by Doris Egan
"There's blood all over your face," he said, breathing hard.
"It's just a nosebleed. I bunked into something."
He glanced briefly at what was left of Loden and then gave me a look that said we would talk later. Then suddenly he was kneeling in the mud next to me, looking shaken as he gazed at the pistolcut in Loden's shoulder. Stereth came a few seconds later, extending a steady hand to me that showed no trace of nerves whatsoever. "I'd prefer to sit for a minute," I said.
He stepped back obligingly and took a pipe from the pocket of his outerrobe. He packed it, lit it, and turned to Ran with an air of courtesy. Ran was still kneeling by Loden, his face pale. "Thank you," he said, without looking up.
Stereth smiled. "Well, sir Cormallon," he said kindly, "it would seem that you owe me a favor."
Chapter 17
Well, they debated debt, obligation, and what to do with the bodies for a good quarter of an hour, apparently forgetting me entirely. (In fairness, I must say that I encouraged them to ignore me while I angled my head back in an unbecoming fashion, waiting for the bleeding to stop.)
Then they hauled Loden's remains down to the hut, where it would have taken a while to find him, even if my two rescuers weren't discussing the merits of throwing a match on the spilled chemicals—no point in being asked any administrative questions by the city. When they returned, about forty minutes had passed, and my nose was gushing more violently than ever.
They fell to arguing again. "Ran!" I said. Oops. Raising my voice increased the flow. "Ran. Stereth." They didn't seem to hear me. I kicked out with my foot and landed one on Ran's shin.
"What are you—" he began, then frowned, looking down on me. "You're still bleeding."
"No foolig. I'b begidding to suspect I bay deed bedical help." Breathing through my mouth seemed the best option.
Stereth squatted down beside me. "I saw a lot of wounds in the Northwest Sector," he said kindly. "Try pinching the bridge of your nose."
We all hunkered around in the mud, pinching my nose and replacing one sopping handkerchief with another. Fortunately I'd laid in a good supply when I'd heard I was invited to the Poraths that morning. Damn the Poraths anyway. The insides of my nose had probably gotten weak from all that blowing.
After a while Ran said, "It doesn't seem to be stopping, does it?"
Stereth considered it thoughtfully. "It's getting worse. Coming out like a young river. We seem to have broken in on an artery."
I must have made a pitiful-sounding moan, because they both leaped to reassure me: "But you'll be fine!" —Sorry about the moan, but if you'll look back, I think you'll agree that this hadn't been a good day for me. It's not easy being the hero of your own story. We all do our best.
Anyway, my pathetic sound must have finally prodded them to action. "She's losing an awful lot of blood," said Stereth. "We'd better get her to a healer.
I said, through the mess of handkerchiefs, "Ad outpladet doctor." I have great respect for Ivoran native healers, but they're better at prevention than cure, in my opinion. Not that I wanted to debate the issue then.
Ran said, "A healer could handle this, Theodora."
"I wat a doctor."
He threw another couple of fresh handkerchiefs on my face and said, "Suppose we just take you to whatever is closer."
That made a lot of sense. I let them lead me down the bank to the path, and up the edge of the canal. I ran out of handkerchiefs around then, and Stereth took off his robe, removed his shirt, and gave it to me to hold over my face. I could barely see where I was going.
I mean, I'd just fought off two attackers and seen somebody who tried to kill me shot before my eyes. This would be the time when a real storybook heroine would be gracefully accepting accolades before marrying the prince. And there we were: A ragged line of three grimy people, with me being led along with my head tilted back and an old shirt over my face. And it wasn't even because I had a wound from fighting the dragon, a swordscrape taken in battle; no, it was a nosebleed. Life takes no notice of our wish for dignity.
We went to a healer in Dart Street. She was a cheerful-looking, intelligent woman with a sensible, motherly smile; just what you'd want in a healer. Of course, I couldn't see her at first through the cloth I was holding over my face. She very carefully stuffed my left nostril with enough cotton gauze to make curtains for all the conference rooms in the Taka Hospitality Building, packed it tight and covered my nose with a bandage. I can't say I was enthusiastic about it at the time, but the outcome was more than satisfactory. About ninety percent of the bleeding halted immediately.
