His stomach informed him that every moment it spent not vomiting was now a personal favor from the divine.
He stomped down hard on the head and felt it crunch under his heel. The crunching seemed to go on for far too long and he risked a glance over his shoulder, only to see two more smooth men behind him. Five against one. Still no sign of Clara.
The black tide rose higher, and this time, Istvhan let it come.
The river was a silver snake through the trees and a smell of muddy water. The bear’s paws pounded on the ground, no longer even remotely under Clara’s direction. Well, this is typical, she thought, somewhere behind the bear’s eyes. I spend weeks fretting that falling in love with Istvhan will send me over the edge, and what actually does it? A goddamn bad smell.
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was just so ridiculous.
And with the laughter came a resigned calm, and the calm spread to the bear. The headlong flight became a ground-eating lope, and while Clara could not stop the beast, she thought perhaps that she could steer it.
“The key,” the abbess had said, decades ago, “the key is to use the beast’s instincts to your advantage.”
Right. She spotted a likely looking target and aimed the bear’s mind at it. There. That will be safe.
It is a common myth that grizzly bears cannot climb trees. They can. Their claws and sheer mass make it difficult, but given a big enough tree and a determined enough bear, they can get surprisingly far into the branches.
The tree in this case was a squat, sturdy oak, gnarled by the wind off the river, with a massive trunk and a rather short crown. The bear went up it, tearing off great slabs of bark, and finally settled about fifteen feet off the ground.
Clara waited.
The bear groomed itself like an ungainly cat, raking its claws through its fur, trying to get the horrible smell off. The burnt stuff tasted even worse than it smelled. The bear snorted, shaking its head.
Clara continued to wait.
Perhaps half an hour later, when the bear’s sides had stopped heaving and its heart had slowed, Clara sent an experimental tendril of thought. Back? she suggested. Human?
The bear was wary of this. Being human had gotten it a face full of rotten meat and bad smells. Not even good rotten, but so rotten that not even a wolverine would touch it.
Clara pointed out that her human nose was numb and stupid and would not smell the rot nearly as strongly. The bear allowed that this was the case and began to slowly inch down the tree, backwards.
Clara pulled her mind back to allow the bear to handle the descent. Its claws might make it clumsy, but it was still infinitely better at it than Clara-the-human would be. Instead, she thought of the smooth man and the speed at which it had moved. For some reason, she had thought that they would be slow. They must be slow, because the flesh was rotting and so surely they could not be fast or particularly strong. She had not expected it to move as swiftly as a human, nor to wield its weapon as if it weighed nothing.
There had been at least one more there, and Istvhan had been prone on the ground. Had she tried to save his life, and by doing so, doomed him?
Her fear bled over and the bear stopped, claws deep in the bark.
Calm, she told herself. Calm. And to the bear, Keep going. Whatever had happened, it was long past and fear would not help anyone. She recited a catechism in her head and the bear, comforted by familiarity, resumed its descent.
Thirty-Five
Istvhan was in a foul mood. He’d come out of the berserker fit when there was nothing left to kill, and then had to check each of the corpses to make sure they were genuinely dead. His ankle still throbbed where the head had bitten him. It’s better than checking the corpses to make sure there aren’t innocent bystanders, at least. Stachys hadn’t come out to see what the commotion was, thankfully, and god only knew where Clara was. Probably far away from this stench, if she’s got any sense. These smooth men had been rank.
His body ached. When the black tide rose, you forgot that you were middle-aged, forgot that your muscles and tendons had limits, forgot that pain was anything but a goad to spur you on to greater carnage. Then the tide receded and you were left in your body with all the strained ligaments and screaming muscles. The Saint had buffered his paladins from the worst effects when He was alive, but there wasn’t a damn thing for Istvhan to do about it now, except slather on muscle rub and hope that he’d be somewhere safe enough to take a dose of poppy milk when he had to sleep.
Clara’s absence worried him more than he wanted to admit, even though it was a damn good thing that she’d gotten out of range. But if there had been other smooth men about…no, the bear was clearly more than capable of handling one, it was just that it had been nearly an hour and she wasn’t back. Was she expecting him to meet her at an inn? He cursed himself for not having set up a meeting point with her in case they got separated. That was basic planning and he hadn’t done it because…because…well, because he was walking on eggshells trying not to demand anything from her, trying not to sound as if he had a right to dictate her behavior. And this is what thinking with your cock gets you. You’re so hopeful of getting laid that you forget things that a raw recruit would remember. He grumbled to himself, annoyed at his own foolishness.
“Istvhan?”
He turned, his grumbling and soreness forgotten in a wave of relief. Clara stood on the path, looking none the worse for wear, although she was wearing a coating of mud and gore and not much else.
“Clara!” He ran toward her and swept her up in his arms, or tried. Given their respective sizes, it became more of a very enthusiastic hug. “You’re alive,” he said, not even caring that his nose was mashed against the side of her head.
“So are you!” They clung together in the middle of the path and eventually it reoccurred to Istvhan that she was naked, although that was, admittedly, somewhat eclipsed by the fact that she stank.
