Codex Alera 01 - Furies of Calderon

by Jim Butcher

  Amara cleared her throat and said, “You are the Steadholder, sir?”

  Bernard nodded.

  “Then you should not be doing this, sir. Washing my feet, I mean.”

  Bernard snorted. “We don’t hold much with that city nonsense out here, girl.”

  “I see, sir. As you wish, of course. But may I ask you another question?”

  “If you like.”

  “The boy, Tavi. He told me that you were attacked by a Marat warrior and one of their war birds. Is that true?”

  Bernard grunted, his expression darkening. He tapped the spigot again rather sharply, and the water cut off with an apologetic little hiccup. “Tavi likes to tell stories.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “But did it happen?”

  He placed the tub on the stool he’d sat upon a moment before and took her foot and part of her calf in hand. For a moment, Amara was acutely conscious of the sensation of his skin upon hers, the way the cloak and her skirts had fallen to reveal her leg nearly to the knee. She felt her face heat, but if the Steadholder took note of it, he gave no sign. He slipped her injured foot into the water, then motioned for her to put the other there as well. Her cold-numbed feet tingled unpleasantly, and steam curled up from the tub.

  “How did you hurt your leg?” he asked her.

  “I slipped and fell,” she replied. She repeated to him her story, about carrying a message to Garrison on behalf of her master, adding in a fall just before Tavi found her.

  The Steadholder’s expression darkened. “We’ll have to send him word. You’re not in any shape to continue traveling for another day or two. Wait until your feet have warmed up. Then dry them off and have a seat.” He turned toward a larder, opened it, and withdrew a homespun sack full of tubers. He dropped that, a large bowl, and a small knife on the table. “Everyone under my roof works, lass. Once you warm up, peel these. I’ll be back directly to see about your arm.”

  She lifted a hand, resting it over the bandage on her opposite arm. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

  “With that ankle you won’t be going far. And there’s anotherstorm rising. The closest shelter, other than this hall, is the Princeps’ Memorium, and it looks like you’ve already cleaned that place out.” He nodded toward the scarlet cloak. “I’d be thinking about what I was going to say to Count Gram about that, if I were you. Safeguarding the Memorium is his responsibility. I doubt he’s going to be terribly happy with you. Or your master, whoever he is.” Bernard turned and started to leave through the doors to the hall.

  “Sir,” Amara blurted. “You didn’t tell me if it was true or not. What Tavi said about the Marat.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t.” Then he left.

  Amara stared after the man for a moment in frustration. She looked from the doorway he’d vanished through, down to her feet in the steaming basin, and then back up again. Sensation was returning to her feet in an uncomfortable ripple of sharp pinpricks. She shook her head and waited for the feeling in her feet to return to something closer to normal.

  A maddening man, she thought. Confidence bordering upon arrogance. She would not be so poorly treated in any court in the Realm.

  Which was the point, of course. This was not one of the cities. Here, on the steadholt, his word was literal law, on nearly any matter one could name — including the disposition and nondebilitating punishment of a runaway slave. Were she a slave in fact, rather than in fiction, he could have done nearly anything to her, and as long as he returned her in one piece, and capable of fulfilling her duties, the law would support him as though he were a Citizen. Instead of caring for her and leaving her in a warm room with her feet in a hot bath, he could have as easily stabled her with the animals or put her to any of a number of other uses.

  Her cheeks flushed again. The man had affected her, and he shouldn’t have. She had seen him riding an earthwave — he was an earthcrafter, after all. Some of them could affect the temperaments of animals and the base natures of human beings, as well, draw out raw, primal impulses that otherwise would never surface. That would explain it.

  But then, and more to the point, he had been very gentle with her, when he held her. He needn’t have done so much as let her onto his land, and he had all but forcibly pressed hospitality onto her. Despite his threats and words, he hadn’t locked her in a cellar or shown anything but concern and kindness.

