Thelak gave up on the idea of approaching Borsen again and considered burgling his home, a townhouse on one of Erdahn’s most exclusive streets. He found it was presided over by a housekeeper with the fiercest eyes Thelak had ever seen and a staff of servants. The house was never vacant.
At this point, Thelak was desperate for the fare to get back to Surelia, where the pickings were easy. He was reduced to scrounging behind restaurants for food and only lucked into the watch he’d pawned this morning when he found its owner unconscious in the gutter after a night of carousing, his moneybag already removed by another passerby who had left behind the almost worthless watch as not worth the bother of carrying.
He’d give anything for a fraction of the price of one of Borsen’s pairs of earrings, the diamonds, the rich gold hoops, the blood sapphires or the grey stones that flashed with gold light. He’d settle for the cost of one of his shoes. Miserable nancy bastard.
Thelak lifted his empty glass and pretended to drink again, wondering how the hells he was going to get out of this mess, wishing Borsen dead like the mother who had turned him into a moral little ninny.
“Thelak Carvers?”
Thelak looked up in surprise. He didn’t give his surname to the folk he knew here in Erdahn. Plenty of Thrun named Thelak. For safety, he used his first name only.
There was a man as well dressed as Borsen standing there. Definitely Old Mordanian with slanted blue eyes, blond hair, wearing a light blue suit and a top hat that rivaled Borsen’s own. Not large at all, but strong. The voice was nancy, extremely so.
“Who wants him?” Thelak asked rudely.
“Borsen wishes to speak to you,” the man replied, staring at him intently.
“He sent you?”
“Indeed. I’ll take you to him.”
It all comes clear, Thelak thought, perusing the man. Older than Borsen, obviously richer than most gods, nancy as they came. Likely the one who set him up in that palace of a store. Wonder if he knows about the fellow from the bank?
“How do I know you know him?” Thelak challenged.
“You’ll know when we get there. He would like to give you some money to go away and not come back around,” the blond man lisped.
That sounded likely to Thelak. He put down the empty glass and rose, unkinking his legs with a grunt of pain. Too many years sleeping in the elements had told on his joints. He’d love to get back to Surelia where the sun kept things warm. Borsen could just damn well pay for the fare if he wanted him gone.
The nancy turned, sauntering out of the tavern without a backward glance. Thelak followed. They walked along in the general direction of Borsen’s townhouse. Thelak began to relax. He even smiled to himself. Trust priceless, weak Borsen to start thinking too much and decide it was worth it to give the old man some money.
They were passing a dark alley that ran down to the Harbor when someone reached out and flung a rock-hard arm around Thelak’s neck, dragging him back into the shadows. Thelak struggled, but found all his assailant had to do was to tighten his elbow and things went very dark as his breath was entirely cut off. He was up against someone near his size and in much better condition. He stopped fighting and let himself be hauled down near the water, seeing that the nancy who had led him here was walking along with them.
Thelak could hear the Harbor water lapping against the seawall where the alley ended. There was reflected light from the houses and businesses along the Harbor Road. He could see the blond nancy who had lured him here.
“Now then,” the man said, without a hint of a lisp, “before you go, I’d like you to know this is for leaving Thara Borgela to die and for starving and mistreating our boy. You’ll never do anything to harm him again.”
His arm swung in a vicious upward arc.
Thelak felt a burning in his belly, from pelvis to ribcage. Then a hot line grew from one side of his throat to another as a knifeblade was drawn from ear to ear. He was dimly aware of a foot thrust hard against the small of his back and of tumbling toward the black water.
Kaymar Shvalz and Ifor Trantz leaned companionably on the railing of the seawall, watching as the water where Thelak Carvers had disappeared began to roil with the frenzied feeding of fish and crabs.
“Won’t be enough of him left for anyone to recognize,” Ifor said casually.