She released him with a shaky laugh. “I’m covered in horrible gunk.”
“So am I,” he said. “Stachys has to have a pump or a well or something. Let’s see if we can find it.”
“How is he?”
“Didn’t come out at all. It’s for the best.”
She sobered. “Istvhan—I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“For running and leaving you behind. I tried to stop the bear, but it really prefers not to fight most of the time, and having that one just…come apart like that…was too much for it.” The moon was bright enough for him to see her flush, and to note that it began somewhere around her neck and spread out in both directions. He would have liked to consider how far down it went, but the smell on both of them hit him again and he grimaced.
“It’s for the best,” he said. “The battle madness came on me, and it doesn’t always subside merely because I’m out of enemies.” He spotted an aged pump handle and pointed. “Look, water.”
There was a look in her eye that made him think that the conversation was not quite over yet, but the promise of getting clean overrode any other concern. They took turns working the pump while the other one sluiced the worst of the muck off themselves.
A beautiful woman bathing by moonlight should have been extremely erotic, but the fact was that it was very cold and he ached and also there was nothing sexy about the contortions that either of them had to make to get properly clean. Even if he had maintained any sort of arousal, the frigid water from the pump would have put it to flight.
“I fear my robe is a loss, again,” Clara said, holding up the offending piece of clothing. “It tried its best, but there’s only so much mending to be done.”
“You’d think your order would have designed breakaway robes by now.”
“Believe it or not, we often go for years at a time without having to suddenly turn into a large animal. It rarely comes up in day-to-day life.” She reached into the pocket and fished out the acorns that Brant had given her.
“Half a moment,”
said Istvhan. He shook wet hair out of his face and dug through his pack. There was a large, lumpy package at the bottom, taking up space that had previously been occupied by field rations. “It’s not much, but you won’t cause a scandal walking through town.”
She blinked at him. “You brought a change of clothes? For me?”
“You turn into a bear sometimes,” he said. “It seems to be extremely hard on your wardrobe. I thought…” He trailed off, slightly horrified because she looked like she might cry. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said thickly. “Thank you. This is…it’s very kind. Nobody outside the sisterhood has ever…well. Thank you.” She turned away and shrugged into the robe. It was thinner material and probably didn’t do much about the cold, but there was only so much room in a pack after all.
As he watched, she leaned down and shoved an acorn into the ground, where the earth was damp, then walked away and planted a second one. The third one, she gripped in her hand like a talisman. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” She looked at him, her eyes too bright, and squared her shoulders. “Now. What do we do about Stachys?”
“I feel that could have gone better,” said Clara, around sunrise.
“Saint’s balls,” muttered Istvhan. “You’re telling me.”
Stachys had not wanted to leave. In fact, he had refused to leave, had crumpled into a wailing heap, and when Clara had put a soothing hand on his shoulder, he’d tried to bite her. Attempts to comfort him failed. Attempts to reason with him failed. Stachys believed that He would come back and if Stachys wasn’t there…well, Istvhan couldn’t quite make out what he was afraid of, exactly, but something. Possibly the man simply missed his creation as desperately as a parent missed a long-lost child, or possibly He would be angry and would do something that made merely cutting off the sculptor’s hands seem trivial. Possibly both.
The only thing he was sure of was that they could not get Stachys out of the house without half-killing him in the process.
“We could still kill him,” Clara offered again.
Istvhan groaned. “I’m tempted,” he admitted. “But the Rat might be able to get a lot more useful information out of him. And the only way we’re getting him to the Temple by force is if he’s catatonic and we’re history’s greatest monsters.”
Clara grunted. “So what do we do now? Report back to the Rat?”
“All we can do.” Istvhan rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty. He and Clara had dragged branches over the bodies as best they could, but anybody visiting Stachys would be able to smell them and locate them in short order. Although I get the impression that he doesn’t get too many human visitors.
“Should one of us stay and stand guard?” said Clara. “I don’t know how often these things check in with each other, but they’re bound to notice if one comes out and there’s a half-dozen dead clay things here.” She frowned. “And by that, I suppose I mean you, because the bear might just run away again. It has very strong opinions about things that are too rotten to eat that still walk like people.”
“Which would mean sending you back to the Rat alone,” said Istvhan. “I don’t like the thought of that.”
“A long day’s walk through inhabited countryside,” said Clara. “Oh no, whatever shall I do. A beach plum might eat me.”
He glared at her. “I’m not worried about the inhabitants, it’s the people who might be looking for you.”
“You do know I spent the better part of two decades walking back and forth along the canal alone, carrying valuables?”
“Were any of the ruthless local government factions trying to have you kidnapped for blood sports at the time?”
She scowled and looked away. “We don’t know that anyone in Morstone is looking for me.”
“We don’t know that they aren’t. And if so, it is potentially very, very bad.”
“Fine, fine.” She lifted her hands and let them drop. “I accept that it’s a risk. Is it more of a risk than letting Stachys stay here alone?”
