by Adam Dreece
Alman smiled with tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how to repay you all,” he said, and then he ran upstairs.
“I’ll see if there’s anything left for us to help with,” said Tee, following. A couple of minutes later, she came back down. “We should head home. Grandpapa said he’ll let us know when we can visit her. ”
Pierre came down the stairs behind her. “I’m heading out, too. I’ll make sure you get back to Minette safely,” he said. “You three made me proud. And, Richy, you have a keen eye and a trustworthy gut. That’s two lives you’ve saved, now.”
Richy smiled awkwardly.
Pierre gave each of the Yellow Hoods a rub on the head, and then headed out the door. “Come on! Nothing we can do in here except get in the way.”
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” asked Richy to Anna. She was heading for the stairs with a hot kettle.
“She will be fine,” said Anna, with fake empathy. She looked at Tee. “Nikolas learned a lot about medicine from your other grandfather. The girl is in good hands.”
Tee was surprised. “I didn’t know Granddad knew medicine?”
“Sam Baker may be a small man, but he is very knowledgeable. Now, off you go,” said Anna, ushering them out.
After the Yellow Hoods were on their way, Anna went upstairs. “Here’s the hot water you needed,” she said, handing the kettle carefully to Nikolas. “I’ll be on my way. I wasn’t planning on staying the entire day.”
“Understood,” said Nikolas. “Thank you for your assistance.”
Alman leapt off the bed where Mounira lay wrapped in fresh blankets. “Yes, thank you,” he said, shaking Anna’s hand, surprised at the strength and firmness of her grip.
Anna looked at the girl. “Your daughter looks like a fighter. She’ll make it,” said Anna flatly. “Good luck.” With that, she left.
Once the sheep bladders were refilled and placed between layers of blankets, Alman made himself comfortable beside his daughter. There was just enough room for two.
Nikolas thought back to how many scares he and Isabella had had with one or another of their children, of how many times they had lain with one of them, waiting and hoping for them to get better. Sometimes, Isabella would bring him paper, a quill, and ink—so he could sketch ideas while he lay there—but not once did he use them. He understood what Alman was going through. “I’ll be downstairs,” Nikolas said, and then left the room.
Alman kissed his daughter on the head, and fell asleep.
Hours later, Mounira awoke, confused and groggy. “Where am I?” she asked, waking her father. “Why can’t I move?”
Alman smiled and stretched. “It’s okay, Mouni. You’re safe. You were very cold. Anciano de Montagne and the Yellow Hoods found you. Anciano Klaus bundled you up and made sure your soul could warm up properly,” he said, stroking her cheek.
“Baba, I feel so hot,” she said, yawning and looking around. “Can you take some blankets off?”
“Let me go and ask Anciano Klaus, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Mounira lazily looked around the simple bedroom. Oil lamps in the corners gave the room a warm glow. Sunlight peeked through the closed curtains, telling Mounira it might be late morning.
Alman returned with a smile. “He says it’s okay to unwrap you. We should also change the bandages on your feet, anyway,” he said, helping her out of the blankets.
“My feet are fine,” replied Mounira.
Alman’s face paled, and inside the terrible weight he carried got heavier. “Mouni, I must tell you… you burned your feet.”
Mounira shook her head. “No, they’re fine. They feel fine. Maybe they caught a little fire,” she said, annoyed. “You don’t trust me. Look, I’ll show you.” She unwrapped her bandaged feet, and only then realized how bad they looked.
Confused again, she looked to her father. The feisty girl who was just telling her father off now needed him. “But… but they don’t hurt, Baba. Why don’t they hurt?”
He cuddled her and rocked her gently. “You’ll be okay. You are tough inside, and you will be fine. Your feet need time to heal, that’s all. Okay?” he said, kissing the top of her head and smoothing her short hair.
Nikolas walked in with fresh bandages and placed them on the bed. “Let’s have a look at your feet, yes?” He bent down to examine them. “Can you feel this?” Nikolas touched the bottom of her foot.
“Yes,” said Mounira.
“Alright,” said Nikolas. He then pulled out a butter knife and poked her right foot a bit sharply. Mounira had no reaction.