What a simple solution. What excellent results. Perhaps I should stop fooling around with the more arcane legends of Ivory and study basic first aid.
She was pleased that I was pleased. "How do you feel?" she asked.
Under the circumstances, it was a question I needed to think about before answering. Finally I said, tentatively, "It's nice not to have blood running all over my face."
She burst out laughing. "Everything is relative, isn't it?" She helped me up off the table and we went to the next room to see Ran.
"Stereth said good-bye," Ran told me. "He was late for an appointment." He looked at the healer. "Will she be all right?"
"Help her to take it easy for a few days." She turned to me. "Don't do anything strenuous. Don't bend over. Try not to laugh too hard. And if you have to shit, don't strain on the pot," she added, with the complete lack of embarrassment Ivorans have about bodily functions. "And don't try to take the dressing off yourself; come back in two days for that. I want to have my cauterization equipment ready in case it starts bleeding hard again."
"Your what?" I asked.
"Have you ever had the inside of your nose cauterized?"
"Uh, no, I don't think so," I replied, vowing silently that I would go to one of the outplanet clinics to have the dressing removed. I smiled. "Thank you for your help, gracious lady."
"Not at all," she said, "it's a treat to have a barbarian to work on. Everyone in this neighborhood seems to be from the same province."
We sat on the steps outside her office and waited for the carriage Ran had sent for. After a moment he said, "Stereth told me I'm to go to the medical clinic of my wife's choosing."
"—Ah." I was glad suddenly not to have won my point about the outplanet doctor. He might consider the obliga-
tion discharged. "You know this healer here doesn't count as my choosing."
"I know that. Why did Stereth make that particular requirement?"
"Uh…" Such verbal ability as I had was deserting me.
"Theodora? My wife?"
"Well. You know I want us both to have a genalysis to see whether we can have a viable child—"
"I've told you it would be grossly irresponsible for me to allow the Selians to examine my genetic structure."
"I wasn't planning on going to the Selians."
He digested that. "Share this with me, then. Who were you planning on forcing me to see?"
I said quietly, "I thought we might both go to the Jack Lykon Free Clinic."
"There's no clinic by that name in the capital… although the name is familiar."
"He's the man I met at the meeting with the Tellysian junior ambassador. Ah, the Tolla representative."
He turned to me slowly. "Are you telling me you consider the Tolla a safer repository for secret House information?"
"Ran, I have an idea." The concept of using the Tolla had shocked him into temporary silence, and I took advantage of it. I brought up the anecdote about the brewers, their adoption, and the enforced silence placed on them. I said, "Why can't we adopt Jack Lykon into Cormallon? There haven't been that many good genalycists around since Gate 53; the knowledge that you think makes him dangerous could make him useful to our House. The Tolla will be glad to lend him to us in return for our help with their weapons problem."
"Their weapons problem might be insoluble by sorcery."
"I have every faith i
n your ability to come up with something."
"And I doubt if this Jack Lykon would be willing to put himself in our power once the situation was fully explained to him."
"If he's really Tolla, he'll do his duty. And he seems like a nice guy, too."
Ran was silent, and I stopped myself from pressing the matter. Finally he said, "Let me think this through."
I said, "Of course," and congratulated myself for not bringing up the fact that his consent was required to repay the obligation to Stereth. It would work better if I didn't mention it.
Then Ran said, "Theodora?" His voice had changed.
"When that fool was trying to shoot you why did you call for Stereth, and not for me?"
Oh, gods. I'd been afraid he would ask that. I didn't have a good answer.
"You know, Ran, everything happened very quickly. I don't know why I yelled for Stereth; maybe I thought there was a better chance of his being armed."
"You know I've been carrying a pistol everywhere since that business in Trade Square."