“No-one would bother. Just another Thrun dumped in the Harbor,” Kaymar replied, his voice edged with disgust. “Effectively erased.”
“Should we let Little Man know?” Ifor asked. Kaymar shook his head.
“He’ll know without us telling him,” he answered. “I don’t want him troubled with this. Carvers gave him enough misery for a lifetime without Borsen having to know how we eliminated him.”
“Good enough,” Ifor assented. “What about some dinner, Kip?”
“Since I’m so beautifully dressed and stepped away from Mister Carvers at the right moment, you may treat me to Malvar’s, Bear,” Kaymar grinned.
The Shadows, Mordania
12
Under The Hammer
K
atrin waited anxiously while the specialist studied her scalp, using a magnifying glass. Franz was pacing at one side of the room. Menders exercised deliberate patience, leaning against his office window’s frame, looking out at the wintry orchard.
“You’ve allowed the hair that is coming in to grow naturally?” the doctor asked, lifting one of the three thin whisps hanging from Katrin’s scalp.
At first it had appeared that Katrin’s hair was going to grow back in not long after it had fallen out. A fine baby fuzz sprouted all over her head, but it rubbed off almost immediately.
Those whisps were all that had grown back in spite of multitudinous treatments – lotions, creams, massage, sunlight, warm compresses, cold compresses, herbal concoctions spread on the scalp, herbal concoctions swallowed, special diet.
“Yes, I haven’t done anything to it,” Katrin answered.
“How much weight have you gained since you were ill?”
“About thirty pounds.”
“You are still underweight,” the doctor observed. “You may put your wig on.”
Katrin did so, gratefully. She felt horribly vulnerable in front of this stranger without it. When she had it arranged, she sat back and looked at the specialist. To do him credit, he looked right back at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t tell you to hold out hope that it will grow back at this late date. In my experience, when hair loss caused by fever goes on for this long, it is permanent.”
Katrin felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Those dangling whisps of hair had given her hope that more would come back in time. Permanent? To be bald – ugly, unfeminine, freakish – forever?
She looked wildly at Franz. His eyes were closed, a hopeless, frustrated expression on his face. She wheeled toward Menders, who looked stricken.
“Isn’t there anything else I can try?” she asked, her voice small and pinched.
The specialist shook his head slowly. “I would be giving you false hope if I said there was,” he replied, kindly but bluntly. “You have been without hair growth for well over a year. There is no sign of the follicles becoming activated again. Your fever must have been very high for a very long time. I wish I could give you better news but not being truthful would be cruel. Everything that might have worked has been tried. Doctor Franz has searched out every possible remedy.”
The specialist looked as miserable as she felt, so she couldn’t hate him – but she hated being bald! She hated her mother and her demented sister for having done this to her!
Katrin ran away down the hall and up the stairs to her room. She locked the door behind her and shoved a chair under the knob of the door adjoining her room to Menders’. Then she went to the mirror and pulled the wig roughly from her head.
Ghastly. A naked bald head with feathery bits of fluffy hair, almost white, hanging from it. Something from a ghost story. This is what she would
look like without a wig for the rest of her life. What man would be able to bear that? It made people recoil. She knew it did. It made her recoil.
Scalding tears came. She flung herself on the bed, gave up trying to control herself and cried like a baby.
Menders climbed the stairs, his heart heavy. Katrin had looked so stricken. She’d tried so hard to be hopeful about her hair. He’d begun to dread just what the doctor had told her today but he’d been unable to speak with her about it. He couldn’t bring himself to add another blow to what she’d already endured.
“Katrin?” he said softly, tapping at her door. He could hear her crying so desperately that she was making herself retch. He leaned his head against the door, grinding his teeth.
“Katrin, please open the door,” he called gently when he heard her trying to draw in a breath. There was no answer, just more abject sobbing.
“What the hells is it?” Hemmett’s voice startled Menders terribly. He turned, short of breath. He’d been so intent on trying to get Katrin to open the door that he’d never heard Hemmett coming down the hallway.