“Nothing?” said Nikolas.
“I felt a pushing, but that’s all,” she replied.
“Interesting. You feel soft things only, yes?” asked Nikolas.
Mounira had to think about it. “I think so,” she said, uncertain. “I just don’t really think about how things feel, except for maybe my stump, because sometimes I can’t block it out.”
“I understand,” said Nikolas, standing and giving her a compassionate smile. “Well, we will put more cream on, and bandage your feet up, and you will rest. Maybe in a day or two you can meet my granddaughter, her friends, and the mountain man Pierre who found you. Would you like this?”
Mounira nodded, and yawned again.
“Anciano Klaus, if I may have a word?” asked Alman, getting up. “Mouni—”
His daughter smiled. “I’ll be fine, Baba. I’m tired anyway. You go have your chat. I’ll be fine.” She felt good about this place, and these people. As Alman and Nikolas left the room, Mounira closed her eyes. She recalled bits of conversation between the Yellow Hoods and Pierre. She remembered being lifted up and bundled warmly. She slowly recalled, in reverse, events that had brought her here.
Downstairs, Nikolas refilled the kettle and placed it on the kitchen stove. He set out some warm cookies on a plate, and gestured for Alman to have a seat.
“When did you make these?” asked Alman.
Nikolas chuckled, thinking of how many times he’d been asked that question over the years, particularly by Tee. “Magic elves made them for Solstice,” he joked.
Alman chuckled. “That might work on your granddaughter, but I’m a bit wiser,” said Alman.
“Oh, no. My Tee saw through answers like that at a remarkable age. Your daughter strikes me as the same—smart, and quick, yes?” Nikolas recognized the confusion on Alman’s face. “Sorry, is my speaking… awkward? Sometimes this still happens to me. Here we are, two men speaking in languages they do not think in, yes?”
Alman nodded and took a bite from a cookie. “This is good. Thank the elves.”
Nikolas appreciated the compliment. “All joking aside, I haven’t slept yet. While you were lying down, I scribbled down ideas about some things, and then I needed a distraction—so, I made the cookies,” said Nikolas.
“Ah,” replied Alman. He briefly paused. “Anciano Klaus, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and generosity, yet—I need to ask you something more.” His face became serious. “May I impose a great burden upon you? There is no one else I have met… with whom I felt I could ask such a thing.”
Nikolas leaned forward to study the man and contemplate what had been asked. Black rings under Alman’s eyes and slightly sunken cheeks suggested that Alman had neither slept well nor eaten well in weeks, if not months. Nikolas could see the heavy burden in the man’s eyes, and he’d noticed earlier that his voice carried guilt with each mention of Mounira.
“My friend,” Nikolas replied, “if I can shoulder this burden for you, allow me to do so.”
Alman’s eyes welled up. “Can you… take care of my Mouni—my Mounira, while I go back to see what has happened to the rest of our family?”
“Of course—I understand. I can, yes,” Nikolas replied, thinking back to the harsh reality of his own adolescence, and the family he’d lost.
Alman then recounted to Nikolas the fateful day he’d grabbed Mounira and departed Catalina, and how he’d kept bringing them
further and further north, without any real plan.
Nikolas sighed heavily, taking it all in. He resettled himself in his seat. “That is horrible. No one should have to go through that,” he said. “I hate to ask… but I noticed you did not mention what happened to her arm. Might I hear about that?”
Tears flooded out of Alman, and the man sobbed for several minutes. Uncertain what to do, Nikolas imagined what advice Isabella might have given him. Nikolas could read people, but he wasn’t the best at figuring out how to help them cope emotionally. He tried patting Alman’s hand, but the gesture felt foreign, so instead he went to fetch a set of handkerchiefs, and then made some tea.
Alman took a few deep breaths to regain his composure. “She was shot in the arm as we fled. I bandaged it… but it had become infected as we traveled. Mouni had a fever; her skin felt like it was on fire. She couldn’t stay awake any longer than just to drink some broth. I didn’t know what to do, other than try to keep her cool and give her water and broth.”
