by Kage Baker
We just stood and stared by the light of the new candle we had brought. When it sank in that practically everything he owned was so much ruffled ash in the kitchen grate, I was the one who broke down and cried, and wanted to go accuse somebody. Nicholas was too stunned to hear my tempest. He wandered over to the table and stood looking down at the place where his books had been. There was a long stream of wax lying there, a solid river broken off at its source. He picked it up and turned it in the light, examining it intently.
Finally he said, "Wherefore art thou angered?"
I stared through my tears. "Thy books are burnt!" Get red in the face, Nicholas, please, storm downstairs and grab Master Ffrawney by the throat.
He shook his head.
"It is a sign. One more test. The Word of God is not so much paper and calfskin. These gross forms have been destroyed. Perhaps this is to signify that I loved them too much. Perhaps I sinned in pride, having so many books."
This kind of talk terrified me. I went across the room to him, to physically close the gulf I could feel opening between us. There was something glinting on the bit of wax he held; I looked at it closely and saw it was a moth. Its charred body was trapped in the frozen flow of tallow, legs clumped all askew, and the powdery wings that stuck out were shredded and broken.
How cold that room was.
You must understand that I would not sit there and watch. Mortals can make a poetry of death; they have to. What is too horrible to look in the face must have a mask. Still, mortals have the urge to pull away that mask, as the stupid girl does in the film, and the angry specter jumps out roaring.
We are not like that. No romantic Death for us. Like cockroaches or mold, he must be driven out: spray for him, scour him away, put him out in the sunlight. Unclean.
I made a plan.
"Joseph." I opened his door. He looked up at me unfocused: he had a ring holo made like a pair of spectacles on his nose and was relaxing with a film. "We have to talk."
"We do, huh?" He sighed and switched off the holo. Folding it up, he put it in his doublet and pulled out a stick of Theobromos. "Mood elevant?" He offered it to me.
"No, thanks."
He shrugged and commenced peeling the silver paper off one end.
"How soon before we leave here, Joseph?"
"That's up to you, isn't it? Sit down. How long before you've taken as much as is worth taking out of the garden?"
"Only a few weeks. I'll have a complete growing cycle on the ilex by then, and enough samples on everything else for full in-lab reconstruction."
"Say a month, then." He leaned back and put the end of the stick in his mouth. "Sooner, if you can manage it, because in case you haven't been listening to the news, the rest of the Spaniards are ditching the joint. It would be nice if you and I could do likewise. Save us the cost of paying off Master Darrell, too."
"What about Nef?"
"She's going to HQ, and they're finally sending her north with a new cover."
"Oh." I got up and paced. "Well, look; I need you to do something for me."
"Oh really?" He raised his eyebrows. "What?"
"Save Nicholas."
"He'll die, Mendoza," Joseph said. "Eventually. They all do. You know that."
"But he doesn't have to die now. Not while he's a young man. He has no idea how dangerous it is here now, he won't listen to reason, and I've talked to him until I'm going crazy trying to get him to flee to Zurich or somewhere safe. He won't listen to me. This is why you have to help me."
"I have persuasive charms, baby, but I'm not that good."
"Like hell you're not. I know what you are. You can sell anything."
"Mendoza, people have to want to be saved. Did you want to die in Santiago? No. Did Sir Walter want to get old and sick? No. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? What can I offer this guy? Big healthy buck in the prime of life like him. He doesn't like me, he doesn't trust me, and if a nubile little thing like you can't make him catch a fast boat to the Continent for his own good, I've got a feeling that I too shall argue in vain."
"I'm not asking you to argue with him. Look, I have it all worked out. Give me a drug that will make him look dead."
"You mean like in Romeo and Juliet?" Joseph was incredulous.
"Just like that. Slip him the drug just before we're ready to leave, do the coffin trick, and smuggle him out with us when we go. Keep him on life support until we get to Europe, leave him in an inn in Zurich, where he can wake up with a headache and no memory of how he got there. But he'll have a purse of Swiss gold. And I'll never see him again, Joseph, I promise."