“Gods,” Menders gasped, sagging back against the door.
“What is it?” Hemmett repeated, beginning to look angry.
“Hemmett, this isn’t a good time…”
“What the hells is it!” Hemmett shouted, a raw edge to his voice that let Menders know he was on the brink of rage.
“Hemmett, keep control of yourself,” Menders said briskly. “It’s bad enough that she’s this upset. She’s just been told there is no chance of her hair growing back.”
He wished he’d cut out his tongue. Hemmett said nothing. He turned from Menders and walked away down the corridor, until he came to his apartment. He opened the door and let himself in, the silence he left behind him broken only by Katrin’s heartrending sobs.
***
Eiren walked in the front door to find Franz pacing, waiting for her. He told her what the specialist had said, then put his hands on her shoulders.
“All three of them are in a state,” he said quietly. “Menders has been trying for two hours to get Katrin to open the door of her room. She’s hysterical, won’t answer and he won’t just break the door in. Hemmett’s completely broken down, so he must know. I can’t get through to any of them, though I’ve tried.”
Eiren patted Franz’s arm and started up the stairs. He followed her into the suite. Menders was leaning against Katrin’s door. Eiren could hear Katrin weeping.
“For the gods’ sakes, Katrin, please open the door,” Menders was pleading, his voice shaking with exhaustion.
“Darling, just pick the lock,” Eiren said gently, but firmly, putting her hand on his arm.
“I don’t want to force her to open the door or open it myself against her will,” he said wearily.
“Menders, when a woman is crying like that, she’s beyond any sort of reason,” Eiren answered. “She’s not even hearing you. Pick the lock.”
After a moment, he took his lockpick from his pocket and, worked the lock open.
“I’ll go in to Katrin,” Eiren said gently, looking up at him. “Hemmett is in a bad way, Franz says. Would you go see to him?”
“Katrin…” Menders began.
“Let me deal with her,” Eiren answered. “Right now, she needs a mother.”
Menders blinked in surprise. Franz stepped up and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s go see to the young man,” he suggested heartily, steering Menders away down the hall. Eiren let herself into Katrin’s room.
Katrin was collapsed on the bed, her wig flung on the floor, her face buried in the pillows.
Eiren went to her.
“My poor darling,” she whispered, climbing up next to Katrin, putting her arms around her. Katrin started and then buried her face in Eiren’s lap. Eiren stroked her bald head gently.
“Go ahead and cry,” she said softly. “Cry it all out. Then Hemmett needs you, because he’s gone to pieces.”
Eiren waited. As she expected, Katrin’s sobbing lessened almost immediately now she’d been distracted by the mention of Hemmett.
“I’m sorry,” Katrin sobbed. “I heard Menders out there but I couldn’t get up and open the door. I didn’t want him to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me.”
“It is a terrible loss,” Eiren answered, crying herself. “Menders can’t really understand and would have said all the wrong things, because he can’t ever know what a Mordanian woman’s hair means to her.”
“I know everyone still loves me, hair or not, but I want my hair back!” Katrin said gruffly. “I don’t want to be bald!”
“Of course you don’t. You don’t have to be brave and cheerful in front of me, darling,” Eiren answered, her voice gentle.
Katrin wept again, but this time the tears were healing and didn’t last long. She sat up and let Eiren wipe her eyes.
“Would you help me clip off these straggling bits of hair?” Katrin asked. “I’d rather be completely bald than go through life looking like a plucked duck.”
“I will, but let’s do it later,” Eiren decided. “We need your help. Could you come and see Hemmett? I think seeing you collected and ready to go on with things will help him immensely.”
Katrin sat up on the edge of the bed.
“Yes,” she replied, retrieving the wig, going to the dressing table and giving it a brush before putting it on. Eiren observed that she avoided looking in the mirror until she had the wig in place, then left the hair loose, as she’d often worn it as a child. She went to the washstand and bathed her eyes, gave her nose a determined blow and nodded.