After blowing his nose, wiping his eyes, and drinking some tea, Alman continued the story. “One day, an old soldier stopped the horse and cart we were riding in. He asked questions, and realized something wasn’t right. He insisted on seeing Mounira. When I showed him, he made the driver take us into the nearby town. I thought he was going to put us in jail, or have us shot.
“Once in town, the soldier ran into a tavern, cleared it out, and told us to get Mounira inside. It was then that he looked at me and told me the only way to save her was to remove the arm.”
Nikolas stroked his short beard. “I can’t imagine,” he said sympathetically.
Alman’s lip trembled. His hands shook. He stared at the ground, silently, and then continued. “I didn’t want to. I… I almost wanted her to die so that I wouldn’t have to make the decision, but the old soldier wouldn’t let us leave. He had his pistol pointed at me. He kept saying, ‘If you don’t do this, you will regret it the rest of your life. I’ve seen grown men in her condition, and they don’t last much longer. Remove the arm, or you’ll lose her. Remove it.’
“The old soldier said he would have done it, if his hands didn’t shake so much, but I’m not sure I believed him. So… I did it. It was horrible. Mouni’s fever was so high that she didn’t know what I was doing, but she screamed. The old soldier and the driver had to hold her down… I—”
“Enough,” said Nikolas, slapping the table and startling Alman. “I understand better now. You must understand your decision was the only one. You chose correctly. You need to accept that, yes? She lives—because of you.”
Nikolas took a sip of tea, settled himself down, and continued. “She’s a strong little girl. She has survival genius, from what Pierre said.” Nikolas tapped the side of his head with a finger. “I can’t imagine what she’ll be like in ten years. All of that would have been lost, if it wasn’t for you. Do not carry this guilt any longer.”
“I believe the spirit of my mother guided me,” said Mounira, standing at the bottom of the stairs, a short distance away.
Her father turned to look at her. “Mouni? What are you doing there?” He looked at her feet in shock and horror. “You shouldn’t be on your feet! You need to rest!”
Mounira shook her head and walked forward, slowly. “I cannot rest. My mind is filled with rage toward those Red Hoods. I want to find them and make them pay. I want them to never hurt anyone again!” said Mounira with fire in her eyes.
Nikolas motioned to Mounira to come over. “I promise you that we will stop those Red Hoods. But the best thing you can do against them right now is to heal, and show that you overcame their evil, yes?”
Mounira thought about what Nikolas said, and the soft way he said it. She nodded her agreement, and then turned to her father. “You did the right thing, Baba. Listen to Anciano Klaus. I am good, see?” she said, holding up her one arm and wiggling her fingers. “I’m tough. I’m your ladrillita, remember?”
Nikolas chuckled. “The little brick.”
“Right,” said Mounira, and then did a double take. “Wait—you speak our language?”
“A little,” replied Nikolas. “Enough, as Isabella would say, to get myself into trouble.”
Mounira looked into her father’s eyes. “Go. Find our family. Then, come back here and get me. I will be okay with these good people. You must go, Baba.”
Alman hugged his daughter and rocked her back and forth.
“Baba, I love you. We need to know what happened to our family. I’d started to believe you never wanted to know what happened to Pedro, Farouk, and everyone else.”
Her father pulled back, and stroked his daughter’s face. “Mouni, I want to know—more than anything,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. He had a spark in his voice that Nikolas hadn’t heard before.
Mounira smiled lovingly at her dad. “Go. I will be fine. These are good people. If anything, you should feel sorry for them, having to deal with me!”
Her father laughed and gave her another big hug. “Oh, I do.”
Alman stood and offered his hand to Nikolas. “Thank you. I know you will treat her as you would your own granddaughter.”
“You’re going now?” said Nikolas, surprised at the abruptness.
“The sooner I leave, the sooner I return, yes?”
Nikolas stood and shook Alman’s hand. “Yes, yes, of course. Let me give you some supplies. You have a long road to go, yes? Mounira is now my family.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Family, a Fare
Marcus splashed water on his face. He smiled—things were going well. Forty years of planning and careful execution were paying off. He’d achieved what he’d only dreamed of back when he took over the remaining pieces of the Fare, long ago.