  Amara stirred her feet in the water, frowning. The Steadholder was clearly a man who commanded some measure of respect in his people. His steadholt was solid and obviously prosperous. The holdfolk she had seen had been clean and well fed. His reaction to the boy had been severe, in its own fashion, but restrained by the standards of most of the Realm. Had the man wanted her, he could simply have taken her, and not bothered with crafting her into a frenzy.

  The contrast of his strength, physical and otherwise, against several demonstrations of gentleness was a surprising one. Though she had no doubts that he could be a hard man when called upon, she sensed a genuine kindness in his manner and an obvious love for the boy.

  Amara drew her feet from the tub and patted them dry with the towel, then lowered herself from the table and perched gingerly on another stool. She reached for the paring knife and one of the tubers and started skinning the peel off of it, dropping the peel in a smooth spiral into the tub of water she’d just used and depositing the flesh of the root into the bowl the Steadholder had left her. The task was soothing, in its own way, repetitive, comforting.

  She had been through a lot in the past few hours. Her world had been shaken, and she’d faced death at close quarters more than once. That might explain the sudden vibrance of her emotions, of her pure physical reaction to the Steadholder. He was, after all, an imposing and not unattractive man, she supposed. She might have had the same reaction to anyone in such proximity to her. Soldiers reacted that way often, when death was so near at hand, seizing at any opportunity to live life more richly, more fully. That must have been it, Amara decided.

  But that got her no closer to accomplishing her mission. She blew out a frustrated breath. Bernard had neither confirmed nor denied the encounter with the Marat. Any mention of it, in fact, seemed to have made him increasingly evasive. Much more so, she thought, than was reasonable for the situation.

  She frowned over that thought. The Steadholder was hiding something.

  What?

  Why?

  What she wouldn’t have given, at that moment, to be a watercrafter, to have been able to sense more about him — or to have had more experience in reading people’s expressions and body language.

  She had to know more. She had to know if she had a credible witness to bring before the local Count or not. She had to know if the First Lord’s fears were viable.

  Bernard came back a few moments later, carrying another bowl under one arm. The Steadholder lifted his eyebrows, his expression surprised. Then he scowled at her, coming over to stand by the table.

  “Sir?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Crows, girl,” Bernard said. “I thought you’d still be warming your feet up.”

  “You wanted me to peel these, sir.”

  “Yes, but—” He made an irritated noise. “Never mind. Sit back, let me see your feet again. And your arm, while we’re at it.”

  Amara settled back on her stool, and the Steadholder knelt down on the floor in front of her, setting the bowl to one side. He lifted her feet, grunted something, and then reached into the bowl, drawing out a small jar of some kind of pungent-smelling ointment. “You’ve got some cuts, from the hills,” he said. “Doubt you even felt them, as cold as your feet were. This should help keep them clean and numb some of the pain, when you start getting the feeling back.”

  He smoothed on the ointment with broad, gentle fingertips, on both feet. Then he drew out a roll of white cloth and a pair of shears. He wrapped her feet carefully in the cloth and finally drew from the bowl a pair of slippers with
flexible leather soles and a pair of grey woolen socks. She began to protest, but he shot her a glare and put both socks and slippers on her. “Big feet, for a woman,” he commented. “Had some old slippers that should do for a while.”

  She studied him quietly, during the process. “Thank you. How badly off are they?”

  He shrugged. “They look like they’ll be all right to me, but I’m no watercrafter. I’ll ask my sister to take a look at them when she’s feeling better.”

  Amara tilted her head to one side. “Is she ill?”

  Bernard grunted and stood up. “Move that cloak back and roll up your sleeve. Let me have a look at that arm.”

  Amara moved the cloak back from her shoulder. She tried to roll the sleeve of her blouse up, but the injury was high on her arm, and the cloth bunched too much to allow it. She tried anyway, and the sleeve pinched in on the wound. Pain flashed through her arm again, and she sucked in a shaky breath.