Franz and Menders were standing outside Hemmett’s apartment, accompanied by Zelia, who looked stricken, and Lucen, frustration showing on his usually placid face.
“Why are you just standing there?” Katrin asked, making them turn. Then she heard Hemmett.
Even as a little boy, she couldn’t remember hearing or seeing him cry outright. He might sniffle a bit or have tears in his eyes, but sobbing aloud where other people could hear him? Never.
He was doing that now.
Katrin shook her head, took the lockpick from Menders’ pocket and opened the door.
“Katrin, it might not be a good idea,” Franz said quickly. “I don’t know how stable…”
“Nonsense. This is between Hemmett and me,” Katrin said briskly, her face still ravaged by her own storm of emotion. She stepped into the room and closed the door in their faces.
Menders, Franz and Eiren exchanged a glance. Lucen and Zelia looked dumbfounded.
“Now my dear, what’s all this about?” they heard Katrin saying tenderly.
Hemmett’s sobbing went muffled. Katrin spoke in a low tone that made words indecipherable. After a while, Hemmett was still.
“I think we should leave them alone,” Eiren prompted, turning Menders and Franz away. “They can help each other best. They’ve always worked things out between them.” She ushered them away.
***
Hemmett stirred the batch of spiced tea he’d brewed up on the small spirit stove Katrin had given him for his Military Academy rooms when he became an upperclassman. Then he simultaneously poured from the tea pot and a carafe of warmed milk, filling two large teacups with the fragrant liquid.
“Here you are, my dear,” he smiled, handing one to Katrin, who was snugged up in his armchair. “You’re right, we could both use a hot drink.” He leaned against his bureau, holding his own cup.
He looked devastated, as Katrin knew she did. Her eyes were aching and Hemmett’s were red. Neither of them were ones for crying. When they did, they ended up with stuffed up noses and headaches.
“You know, Willow – I know people are going to say it’s only hair, but I know something about how you feel when you lose a part of your body,” Hemmett said almost brusquely. He tapped his right foot emphatically, reminding her of the broken toe that had been amputated during his first year at the Military Academy.
“You didn’t seem to mind much,” Katrin said in surprise. “You joked about it.”
“Bravado. It rattled me and sometimes still does. I almost forget about it, then look down when I’m barefoot. This nasty shock runs down my spine when I see the gap in my toes. It feels like someone tapped my backbone with a hammer.”
“That’s what all this has been like. One damned hammer blow after another,” Katrin sighed.
“We’ve had it easy,” Hemmett replied after taking a draught that nearly drained his cup. “I do say, I think that’s the perfect brew and I’m unchallenged as the master Samorsan tea maker.”
“Oh yes, pat your own back,” Katrin teased. “What do you mean, we’ve had it easy?”
“Willow, you know we had loving and protected childhoods here. So now when things have become so difficult, it’s as if we’re taking one blow after another. While you were sick, Borsen left me in awe. Here he is, this tiny little man – he was a tower of strength. Nothing shook or rattled him. He dealt with me going off my head, Menders being scary, you at death’s door. He, Eiren and Varnia held things together for quite a while, along with Doctor Franz.
“Well, I’ve thought about it. All of them were under the hammer when they were children. Eiren’s childhood was damned gritty before we came to The Shadows. None of the estate farms were prosperous and then her mother nearly bled to death during that childbirth with only Eiren home with her, all of thirteen years old. Varnia doesn’t talk but we can guess what her life was like and then she lost the little brother she loved so much. Borsen – hells, his father and stepmother abused and starved him. He should be seven feet tall, like his old man, but he’s been stunted from starvation. Imagine being that hungry for so long – to say nothing of bullying and beatings and losing his mother so young.”
Love and Sacrifice: Book Two of the Prophecy Series Page 47