"I… guess I forgot. I wasn't thinking clearly."
He fell silent, not fully satisfied, but not pursuing it. I've given the matter a lot of thought since then, because I didn't understand it myself. Did I trust Stereth more than Ran? Not that I was aware of. Didn't I love Ran; didn't I know he would act to protect me if necessary? Didn't I know very well he was carrying a weapon? There's no higher professorial power to hand me the answers to this quiz, but I think that in the end, the simple fact was that when I needed a natural killer my mind went automatically to Stereth.
I was in no shape to analyze the matter so thoroughly at the time, however. Ran looked troubled, and I was troubled myself.
After a moment he said, "Did you know that tool Loden"—it was always "that-fool-Loden," as if it were one word—"was using an attraction spell? Of course, he probably called it a love spell."
"You're joking."
"It was in his perfume. He was drenched with it. I had to suffer through the stink when we dragged him down to the hut."
It would in fact stink to Ran, if it was designed to attract females, which I assume from Loden's reputation is what he would ask for. Except that I hadn't much liked the smell either, though perhaps "stink" was a little strong.
Ran said, "He must have bathed in it. You didn't… notice anything?"
"I assure you I did not."
"No sudden urge to make love on the floor of the hut?"
"Perhaps he was given a hate potion by mistake. The only urge I felt was to knee him in the nuts, which I did."
"Interesting," he said, shifting from the husband to the professional sorcerer. "We'll have to analyze the situation when we have time."
I was about to suggest that barbarian genes might be different, but thought I'd pushed my luck enough with that topic.
No wonder he was uncomfortable. I'd spent my time hanging around with ne'er-do-wells armed with love potions, and then called on Stereth for rescue from the consequences of my visit. It wasn't surprising that my husband was a little miffed.
Only partly changing the subject, I said, "Stereth owed me a favor. For going to see the Tellysian ambassador."
"I see."
He was back to that stiff note, the same withdrawal I'd heard when I told him to go to Mira-Stoden.
Oh, hell. I'd just disgraced myself thoroughly, sliding around in the mud and bleeding all over my robes, from a situation I might have avoided with quicker thinking—since if I'd dumped Loden's IOUs back in the desk before I hid, they never would have bothered to haul down the bed. And it wasn't as if I'd needed the IOUs, the case was never going to court. Ran and I could have just told Lord Porath the story, and let him take it from there.
We may as well finish peeling the scab off any remnants of dignity and admit the whole thing.
"Ran, I'm scared."
He looked startled. "Loden and his friend are quite definitely out of the way, my love. Stereth and I made sure—"
"No, I'm scared of the idea of having a baby. I know I'm supposed to be some kind of rock-solid matriarch, passing the genetic torch down to the next stepful of Cormal-lons, but I keep—" I paused.
"Keep what?" His voice was quiet.
"I keep thinking I'm going to die. I keep having these dreams. I just find that, whenever I imagine having a child… I keep seeing him brought up posthumously."
"You never said anything."
"I'm supposed to be undeterred by this stuff, aren't I? Go bravely ahead and do my duty, count not the cost—"
"Theodora—"
"But fond though I am of your family, dying wasn't on my list of things to do when I came back with you."
"Theodora, we take intuition seriously around here. Why didn't you tell me this?"
I was silent. Finally, I said, "How do I know how much is intuition and how much is nerves?"
He sighed. Then he put an arm around my shoulder. "I suppose we could go to one of these outplanet medical clinics and inquire."
Have you lost respect for me? Come on, Theodora, go for two tough questions in a row. "Ran?"
"What?"
"What were you and Stereth doing out at Moros' house?" Chicken. Buck-buck.
"Oh! I got your message. I decided to call Stereth to see if he thought anybody else knew where Moros had lived, and how long they'd known. If the place was cleaned out, you know, there was hardly any point in going. While we were talking, I mentioned I was joining you there. It was his idea to come alpng."
I grinned. "Stereth doesn't wait to be asked."
