He moved quietly, careful not to make any noise that would disturb those still sleeping at Senna MaGlen’s household, as he slipped down the area steps and through the scullery door. He was later than usual and would have to hurry to be out of the way by the time the housekeeper and her staff started their day.
A few more stairs down, and he was in the boiler room where his landlady provided one of the greatest luxuries Michael had ever known: a bathtub.
A richly-appointed bathing room adjoined his suite at the Red Boar, but it wasn’t the same. He could wash there for hours and never feel clean. It cost him a bit more every moon to pay for the nightly use he made of it, but Michael never begrudged Senna MaGlen the money. Without this bathtub, he believed he might have gone mad. It allowed him to become himself again, literally and figuratively washing away the whore he became in order to endure his long hours of nightmarish slavery.
He pulled off his clothes and let them fall to the floor though he frowned at the thin spots wearing at the elbows of his elegant white shirt. He kept a spare white shirt and pair of knickers for when he had to wash his everyday clothes—he had rather more clothes than most people, including an older, very worn pair of trousers he used for chalk-drawing days along with his old, much more ordinary boots—but now his “best” shirt would need mending or replacing.
More expenses. He despaired of ever saving enough money, and he sighed as he turned the lever on the boiler, releasing a cascade of hot water and great clouds of steam.
The tub was small but deep, and he let it fill up more than half-way before he turned off the flow of hot water and began pumping the cold water to balance the temperature. He climbed in when he’d cooled it just enough to not be dangerously hot and let himself sink beneath the surface.
I could stay here, he thought idly and not for the first time. Never come up for air. Stay under forever. No more expenses. No more whoring. No more anything...
But he no longer believed that was a path he wanted to take. The answer to “If you want to survive...” had once more become, “Yes.” He wanted to escape this life, but he did not want to die. Lorel Burk had taught him that.
He sat up in the tub and took a deep breath. I learned so much that night. And what he’d been most certain of ever since was that he wanted more than anything to leave Fensgate and every last memory of it far, far behind him. Even his memories of Pol.
Lucky Pol, living the life we were all promised by JhaPel—an honorable apprenticeship in an honorable trade with an honorable future spread out before him. Not to mention a wealthy and powerful uncle with no other heirs.
He shook his head, dismissing the time-wasting thoughts, picked up the bar of strong soap Senna MaGlen provided and started scrubbing at himself. In this way, each morning, he washed away the feelings, the memories, and the faces of the men who never saw anything but a whore when they looked at him.
He hated them all, every one of them, no matter how gentle or kind or generous they thought they’d been. He hated every man who’d looked at him without seeing him. Every man who’d chosen him to play out his little fantasies. Every man who’d ever undressed him or watched impatiently as he’d undressed for them.
He finished soaping and scrubbing at his hair and ducked under the water again, staying under again to try to douse the raging flame of his hatred. It burned so strongly that he thought of it as a thing rather than an emotion; a thing separate from himself but belonging to him; a second self that did nothing but loathe his life.
Climbing from the tub after another rinsing, he paused to pull the plug from the drain, then dripped his way over to the boiler’s fire to dry, wrapping a large, thin towel around himself as he went. He sat down, relaxing at last in the details of this pleasant routine, and his mind slipped away from its worries.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when Ma Fitz roused him from his light doze.
“Sorry.” He stifled a yawn.
“Poor dear.” She smiled as she gave his shoulder a pat. “Best be off to bed, now.” She handed him his robe and went back to her own work.
He stood up, back to her, and exchanged robe for towel which he used to blot at his still-wet hair. He then trotted over to his hook and draped the towel on it to dry for the next use. He pulled his boots on rather than having to carry them and picked up his clothes, draping each garment over his arm as he remembered a little late that they looked slightly better if they didn’t spend too much time crumpled up in piles on the floor, then caught his pack as he hurried back to the servants’ staircase and the five flights up to his tiny room.
