The small, cloudy windowpanes let in nothing but the nighttime darkness. Vizzam mopped away the remains of the dirt tracked in from the street, caked as it was with blood across the uneven floor. The mop dipped into the bucket, the rags were squeezed, and it was swept on its way once more. Bucket. Squeeze. Floor. Bucket. Squeeze. Floor. The sound started getting on Artanna’s nerves even more than the pain in her backside.
“We’re in deep shit, Rianos.”
“Vezzam’s taking care of that,” the healer replied without pulling himself away from his work.
“Cracking jokes now, are we? The fairs are just a couple months away, and I barely have anything to pay our people with. The Brotherhood is stirring up trouble—no good there. And Guiro…”
“You’ll think of something, Commander. You always think of something.”
The healer finished wrapping her up and sent the bloody rags into the basket with a practiced toss. Artanna wiggled around in the bed, trying to get comfortable.
“I can’t get today’s fight out of my head,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s apparently a split in the Brotherhood, and Tanor can’t keep his people in line. I took that arrow instead of Piraf, but his people were trying to kill him. Why?”
The healer carefully rotated the vials lined up with different colored liquids inside them. They were all labeled in the whimsical Ennian script, his handwriting perfect. Rianos was pedantic about everything he did. Even if the infirmary was ancient and poorly furnished, it was always neat and tidy. Artanna would have been willing to bet that all the healer wanted right then was to finally clean the blood off his favorite gown.
“You’ll spend the night in your bed, not in the infirmary,” Rianos said. “I’ll check you over tomorrow morning and rebandage the wound.”
Artanna nodded and tried to get up. Vezzam jumped over to help, though it still took a couple tries before she was able to hold herself upright.
“Thanks, Ri. You got me out of a pickle again.”
Between them, Vizzam and Rianos helped the woman to the door. The healer’s drawn face, disfigured by the brand on his cheek, was haggard. Pouches drooped below his eyes.
“Try waiting a bit before your next pickle, and maybe even buy a few herbs for balms. I’m all out. These days, everyone in the city seems like they’re getting into more scrapes than usual.”
Artanna frowned, crunching the numbers in her head. She couldn’t turn Rianos down. There was no way she was going to keep him from healing people who couldn’t afford a doctor.
“So, things really are bad,” the Hundred leader smiled sadly. “I’ll find the money for the herbs tomorrow—we’ll all bite the dust without your remedies. How’s Nareza?”
The healer squinted over at the screen behind which the girl was sleeping.
“She lost the baby. Lots of bruises, some broken bones, took a hard hit to her head, and lots of cuts down there, but she’ll live. I’m more concerned about her mental health. She wouldn’t let Tanzir get close, for example, just screaming something about blue eyes as soon as she saw him. It took a while to calm her down.”
Artanna cursed under her breath.
“Sounds like she’s really taking it hard. Matteo, the guy who did that, has blue eyes. Had blue eyes. He won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”
“She needs peace and quiet. I’m going to give her some strong sedative broths, and I’ll see what I can do with my hands, as well,” Rianos said with a pointed nod. “I hope that will help.”
“Thanks. As soon as she’s back on her feet, get her out of the city—Givoi doesn’t let you live things like that down. She’s deflowered now, even if it wasn’t her fault. But first I need to figure out what the devil is going on with Tanor’s troops.”
Rianos nodded, closed the door softly behind Artanna to avoid waking Nareza, and leaned back against the damp wood. A gent
le whisper came from the corridor.
“I’ll get your herbs, Ri. At least, as long as climbing the stairs doesn’t kill me.”