"Lucky for us both he doesn't. At least in this case." Then he smiled. "So this is why you've been going around even more tymon-crazy than you usually are."
"Perhaps you should rephrase that, my husband."
"Sim will be relieved," he said, ignoring my suggestion. "I couldn't give him any indication as to what troubles you might be getting yourself into. Now I can tell him to relax and take his holiday. He's straining to go to the Lavender Palace, you know."
"You mean he actually converses on topics other than food?"
"I've known Sim for years. It takes him a while to lose his natural reserve."
"Ah. I'll look forward to chats with him, twenty years down the line."
I looked forward to seeing him off to the Lavender Palace, too—after a prolonged period of bedrest on his part.
I decided to wait for the opportune moment to fill Ran in on that escapade.
And so we sat there, waiting for the carriage, tucked up against each other like two winter birds. He must have had some idea what was on my mind because at one point he kissed the shoulder of my messy robe and said, "Come on. Don't worry about it."
I heard the faint sound of carriage wheels, and touched a finger to my cheek, checking for any dirt we'd missed. The healer had asked me whether I had any sensation in certain parts of my face; now the question seemed full of sinister implications. I touched my left cheek again. "Ran, I can't feel anything on my face when I touch it! The whole texture of the skin feels strange."
He said, "Theodora, you're touching the bandage."
Oh. I was glad Stereth wasn't around to have witnessed that.
"Here's the carriage," he said, and a minute later he was helping me to climb in.
Look, when it comes to adventure I do the best I can. Some people are born to dazzle rooms with panther-grace after receiving the plaudits of the crowds. Some people are born to wear sensible shoes, and I'm one of them. After this encounter, I spent a few days at home, taking it easy and being pleasantly spoiled by Ran and Kylla. I had time to consider that a clear-thinking individual might have been more on top of the Loden situation if he or she had stopped to think how quickly those hired thugs in the market had swung into action—only a couple of hours after we gave Loden a description of Moros.
I also had time to think about Loden's, well, impotent perfume; probably he'd gotten it from Moros. Ran had seemed to feel it was the genuine article. Why then had
I looked upon it with such justifiable contempt? Here are some of the mitigating factors I came up with:
(1) I'm a barbarian; what the effects of this heritage may be in terms of magic has never been thoroughly studied, but at its most physically mundane I don't believe my sense of smell is equal to a native Ivoran's; (2) my nose had been operating at a deficit ever since the Night of Cats; and (3) Loden, like many people, was ignorant of how an attraction spell works. It's a cheat, a bit of pure deceit that produces an array of physical symptoms which, in the right circumstances, convince the victim he (or she) is in the grip of sexual fever. When what they're really in the grip of is a list of medically determined effects, checked off coldly by the sorcerer-chef: Raised heartbeat (check one); dry mouth (check one); sweaty palms… Statistically, a good attraction spell will work about eighty-five percent of the time. The other fifteen percent are people who through circumstance or sheer eccentricity can divorce their symptoms from what they've been led to believe is happening to them.
Just as a hypothetical example, I might point out that somebody who considers herself in danger of immediate murder has reason enough for a raised heartbeat and sweaty palms without ascribing them to any other source. True, there are a few symptoms caused by an attraction spell that are not on the list of, say, a fear spell—but again, somebody in immediate danger of death is going to have their mind on other things.
Loden was an idiot to have tried it. But then, as I think we've all agreed by now, Loden was an idiot.
Several days later found me waiting nervously in the courtyard of Cormallon itself. I paced the length of the pool, past the columns, turned and paced again. For the sake of his sanity, Ran had left me alone and gone into the study.
Jack Lykon was upstairs, running his genetic scenarios on a locked Net terminal. Jack Lykon Cormallon, if you want to be technical about it; his adoption had taken place the day before yesterday. Papers were filed with the Telly-sian embassy detailing his voluntary agreement to place himself under House authority, and absolving the embassy and any Tellysian group or organization from any responsibility in the event of his death or disappearance.