Cyra, having returned from whatever hunting expeditions she’d gone on during his absence, sat in the center of Michael’s cot and blinked her eyes in welcome as he stepped over the high threshold, pulled the door closed behind him, and automatically ducked under one of the three low-hanging supporting arches that made his small room even tinier.
Michael hung his clothes on their hooks and, ducking again, plopped himself down on the miniscule hearth he considered himself lucky to have. He’d learned how to bank his fire from Ma Fitz and now uncovered the still-glowing coals and added a very few more bits of fuel from his carefully-hoarded supply.
Stretching her way over to the hearth, Cyra climbed up beside Michael and began kneading at his thigh with her front paws, her eyes half-closed and her whole body rumbling with her purrs.
This, then, was home. These moments of quiet, pleasant warmth and companionship were what he tried to preserve and encourage himself with during the rest of his life. In this room, he was no longer Michael, kiska and heretic and whore, damned for all time and worth nothing but an hour’s pleasure to anyone. He became just Michael, Cyra’s friend and Senna MaGlen’s good tenant.
He rummaged in his pack and pulled out a bit of butcher’s paper. He unwrapped it and fed a few scraps to Cyra as he ate the rest of the meat roll that had been his supper. He rarely ate that meal in one sitting for he had little appetite during his working hours.
He reached into his pack again—his face twisting as his fingers passed over the paraphernalia of his hated trade—and found Jack’s gift, the slim book that held all his hopes between its worn leather covers.
Michael had all but memorized its contents, and in its margins he’d written copious notes—answers to questions he’d had regarding his particular situation which had not been addressed by the esteemed Magister Pinhearn. Mirthia existed in his dreams as a promised land where not only was prostitution completely illegal and no one branded a heretic, but magic wasn’t even considered evil! Just...odd.
He leaned back against the wall beside the fireplace and closed his eyes, imagining his life in Mirthia. “We’ll just pretend like none of this ever happened.” He said this as if to remind Cyra of their plans. “And I’ll find work as a clerk or something. I can read and write, and it’s almost the same language there as here. It won’t be that hard to learn. I can do chalk paintings in the park on pretty days when I’m not working—just like here—and then one day, someone will discover me, and then I can get commissions. Do portraits. Buy art supplies and books and...” He let the dream trail away into silence, but his thoughts continued.
And no one will ever touch me again.
He remembered the innocent, childish kisses he’d shared with Nella at JhaPel before either of them had any idea what kissing meant. He and Jiin had kissed, too, a few times. Michael suspected now that the older boy had understood more clearly where kissing could lead than he had. Still, Michael had enjoyed it. It’s different when you like the person and want them to touch you.
Michael didn’t think he’d ever feel that way again about anyone.
Michael sat up and refocused on his plan. “We’re doing really well,” he said to Cyra as he rubbed her ears. “And I’ve seen George’s ship – just from the docks, but still. The harbor watchman I told you about showed me. George says it’s there every two moons, just like clockwork.” It would be lovely, he thought
, to be ready to leave by the next time George’s ship was in port and miss the freezing-cold winter altogether. Mirthia was supposed to be warmer all year round.
That wasn’t likely, however, and he didn’t waste time on the dream. “We’ll be ready soon,” he continued. “We’ll have to try and time everything just right. I think we might even be in Mirthia by next spring.” Or he hoped they might. He prayed they might.
An enormous yawn woke him from another short nap, and he shed his robe and pulled a long night shirt—salvaged from a grown man’s cast-offs—on over his head. He worked a handful of the fancy tonic Risa had given him through his long, black hair before braiding it back. Then he slipped his book back into his pack and rolled the few inches from the hearth to his cot. He pulled his collection of thin, ragged, second-hand blankets up over his head and finally succumbed to sleep.
# # #
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Another impromptu trimble game had broken out during the dying light of the evening, and Michael’s team seemed to him to be trying to lose. He’d finally found an opening to score and had thrown the ball back to point base as the runner dove for it when they all heard the scream.