"Mendoza, did you ever see the movie? The poison bit didn't work out so well. All kinds of stuff could go wrong with your plan. I might miscalculate the dosage."
"You wouldn't."
"This is a plan dreamed up by a desperate person."
"Is there any reason it positively wouldn't work? Huh?"
"Where do you think I'm going to get a drug like that? I don't exactly keep a box of them under my bed. Oh, a Juliet special? Yes, I just whipped up a batch."
"You can make a batch. You must know a formula. Give me a list of what you need, and I'll get everything."
"Mendoza… I'll try. Okay? I can't guarantee anything, and I wish you wouldn't get your hopes up about this—"
"You can do it." I thumped him on the shoulder. His stick of Theobromos broke, and he looked at me reproachfully, but I was already exiting on a wave of confidence.
So that was my plan.
Actually, that was only one of my plans, but they all began: As soon as I get Nicholas out of here…
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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The days went by as I clipped and dug and collected.
Sir Walter proposed to Nef and was refused with a great deal of tact and charm. She told him she was too old for him (certainly true), too poor, and anyway had been betrothed since childhood to an hidalgo of Castile who had sailed away to the New World. Though the hidalgo had never returned, doubtless slain by savages somewhere, honor compelled her to wait for him. This news was received with great dismay by Sir Walter, but his tears were in vain. He became resigned; he let her keep the unicorn as a symbol of their lost love. It was pretty obviously a goat now anyway, both little horns poking out bravely; and thus Sir Walter could be gallant and rid himself of an embarrassment at the same time. Within a day he had convinced himself that there were plenty of wealthy noblewomen in England who'd fall for him.
One day it rained. And the next day it rained, and the next. Then it rained again. Venturing into the garden meant sinking ankle-deep in wet leaf mold (a substance found only in the British Isles, thank God), so I opted to stay indoors and watch Nicholas take inventory.
Rain pattered down, and light came gray and watery through the windows of the great hall. I sat on the staircase hoping to avoid the drafts, my skirts all tucked up around my ankles, and helped Nicholas with the inventory list. Chin on fist, I watched as he crawled up and down the stepladder before an enormous curio case. How bleak and unforgiving the light, picking out every threadbare place in his black robe. No new livery for him now: Sir Walter wasn't going to waste the money.
"Item, one head of a Scots king," he announced.
"Thou liest!" I lowered my quill to stare.
"There." He pointed to the topmost shelf, and I looked up to meet the blind stare of very former majesty. The man had died young: had very good teeth and a lot of red hair and beard, still bushy.
"What is he doing here?" I looked away and jotted the entry.
"Little enough nowadays, I warrant you. Item, one head of a queen." He reached to the back of the shelf and pulled it out for me to see. "Supposed to be Queen Guenevere."
"Who supposes so?" I jeered. "That's a man's skull with a yellow wig glued on't!" A Roman man, to be exact, about fifty years of age and dead of—plumbism? No. I scanned deeper and found the flint projectile point. Poor old centurion. I hoped my tour of duty in Brita
in turned out better than his had.
"This was a man? So these are not the locks caressed by Arthur? Well, farewell Sir Walter's two pound tenpence. He ought to have known it were no true queen's head at that price. Though mind you"—he put it back and moved down another shelf—"there was a time when queens' heads went for less in this land.
"Now, Rose, make a new heading of Popish Impostures—" He halted. "Nay, I see I am too slow. Someone hath been and changed the sign in this case. Rather write, Holy Relics Miraculously Preserved from the Late Heretics. Item, fifteen pieces of the true Cross. Item, six crystal vials of the blood of Christ, with lead stoppers. Item, seven glass vials of the same. Item, a finger of Saint Winifred. Item, a finger of Saint Ethelbert. Item, a toe of Saint Cuthbert, with an otter's tooth affixed therein. Item, a tooth of Saint Ascanius."
He climbed down and came to sit beside me, shaking from an urge to laugh or cry. "A trove the Pope himself must envy. Yet I tell you, Sir Walter bought them cheaply when the monasteries were broken up. For a long while there was a card whereon was writ large how these were counterfeits made by greedy monks to rob honest Englishmen."