***
Givoi, for the third day in a row, was at less than its hospitable best, showering visitors, the city people, and animals alike with cold water. But that morning, the first crack appeared in the leaden sky to give hope that there was a warmer spell coming soon. The person in the hood couldn’t have cared less about the weather, though the same couldn’t be said about the aromas floating by. The usual miasmas were carried around several quarters by a westerly wind, and the smell of rotten fish followed the lone traveler from the port itself. Passing the warehouses, he sniffed and sighed in relief. The stink was receding, though the bouquet of aromas was joined by the swill of vomit, the constant companion of cheap taverns. As he got closer to the heart of the city, the traveler started catching other scents. He was almost there. His sense of smell had never deceived him, and the pungent fragrance of Highligland’s herbal tonic, an expensive pleasure enjoyed by aristocrats and mercenaries fresh off payday, made him look up and check out a tavern sign. The Wicked Monk, it read. Pulling his hood down lower, he stepped inside.
His nose was assaulted immediately by the smell of food. The man in the hood looked around—the oaken furniture was sturdy, nothing that would break easily. The people inside were eating from fine clay dishes, something that told him the owner prioritized making a good impression over durability. Anyway, the fact that he sold the famous Highligland drink meant that the owner could stomach a few dozen broken dishes a day.
The traveler noted a small table away from the noisy crowd, which was raucously singing an upbeat tune. The mercenaries made an inharmonious, if fervent choir. Finally, the song wrapped up.
The Vagran stood up against evil at last, taking an arrow right to the ass! Hey!
Not in any mood to outdo the hubbub, the person in the hood gestured a waitress over. The young girl wearing a surprisingly clean apron slipped between tables to appear next to the new arrival.
“Welcome, good sir! What can I get for you?”
“What are they singing about, cutie?” the guest asked quietly in a southern drawl.
“Artanna from the Hundred. They say she caught an arrow in an unmentionable area saving a squad leader from an enemy gang.” The girl laughed melodiously. “Absurd!”
“Artanna from the Hundred… Interesting. Tell me more.”
“I will, sir, I will. Just tell me what you’d like to eat first.”
The traveler looked up, showing the girl nothing but a smile and a row of even, white teeth.
“Call me Jert. And I’d like the juiciest gossip you can feed me, my dear,” he replied as he placed a silver coin in her apron pocket.
Chapter 6. Missolen
“I’m really sorry it had to come to this, Lady Evasye.”
The empress’ maid glanced fearfully over at the shadow moving in the corner. She was sitting on an uncomfortable chair and shaking, either from cold or fright, and most likely from both. The only light in the room came from a thick, smoky candle on the table next to the prisoner. The flickering light illuminated a section of rough stonework—she’d been brought to a dungeon. Lady Evasye trembled uncontrollably. A draft curled unpleasantly around her legs, the tendrils of the cold breeze licking at her feet and ankles. The air coming in from under the closed door smelled of must and despair.
“For whatever reason, everyone in the palace thinks I’m heartless, though I can assure you, that’s not the case. I’m going to start by giving you a chance to tell me everything you know without the need for any unpleasantries. And please, Odett, be smart about this. Whatever they might say about me, I hate hurting people.”
She recognized the voice. The smooth, emphatically respectful way of speaking, unusual even for an aristocrat, was one she knew well. And the realization of who she was talking to froze Odett Evasye’s blood in her veins.
“Lord Demos, I swear, I don’t know anything!” the woman squeaked. “You already talked to me!”
“And I finished that conversation less than pleased. It strikes me, we have more to discuss.”
“As Gillenai is my witness, I told you everything!”
“Sadly, we both know that’s not entirely the case.” The Burned Lord sighed sadly. “Master Devini, would you be so kind as to prepare the instruments we’ll need for a more substantive talk?”
Another shadow detached itself from the wall and slowly stepped over to the table. Odett glanced up at Devini’s face, one completely expressionless, as if carved out of marble, and turned pale. The executioner had decapitated several lower-level aristocrats the previous week after they’d been accused of treason and an attempt to incite rebellion against Count Farui. They’d been dragged to the scaffold, tortured to the point that their limbs were too shattered to walk on their own.
“Please, have mercy, for the Keeper,” Odett whispered when Devini stopped next to her.
The executioner didn’t even deign to look at the woman, almost as though she wasn’t there. Instead, he quietly took the candle from the table and started lighting the torches on the walls, his finger thoughtfully tracing the cracks in the stone as he went. When he finished with the torches, he tossed some wood in the fireplace. The room grew warmer, though that was scant comfort for the prisoner.