  Bernard said, “That’s no good. We’ll have to get you another shirt.” He lifted the shears and, carefully, started snipping the bloodied sleeve away, a little above the first cut in the fabric. He frowned at it and then at the scarlet cloth of the bandage. The frown only deepened when he unwound the bandage and found the cloth clotted to the wound. He shook his head, fetched fresh water and cloth, and began to soak the bandage and to pull gently at it.

  “How did you hurt your arm?”

  Amara used her other hand to brush at her hair, pulling it back from her face. “I fell, yesterday. I cut it.”

  Bernard made a quiet sound and said nothing more until he had soaked the cloth and teased it gently off of the cut without tearing it open. He frowned, and with the cloth and water and soap, cleaned it gently. It burned, and Amara felt her eyes tear up again. She thought she would break down crying, simply from the exhaustion and the constant, relentless pain. She closed her eyes tightly, while he continued the slow, patient work.

  There was a rap at the kitchen door, and a nervous voice, belonging to the boy he’d called Frederic, said, “Sir? They’re asking for you outside.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Frederic coughed. “But, sir—”

  The Steadholder said, voice hardening slightly, “Fred. In a moment.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. The door closed again.

  Bernard continued with the wound and murmured, “This should have had stitches. Or someone to craft it closed. You fell?”

  “I fell,” Amara repeated.

  “Apparently you fell along the blade of a sharp sword,” the Steadholder commented.

  He rinsed and dressed the wound once more, his hands gentle, but even so her arm throbbed and ached horribly. More than anything, Amara wanted to go somewhere dark and quiet and curl into a ball. But she shook her head and said, “Sir, please. Is the boy’s story true? Were you really attacked by the Marat?”

  Bernard took in a deep breath. He walked away and then came back to her and draped a soft, gentle weight over her shoulders—a blanket. “You’re asking a lot of questions, girl. Not sure I like that. And I don’t know if you’re being honest with me.”

  “I am, sir.” She looked up at him and tried to smile.

  His mouth crooked up at one corner. He glanced at her before turning away to pick up a towel, hanging from a peg near the basin. “I’ve got a problem with your story. No one would send a slave that was hurt as badly as you out to run a message. That’s insane.”

  Amara flushed. “He didn’t . . . exactly know.” That much was true, at least. “I didn’t want to miss the opportunity.”

  “No,” Bernard said. “Girl, you don’t look much like most slaves I’ve seen. Particularly pretty young women in service to a man.”

  She felt her face heat still more. “What do you mean, sir?”

  He didn’t turn toward her. “The way you hold yourself. The way you blushed when I touched your leg.” He glanced back and said, “Very few people disguise themselves as a slave, for fear they won’t be able to get back out of it again. One has to be either foolish or desperate.”

  “You think I’m lying to you.”

  “I know you’re lying,” the Steadholder said, without malice. “It just remains to be seen if you’re foolish or desperate. Maybe you need my help, or maybe you just need to be locked in a cellar until the authorities can collect you. I’ve got people to look after. I don’t know you. I can’t trust you.”

  “But if —”

  “This discussion,” he said, “is over. Now shut your mouth, before you pass out.”

  She felt him move closer and looked up just as he lifted her up again, keeping her unwounded arm against his chest. She didn’t mean to, but she found herself laying her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. She was just too tired, and it hurt too much. She hadn’t slept since . . . had it been two days ago?

  “. . . going to be in here fixing dinner,” Bernard was saying, “so we’ll move you to a cot by the fire in the great hall. Everyone will be in here tonight, because of the storm.”

  She heard herself make a small sound of acknowledgment, but the ordeal of having her wounds cleaned, coupled with her exhaustion, left her in no condition to do more. She leaned against him and soaked in his warmth, his strength, drowsing.

  She didn’t stir until he began lowering her onto the cot. The door to the hall opened, somewhere behind him and out of her sight. Footsteps came toward them, but she couldn’t see who they belonged to and couldn’t work up the energy to care. Frederic’s nervous voice said, “Sir, there’s some travelers asking for shelter from the storm.”