"One of those fingers is a chicken bone." I put my arm around him. A couple of the little bones actually did show a faint spectrum of Crome's radiation, though, so maybe they were the true toes of saints after all.
But there were footsteps. A door opened, and people came into the great hall. Sir Walter, Joseph, and Master Darrell. Joseph was saying:
"Now, having compounded this, you must rub it well into your scalp—" They noticed us sitting there. Joseph gave me a tiny apologetic shrug, and Master Darrell doffed his hat to me, courteous fellow. But Sir Walter strode forward and said:
"How now, Nicholas, not finished yet? I would have this abstract done afore next Christmas, boy."
He had been such a charming little old man. What a bastard he was, young.
"You bid me be exact, sir, and there is much to account for." Nicholas bowed slightly.
"Well, thou must be precise. Look you, Master Darrell, here are wonders indeed. Where is the sword of Charlemagne, Nicholas?"
"Sword of Charlemagne?" Nicholas frowned.
"What, art turned parrot? Tell me where it is, boy. Ha! I see it there. Look up, Master Darrell, it is the French Caesar's very blade." He pointed to a sword mounted on the wall high above the case. Nicholas consulted his list. Sir Walter went on: "This same blade, sir, was presented to our late King Henry Fifth, when he did conquer France. It came into this country, I am told, when—"
"That's the sword of Roland, sir." Nicholas looked up.
"When—what?"
"It is Roland's sword. Not Charlemagne's."
Sir Walter's eyes quite popped with annoyance. "I think I know mine own goods, boy. That is the sword of Charlemagne. Roland had a horn, Charlemagne had a sword."
"With respect, sir, the horn of Roland is in the second cabinet in the east gallery, and this is Roland's sword. You bought them both from a peddler in Wapping. Charlemagne's—"
"God's blood, must I prove it to thee? I see I must." With a great show of impatience, Sir Walter seized the stepladder and bounded up to the top. The sword was still well out of his reach, though, so he got up on top of the cabinet and stood cautiously.
"Sweet Jesu, sir, have a care!" cried Master Darrell.
"Aye, aye." Sir Walter turned unsteadily and looked out at us all: couldn't resist the urge to see what the view was like from up there, I guess. I wondered briefly if he could see into the minstrels' gallery.
He remembered why he was there and grabbed for the sword. "Here! Now thou shalt see—" But it was only hanging between two sixpenny nails and came loose sooner than he expected and plummeted downward. He jumped back, nearly fell, as with a hiss the sword dropped behind the cabinet and thunked into the baseboard. Nicholas looked disdainful. I had to hide my face in my hands to keep from snickering, and it was well I did, for little Sir Walter grew as furious as a cat up there on his hands and knees.
"Why was that not hung more securer?" he cried. "I might have been killed, thou fool! And now we must move the cabinet to have the sword back again!"
"Peace, sir, another time," soothed Master Darrell. "I am certain it was Charlemagne's sword, none other."
"It must be got out!"
"We shall have some of the household move the cabinet later, my friend." Joseph came and steadied the ladder. "But descend now, I pray you, lest you fall."
"We shall have it moved now, and I shall prove to thee…" Reckless in his anger, Sir Walter scrambled to his feet again. Bad move. He overbalanced and tottered. To avoid falling, he threw himself backward against the wall. His feet pushed at the top of the cabinet, and it toppled slowly outward. I screamed, and the men shouted, for Joseph was standing underneath.
Now, a scene in slow motion:
Joseph's eyes met mine. It wasn't that he couldn't get out of the way in time: we had both been alerted when the center of gravity began to shift. He could have been safe on the stair beside me in that first fraction of a second after the cabinet started falling. But there were two mortals staring fixedly at him, who would have seen him blink out.
My God, what are you going to do?
Make it look good. Cross your fingers.
As artifacts and pieces of saints began to rain down on him, Joseph found the exact place of least momentum, lightest impact; positioned himself there, threw up his arms, and waited. Crraassh, it came. A mortal man would have been broken like a matchstick. Joseph, though, took the weight and folded with it, telescoped and bent like a spring but did not crush. Nothing can shatter our cyborg skulls. BOOM. Dust settling.