She looked over at the table. In front of her on a leather case lay small knives with tiny, slender blades. The light from the fire reflected in the brilliantly polished metal. Involuntarily jerking backward, the maid rocked in her chair. A warm hand was placed on her shoulder to keep her from toppling over backward.
“Have you heard the phrase, ‘Vagran clemency,’ Lady Evasye?” Demos Devaton stepped over with a slight limp and lowered himself onto a stool right across from the prisoner, leaving the two separated by nothing more than the narrow table. “That’s what they call the art, if that’s even the right word for it, of peeling tiny strips of skin off living people. Strips no wider than your little finger. The people of Vag Ran perfected the art a millennium ago in their wars with the Runds, to the point that the entire world heard of their harsh interrogations. Master Devini, who you already know, is an excellent practitioner who always enjoys showing off what he can do. It’s a talent, let me tell you. I’m lucky to have him.”
Odett glanced back and forth between the Burned Lord’s disfigured face and the tools with their sparkling, sharpened blades. No, she wasn’t dreaming. But she’d always been terrified of pain. She imagined the knives slicing into her flesh, peeling the skin back so slowly she felt every moment of agony. Strip by strip, inch by inch. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart pounded in her ears.
Lady Evasye opened her mouth in an attempt to beg for mercy, but it was right then that she lost consciousness.
***
Overdid it just a bit.
Demos looked over the maid’s limp body sadly. The only thing keeping Odett Evasye upright was the steel grip of Lahel, one of Demos’ Ennian bodyguards, who was gripping the girl’s shoulders rapaciously.
“Wake her up,” the treasurer said before turning to the executioner. “Master Devini, I’m afraid we’ll have to do without your Vagran methods today. The girl can’t take it—you can see that yourself. We need something ordinary, if just as convincing. I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with.”
The executioner shrugged, thought for a second, and slipped an iron rod into the fire.
What imagination! What innovation! Curses. If he’s planning on loosening her tongue with hot iron, I’m the one this whole thing is going to turn torturous for.
Demos hated fire—with his whole being, mutilated fingers trembling, more than anything else in the world. The stupid, merciless element had taken his wife, his children, his friends, and even part of himself. And in exchange, all he’d gotten was deformity, weakness, constant pain, and the necessity of hiding the real reason for the tragedy until the end of his days. It was an
unequal bargain. Demos turned away and pulled out his pipe, though his attempt to fill it with tobacco just scattered half the stuff across the floor. His hands were shaking.
Fiera, if the masters are right, and we see each other after death in the Crystal Hall, will you forgive me? Will Korett and Ferran forgive me? I wasn’t just a terrible father and husband; may I be thrice cursed, even if I didn’t know it, I doomed you to your grave.
Ihraz helpfully handed a match to his master. Demos lit his pipe and forced himself to look at the flames blazing in the fireplace. The logs crackled, the iron rod was getting hotter, and the treasurer had a hard time shaking the memories from the day he lost his family and very nearly died himself.
Idiot! You flaunted your knowledge of the ancient imperial wise men, you recited works from the ancient imperial poets, you were so proud of your library… But you couldn’t find time to dive into your family tree and realize that you might have inherited magical blood from your Ennian mother! You yourself signed eight death sentences by fire for sorcery. And in the end, you killed everyone you held dear, because you too had the curse.
It had been five years, but he still heard Fiera’s screams at night—inhuman, chilling, brimming over with pain and despair. Happily, his children didn’t come to him in his dreams, as he couldn’t have watched them die every night. There was no way.
He clearly remembered bursting into the house engulfed by fire, vainly hoping to save at least someone. From the very beginning, it was an absurd idea, but Demos couldn’t bear standing by while his loved ones died such a horrible death. Fiera gasped for air, rushed around the remains of the wooden hall, cut off from the door. He could see her silhouette through the wall of flames. And she screamed.
Dancing on the Block Page 6