  “That’s right, Steadholder,” said Fidelias, his voice even, pleasant, using a relaxed Rivan accent as though he were a native. “I hope the three of us won’t be an inconvenience.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Isana woke to the sounds of wind groaning over the valley and the hollow clanging of the storm chimes hanging outside.

  She frowned and rubbed at her eyes, struggling to orient herself. Her last memories were of being carried to her bed, after tending to Bernard. She must have slept for hours. She didn’t feel thirsty, which was no surprise; Rill often tended to such matters on her own initiative. But her stomach growled and roiled with an almost painful need for food, and her body ached as though she’d not moved for days.

  Frowning, Isana pushed aside the purely physical sensations, until she reached something deeper, more detached. And once she had isolated that feeling, she focused on it, closing her eyes to shut out the miscellaneous emotional noise she always felt around her.

  Something was wrong.

  Something was very wrong.

  It was a quiet, nauseating feeling deep down, something that made her think of funerals and sickbeds and the smell of burnt hair. It felt familiar, and it took her a moment to track back through her memory, to realize when she had found such a sensation within her before.

  Isana’s heart lurched in sudden panic. She threw off the covers and rose, drawing a robe on over the shift she’d slept in. Her hair hung down past her waist, loose and tangled, but she left it so. She belted the robe and stepped toward her door. Her balance swayed, and she had to lean against the door for a moment, closing her eyes, until she regained her balance.

  She opened the door, to find her brother moving quietly out of his room across the hall. “Bernard,” she cried, and went to him, gripping him in a sudden, tight embrace. He felt warm and solid and strong in her arms. “Oh, thank all the furies. You’re all right.” She lifted her eyes to his and asked, anguish making the words tight, “Is Tavi —”

  “He’s all right,” Bernard said. “A little banged up, not terribly happy, but he’ll be fine.”

  Isana felt sudden tears blur her eyes, and she pressed her face against her brother’s chest and hugged him again. “Oh. Oh, Bernard. Thank you.”

  He hugged her back and said, voice gruff, “Nothing I did. He’d already taken care of himself and was on the way home.”

&nb
sp; “What happened?”

  Bernard was silent for a moment, and she could feel the discomfort in him. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I remember setting out with him yesterday, but beyond that . . . nothing. I woke up in bed about an hour before sunrise.”

  Isana forced the tears back and stepped back from him, nodding. “Crafting trauma. Memory loss. Like when Frederic broke his legs.”

  Bernard made a growling sound. “I don’t like it. If what Tavi says is true —”

  She tilted her head to one side. “What does Tavi say?”

  She listened as Bernard recounted Tavi’s story to her, and she could only shake her head. “That boy.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t know whether to hug him or scream at him.”

  “But if we were attacked by one of the Marat—sis, this could be very bad. We’d have to take word of it to Gram.”

  Isana bit her lip. “I think you should. Bernard, I’ve got a bad feeling. Something’s wrong.”

  He frowned down at her. “What do you mean, wrong?” She shook her head and knew that the frustration she felt showed in her voice. “Bad. Wrong. I can’t explain it.” She took a deep breath and told him very quietly, “I’ve only felt like this once before.”

  Bernard’s face went pale. He was silent for a long minute before he said, “I don’t remember any Marat, ’Sana. I can’t take word of it to Gram. His truthfinder would know.”

  “Then Tavi will have to do it,” Isana said.

  “He’s a child. You know how Gram is. He’ll never take Tavi seriously.”

  Isana turned and paced a few steps, back and forth. “He’ll have to. We’ll make him.”

  Bernard shook his head. “No one makes Gram do anything.” He shifted his weight a bit, so that more of his body fell between Isana and the door to his room.

  “This isn’t anything to trifle with, or to let Gram’s stiff neck—” Isana frowned and leaned to look past her brother. Without changing expression, he moved a bit more to block her view with his body. Isana let out an impatient breath and shouldered her brother a bit to one side, looking past him.