The Fare had been broken and scattered at the hands of the Tub, though they hadn’t made it seem that way. When Marcus had taken over, he’d found the peace agreement riddled with holes, and he took full advantage. Bit by bit, he rebuilt the Fare, his way, replacing its dark ideas with his vision of a truly greater good.
The primary differences between the Fare that Marcus had built, and the Tub, were that he understood human nature, and he was willing to do whatever was necessary to bring about his vision. The Tub, on the other hand, seemed to be happy to let society rot.
Only now were the Fare truly violating any part of the agreement—yet, now, the Tub was no longer in much of a position to enforce the agreement and oppose the Fare.
Marcus reached for a towel and slowly dried his face. He’d removed any unnecessary servants from his presence long ago, after several assassination attempts and uncovering many spies.
The stubbly face in the mirror, with its full head of white hair, had the wrinkles of wisdom befitting a man of his advanced age. Yet, youthful purpose and energy remained. Only his left eye showed any signs of the battles, its dull gray standing in contrast to the other’s deep brown.
He put the towel in the discard basket and stepped into his dressing area. He moved carefully to a velvet-covered shelf with soft cushions. Each cushion held a technological marvel.
“What will Nikolas think of this, when he sees it?” he said to himself, picking up one of the monocular goggles. Its strap was the finest leather, and the lens and mechanism around it—pure genius.
“Three years of work and, I’d dare say, I’ve caught up to my dear Abe. I’d forgotten the enjoyment of creating a thing of substance.”
Abeland was Marcus’ elder son, and though he’d been off leading the Fare’s efforts in the southern kingdoms, he never seemed too far away. Abeland was good at keeping in touch; he’d send regular letters, and find ways to visit when he could. Abe’s energy and focus had eliminated any possibility of his having a family, a sacrifice that weighed on Marcus’ mind. Marcus’ wife had said Abe was a sharper, more driven version of his father. Marcus wondered what she would have thought of Richelle, their granddaughter.
Marcus got dressed in a beige cotton shirt with
a high collar, a brown vest, and flat-front pants. “I’m finally getting used to looking like this,” he said to himself.
He looked around for his collection of special metals, which he kept in small bottles. “Now, where is that strip of magnesium?” He wasn’t used to being in this mansion, but it had been necessary to move here, in order to be at the center of what they had going on across kingdoms.
After looking through the shelves and four dressers in the dressing area between his bathroom and master bedroom, he finally found his collection in a bottom drawer.
“Ah, here we go,” he said, pulling out a particular vial. It was too thin to fit a pinky finger, but was about as long as one. He picked up the monocular goggle and went to his desk in the open office area, which adjoined the bedroom. He placed both items down carefully, and then pulled out a small toolbox from a side drawer. Using two pairs of tweezers from his toolbox, he positioned his good eye over the working area, carefully broke off a piece of the metal, and then slotted it into a tiny chamber in the monocular goggle. He then took a small glass bottle of vinegar from another drawer and placed a couple of drops on the metal, and then sealed the chamber.
He felt it heat up slightly, and then he flicked a tiny switch on the outside of the eyepiece until the once dull-gray glass rim started to emit a golden glow.
“Now, let’s see if the improvements work.” He strapped the device over his damaged eye. After adjusting the lens, the world had real depth again. He looked out the window, at one of the prison towers. “Wonderful! So clear this time—just like having spectacles on.”
With a flick of a finger, an additional lens fell into place in front of the eyepiece. Closing his good eye, his left could now see everything magnified several times. “Excellent. I see you, DeBoeuf, by the window of your tower. Don’t worry—we’ll have a chat soon. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ve been busy.”
He flipped the extra lens back up, opened the sliding doors to his planning room, and entered. The high, white walls were covered in maps and lists. An enormous table was centered in the twenty-by-twenty, dark-hardwood-floored room. Miniature horses, cannons, and soldiers stood positioned strategically on the table’s surface. Nearby, a side table was set up with a checkered board and some wooden gaming pieces, some of which had been knocked over.