“We’ll impress the need for swift action on the Bishop,” said Istvhan, rising. “Let’s get moving. The sooner we go, the sooner we can take baths with actual soap and get this smell out of our hair.”
If they had had to walk all the way back to Morstone, Clara would have probably given up and gotten a room at an inn. But the next town over had an early morning ferry and Istvhan dumped coins into the pilot’s hand until she agreed to take the two of them on board.
The other passengers were clearly early-morning people taking wares to market. They were loaded down with baskets and boxes and in one case, three cages of live chickens. Clara and Istvhan, soggy and smelling very strongly of something very bad, were obviously not locals. They went as far downwind of the others as they could and tried not to look like very large people who had just destroyed a great many animated corpses.
“Well, I feel inconspicuous,” murmured Istvhan in Harshek. Clara noticed that he was carefully not looking at the water.
“I think the chickens are staring at us,” she said.
“I’d probably stare at us too.”
“Surely people fall in the river all the time.” Clara tried to adjust her cloak. The wind off the river wasn’t warm and her damp robe barely provided modesty, let alone warmth. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts at scrubbing, the cloak had very obviously been present for something dreadful. The burnt, rotting smell was ground into the wet fabric and combined badly with the smell of wet wool.
She noticed after a minute that Istvhan had turned a bit more green than the smell could account for, and realized her mistake. Right. He doesn’t like deep water. “Not from the ferry,” she said hastily. “Just, you know, showing up soaking wet and all.”
“We’ll get where we’re going and change clothes,” said Istvhan.
“Before I ruin any more clothes, l’ll need a…” Clara drew a blank on the word bath in Harshek. She could see the word in her head, carefully illuminated by Sister Sigrid, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember how it was pronounced, and the more she thought about it, the more the word seemed completely unreal. Oh gods and saints, I am so tired. I am too old to stay up all night any more, piling changes on top of changes… “Person-laundry,” she said finally, because that made more sense than bath, which was clearly not a word and had never been a word.
Istvhan stared at her. She stared back. “Bath?” he said.
“Is that how you pronounce it?”
“I thought it was until you asked me. Now I don’t know either.”
“I’m very tired.”
“So am I.” He rubbed his face. “We used to do forced marches. Thirty-six hours and I could still fight. Now I stay up for twenty-four and have a minor skirmish and I feel like I’ve been trampled by a bull.”
“Getting old is a terrible thing. They say that beats the alternative, though.”
“I’m not sure. I never used to hurt myself sleeping.”
“Oh gods, yes. You sleep wrong and your neck goes out for a week.” She shook her head. “I’m amazed that sleeping on the ground didn’t lay me up permanently.” He smiled. His eyes wandered across her face and Clara thought vaguely that she must look absolutely dreadful. “I know, I look like I’m three days dead.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, with absolute sincerity.
She looked away, embarrassed. He’d meant it, too. Paladins, dammit. They said you were beautiful on the inside and they really genuinely believed it. It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t not love someone like that. How am I even supposed to try?
Fortunately for her heart, and the chickens, and the other passengers, the pilot called for Morstone and they docked at the outskirts of the city. She and Istvhan pulled up the hoods on their cloaks—the smell inside Clara’s was truly horrifying—and made their way from the docks to the Temple of the Rat.
Thirty-Six
One thing that you could give the Rat’
s people over many other commanders that Istvhan had ever worked with was that they listened and then they acted. They didn’t tell you that it was impossible or that you were overreacting. They didn’t tell you to calm down. They asked intelligent, clarifying questions, and then the well-oiled machinery of the Temple went into action. Istvhan told Faizen that he and Clara had located the wonderworker responsible for the smooth men, that he required watching, and that he needed to be brought to the Temple as quickly as possible and that more smooth men would be coming.
“Time,” he said, “is of the essence.”
Faizen nodded. “We do not have many fighting men available,” he said. “But we will find a way. Are you able to accompany us back, if we arrange a carriage?”
He traded a look with Clara. “Yes,” he said, feeling exhaustion gnawing at his bones. “I am, at least.”
“I will,” said Clara. “Though if you can spare me five minutes and a bar of soap, it will make everything much easier.”
Faizen smiled. “It will take substantially longer than five minutes to arrange for transport. It will take several hours, even working as swiftly as we can, to arrange transport and to call in a healer that I would trust with men’s minds.” He held up a hand to forestall Istvhan’s protest. “But if you give me clear directions, I can have someone there within the hour. Not to fight, but to hide and watch. If these smooth men do come for this wonderworker, our watcher will tail them as far as he can, and give us an idea where they take him. Will that be acceptable?”
“The best I can ask,” said Istvhan, “and more than I hoped for.”
“Then both of you, go to the bathing room in the healer’s quarters, and I’ll set things in motion.”
The bathing room in question was, as it turned out, the one the healers used on people with body lice or particularly contagious diseases. Apparently their smell precluded using the other facilities. It was not warm, but the water went directly out a grate on the floor and into the river. Clara and Istvhan went in, were handed soap that smelled strongly of pine tar, and set to scrubbing.
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