Though he wasn’t far from the Red Boar, it was still unnervingly loud—the desperation arrowing across the distance to strike him in the throat.
Shize, it’s Irini!
He’d reached the main staircase before he realized he’d even moved toward that horrifying sound.
Shouts followed him. “Go! Move!” He threw himself against the railing to get out of the way, and Daren stormed up and past him, crashing into the wall as he hit the top. He bounced back and caught his stride and vanished around the corner. He’d run by Michael so fast, his hair ruffled in the man’s wake.
I shouldn’t follow. It’s going to be bad, Michael thought, but his feet weren’t paying attention to his brain. The noise reached him first, intermingling with Irini’s ever-more-ragged cries.
Risa stood to one side of the door, her eyes wide. She was holding Nella back and a larger crowd had already gathered. Michael reached the door and peered in. Irini lay against the foot of the bed, her head lolled back. Blood soaked the shredded front of her gown. Michael felt her pain, though, so she couldn’t be dead.
Daren had the man pinned to the ground, his arms twisted so far behind his back, they seemed about to snap off at the shoulders. The stream of swearing poured from the man as if he were a fountain of hate. Two more of Daren’s enforcers pushed past Risa and Michael and came into the room to take charge of the prisoner.
He was not a familiar face, but he must have been wealthy. That wouldn’t help him now, though. What he’d just done to Irini was going to ruin him if Harly had anything to say about it. And he did.
“Risa. Michael,” Daren said as his enforcers cleared the room with the man in tow. “Come in here, please, and close the door. Nella. Clear everyone away. Ain’t doing no good standing around.”
Michael and Risa exchanged confused glances but obeyed the strong-arm’s request. Nella’s bleating protest cut off as the door closed, but then her voice turned to following Daren’s order and the low murmur of the other gawkers’ voices faded quickly away.
Irini whimpered, her hands weakly grasping at the air. Michael wanted to scream, too, at the sight and sense of her. She’d been accepted at the Red Boar and therefore saved from the streets by her extraordinary beauty and basic kindness, though her manners and speech were as lowborn as it was possible to be.
“What do you want us to do, Daren?” Risa asked, her voice rasping with her own, unvoiced screams.
Daren whispered the question. “Michael. Is it true that you healed Abbess Ethene?”
Michael’s body threw him back an involuntary step as his jaw dropped in shock. “What?” he gasped.
“She’s going to die. No one can save her from what that monster did. Unless what they all say about you is true.”
“She was killed,” Michael whispered. “They killed her rather than let her live a life born of magic. Mabbina—“
Risa was staring from Daren to Michael in open-mouthed astonishment. Irini’s eyes fluttered, but she seemed somehow to be following what was going on.
“But you did do it—?” Daren began.
Michael’s voice ground out through gritted teeth. “And I was damned for it. And so was she—damned to death because of me! You want to do that to Irini?”
“Damned...already,” the woman somehow managed to say. “Whore.”
Risa’s head was shaking as if in denial of everything that was happening. “We’re all damned, Michael. Just not all of us have the brand like you do.”
“They’ll burn me,” he breathed.
“No one will know,” Daren promised.
“But everyone saw her!”
Risa’s eyes still reflected her panic, but her brain was working just as fast. “Can you just...is there some way to...just kind of heal her? Leave marks? Make it look like maybe she wasn’t as bad hurt as it seemed?”
They know. Oh, Vail, they all know. They knew even when Lorel Burk—
“Irini?” Michael looked into the woman’s anguished eyes. “What do you want me to do?”
Her mouth worked for a painful few moments before she managed to form the words. “Please...help.”
Michael’s hands shot up into his hair, his fingers twisting into it as if the pain of the pulling strands could counteract the blind panic that filled him at the prospect of taking this step. Oh, Vail...oh, Vail. How could you do this to me?