Normal time again. Sir Walter sprawled amid cobwebs, fractured in a few places, but nobody was paying him any heed because I was screeching fit to wake the dead, frantically clawing at the cabinet. Nicholas and Master Darrell were beside me at once, and some of the servants ran in, and by combined effort we hoisted the cabinet up about two feet. I let go at once and flung myself underneath, ruining my hoops.
"Rose!"
Joseph looked like a cubist painting. He unfolded as I slithered to him.
Damage?
Pull me out.
I got him by the shoulders and pulled, and he swore, but I backed out rapidly with him. When we emerged, he feigned unconsciousness. Kneeling beside him, I wrung my hands and lamented in Spanish, while the following subvocal conversation was going on:
Damage?
Soft tissue injuries, multiple, minor. Right ankle sprained. Right wrist sprained. Left shoulder sprained, separated, massive hematoma—
Here comes Nef.
Have you got—
Yes. What dosage?
Six point three.
Beside me Nef joined in the hysterics, seizing Joseph's face in her hands and neatly pressing the drug patch into place behind his ear.
Better. Thanks.
"Oh, Jesu, is he slain?" Sir Walter staggered up, looking ghastly pale. I could hear Nicholas shouting for someone to fetch a surgeon. Joseph turned his head and moaned feebly. Nef shrieked her joy that he was alive and began to pray. I cried out that it was a miracle, blessed be the Holy Virgin and Saint James, et cetera. Nicholas crouched down beside me.
"Sir, can you hear me? We have sent for a surgeon. All will be well."
"A surgeon?" Joseph's eyes flew open.
"He speaks!" Master Darrell bent close. "Master Doctor, it is God's mercy you yet live. We thought you smashed like an apple."
"No, God be thanked," Joseph murmured. "But let me have no surgeons—I pray you!"
"But sir, your hurts must be seen to," protested Nicholas.
"My daughter shall tend to me. Have I not taught her physick?" Joseph tried to sit up and gave a cry of real pain.
"Peace, Father, all shall be as you wish," I reassured him. Nicholas stared at me, and I gave him my most beseeching look. So he helped make a litter out of a tapestry and a pair of boar spears and carried Joseph up to our rooms.
Once Joseph was set down, Nef chased everyone else out of the room so we could get most of his clothes off him.
What a mess. He looked like a peach that hadn't been packed in excelsior before it was shipped, and was subsequently dropped and stepped on. Pulpy devastation. A veritable field of blossoming purple. Even as we watched, though, he was healing. Bruises roiled beneath his skin, spread, changed color, faded like clouds across the sky at sunset.
"Kind of pretty, isn't it?" Nef surveyed him.
"Shut up," he groaned.
"Oh, you're doing fine. The sprains are binding back up, aren't they? I think the swelling's even going down. That shoulder's going to give you trouble, though. I had one once like that and it took most of a week to heal."
"Is that all." Joseph writhed.
"We'll put a fake splint on the arm." Nef turned to me. "He can wear a sling to immobilize that side. If we were at HQ, they could go in and staple him up right now, but out here—gee. These things can be awfully tedious when they happen in the field." Her unicorn wandered in and tried to jump up on the bed.
"Keep that thing out of here!" railed Joseph. "And that goes double for their damned surgeon. Leeches biting me, that's all I need."
"Fuss, fuss, fuss."
"I'm in pain, dammit!"
"Not like you'd be if you were a mortal," Nef pointed out.
"If I were a mortal, I wouldn't be feeling anything because I'd be dead now," Joseph snapped.
"There art thou happy," Nef told him cheerily.
By the time we got the splint on him, the bruises had all but disappeared. I left him in bed watching a holo and went out to see if I could help clean up the wreckage downstairs. I found Nicholas waiting just outside the door.
"Shall he live?"
"Aye, Saint James be praised for a miracle."
He came close to me. "Yet thou hast no belief in Saint James, nor in miracles neither. If there had been no miracle and thy father had been killed, what then? Hast thou any family but him? Any friends?"