.:You have the power to help her, and she’s asked you to do it,:. the Voice whispered through his mind. .:If you don’t help, you may as well have killed her yourself.:.
.:Shut up, you bastard,:. Michael thought back at the Voice. But the nikking thing was right. He couldn’t let Irini die.
“Stand back,” he said as he knelt beside the woman. “I don’t have any idea what happens around me when I do this.”
He took her face in his hands, letting his fingers spread out to stretch from temple to chin, and closed his eyes.
.:Risa’s right,:. the Voice said. .:Don’t finish it.:.
It was hard not to finish it. It was difficult to know where to start and where to stop. The shallower the cut, the less dangerous it is, he thought. This was obvious, of course, but thinking it helped him focus on the damage deeper inside Irini’s body while leaving the obvious outward damage intact.
He pulled his hands away with effort, still feeling her pain and wanting to take it away, but as his hands dropped from her face, he was certain he’d done it right.
“Most Holy Vail,” Daren swore.
At the same moment, Risa said, “Shize.”
“Dunno ‘ow anyone could say that were evil.” Irini pulled herself up onto the edge of the bed. Her face spasmed as her remaining injuries protested the movement, but she waved away Daren’s concern. “I’ll do.”
“Risa, go fetch the healing kit,” Daren said.
She hovered between Irini and the door. “Do we need a Healer?”
“Just bandage me up,” Irini said. “If’n I need stitching, I’ll go to ‘ospital meself. Less fuss than havin’ ‘em come here.”
Risa nodded and hurried off on her mission, closing the door silently behind her.
“Yer a nikkin’ miracle yerself, Michael,” Irini said softly. “That Mabbina’s the evil one.”
“Don’t say that.” Michael shook his head. “She’s abbess now.”
“After what she did to you, I’d think you’d be less impressed by titles,” Daren commented. Risa came back in, the basket of bandages and salves clutched in a white-knuckled hand.
“None of us speaks of this,” Daren ordered once the door was safely closed again. “The wounds weren’t as bad as they seemed, understand?”
“I promise,” Risa breathed. “Not a word. I’d rather die myself than have anything happen to Michael.”
Irini nodded, too, and her eyes found Michael’
s face. “I ain’t gonna forget what you done fer me, Michael. I’ll be sayin’ my prayers fer ye every night.”
Surely, this was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to him, but Irini meant it, and Michael was profoundly touched. “Thank you,” he rasped. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
Daren’s hand was at his back, guiding him gently toward the door. “I’ll see you home, lad,” the man said. “You look about to fall over.” All Michael could sense from the man was an overwhelming, almost fearful admiration.
Holy Vail, if you ever cared about me, please don’t let this have been a mistake.
Mistake or not, it turned out to be only the beginning. Daren seemed to have been waiting for some moment like this to force Michael into the open, and now that he’d managed it, Daren had work for him to do.
Less than two moons later, Michael was already sick of the man’s expectations and interruptions, and when someone pounded on his suite’s door, he yanked it open and glared out, knowing he’d be looking up into Daren’s impassive façade once more.
The man’s eyes flickered over Michael’s state of undress, taking in the cascade of unbound, raven-black hair, the whisper-thin silk robe he was clutching to himself, and the boots which comprised his entire wardrobe at that moment, but nothing showed in the strong-arm’s eyes to tell Michael what he might be thinking of this.
“What now?” the boy growled. “What could possibly be so urgent?”
His patron’s moan overrode Daren’s reply. “Vail have mercy! You must come back here this moment, darling!” Michael, who knew he should have been immune to embarrassment by this point in his career, nevertheless blushed.
Unperturbed, Daren said, “Pol asked for you. There’s a fire at the Midnight Star. Horses are trapped in the stable and won’t come out. He said you could help.”
Michael’s angry expression shifted to one of shock. “He said I could help?” he echoed. He shook his head, denying the very idea. “How?”
SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows) Page 25
