The Curse Giver

by Dora Machado

  “Sorry.” Lusielle’s face came into his field of vision. “Carfu is a bit stubborn about his chores.”

  “More like mulish if you ask me.”

  “Do you feel better?” The mossy green eyes were on him, a window to his childhood’s vast steppes. Her face was flushed. Her lips were moist. Her hair had escaped her braid and was now in full disarray over her shoulders.

  “Aye,” he said, if only to dispel the concern darkening her eyes. “Much better.”

  She exhaled the sweetest of breaths. “I thought you were done for a while.”

  “And I thought you’d flee from me faster than the wind.”

  The look on her face betrayed a trace of guilt. She had thought about it.

  “I brought you something to eat,” she said. “Will you eat?”

  “Like a famished wolf.”

  The smile she shone on him would have warmed the whole of Laonia. She set out to ladle the soup, handing both Bren and a stone-faced Carfu a full bowl each. Taming the tremor in his hands, Bren put the bowl to his lips and drank. It was as if the warmth of her smile had reached down to his belly and was working its way into his veins. He washed down a larded slice of bread with a hearty cup of tea.

  “This is good,” he said.

  “I brewed it myself,” Lusielle said. “It helps with the fever and pain.”

  “The root of the Cargot weed,” Carfu mumbled, from his place at the corner. “Passiflora, valerian, chamomile, lavender, a touch of hairy roots and honey bells sweetened with a cube of dry crushed beets.”

  Lusielle smiled. “He knows all my secrets.”

  For a moment, Bren wished he did too. Then he remembered. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know.” Her smile waned. “Teos.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “A week and a half,” she said. “You’ve been very sick.”

  “I can’t waste any more time—” He tried rising from the cot, but couldn’t.

  “You’re not strong enough yet.”

  “I have to—”

  “I know, and you will, but please, trust me. The weather’s foul. You can’t go anywhere tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “I can’t … think very well. I’m so … tired.” He couldn’t find the strength to be angry. “It’s your tea, isn’t it? You’ve made me so sleepy I can’t go.”

  “You’ll have to trust me on this. Better yet, you might just want to rest well tonight so that I’m not inclined to feed you more of my tea tomorrow.”

  He had to chuckle. “You wouldn’t do that to Laonia, would you?”

  “I’d prefer that Laonia prospers, but not at the expense of your life.”

  It was such a silly thing to say, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t muster the efforts to dispute her skewed priorities. The tea had done its job rendering him useless, emptying him of all his anger, all his worries.

  It was very strange. It seemed to Bren that for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, the gods had granted him a reprieve. He was still weak and not a little sore, but he lay beneath a roof, on a clean cot, warm, with a full belly.

  Her hands were gentle when she changed his bandages. Her touch was pleasant. The small, even stitches he spotted when he craned his neck were flat and clear of pus. Afterwards, she sat on his cot and urged him to rest his head on her lap while she massaged his temples with a few drops of fragrant oil.

  She wore a clean skirt, soft and light green like her eyes. She smelled fresh, like the open prairies, like the new dew-sprinkled greens sprouting freely in a spring dawn. Maybe the tea had made him weak and careless. Maybe it had cleansed his rotten soul of all urgency. Or maybe this was the way a man would feel if he wasn’t cursed, he thought as he fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  LUSIELLE INITIATED THE PROCESS OF LOADING the barge well before the sun came up. She saw no other choice. Word was out on the river that the Chosen of Teos had rowed upriver a week or two ago and the White Tide would come any time. Carfu helped out, not just carrying and situating the precious cargo, but keeping track of the laborers she had hired to finish quickly. The laborers, too, would be gone with the night. They doubled as the crew of a seafaring vessel scheduled to depart in the early morning. They wouldn’t be back to Bovair for three years. Their imminent departure and long absence suited Lusielle’s plan well.

  Carfu helped her load the sling with the sleeping lord onto the barge. They settled him on the captain’s wide berth, the only suitable place aboard for a sick man. When it was all done, Carfu locked the warehouse’s riverside padlock and joined her on the barge. His only luggage was a small, weathered satchel and a heavy club almost as tall as he was.

  “I don’t understand why we go to Teos.” Carfu waved his amulet before his face, dispelling the evil that just the mention of the name conjured in his mind. “It’s a vile place, an island full of wickedness, where Suriek’s betrayers plot with each other.”

  Lusielle shared in some of his fears. “I told you before, you don’t have to come. I can do this on my own. It’s a dangerous journeys and I can’t offer you or Elfu any guarantees.”

  “But we’ll be gone from there quickly, right?” Carfu said. “After we drop off the lout, we follow your plan and go on to set your free tradeswoman’s shop at one of the Sea Port Cities.”

  “That’s the plan, although it won’t be easy to accomplish.”

  “Then we’re coming,” Carfu said. “We can work hard. We can help you with your shop, even if we have to go to that awful place beforehand.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Carfu said. “The master will be very unhappy when he learns of this. Elfu and I, we’d prefer if he thought us dead.”

  “You and Elfu talked about it?”

  “I added a couple of dead dogs to the warehouse to encourage the notion.”

  “You must think I’m very wicked doing this.”

  “Mistress, we only wished you would’ve done this a long time ago.”

  Lusielle took a last look at the warehouse she had labored for ten years to make into a thriving business. In the windowless building, the flames wouldn’t be seen for a while yet.

  * * *

  Lusielle calculated that Bren wouldn’t wake up until well past midmorning. Good. She still had some very important work to do. She took a look around the cabin. When they had first arrived at the ship, the so-called cabin had been a tiny, filthy compartment standing mid-ship on the upper deck, jammed between the main mast and the gunwales. It was crammed with an oversized berth that occupied most of the cabin’s small space. Built to overhang the barge’s port side, the cozy berth spoke loads about its owner and his preferences. The lumpy mattress was covered with an exotic zebra hide and a pile of gaudily embroidered cushions whose tiny mirrors shimmered under the light of the single porthole above the berth.

  The only other furniture that fit in the crowded room was a smallish desk and a shelf stuffed with the captain’s self-proclaimed keepsakes from his many journeys, including a collection of exotic and lewd unmentionables that Lusielle had coaxed—with the help of a long stick—into a box and out the door. This had been the captain’s private lair, the space that, according to him, gave him his stellar reputation with the ladies.

  Lusielle had kept a straight face.

  It was obvious that the limited funding she had managed to raise to hire barge and captain made no allowances for luxury, comfort or cleanliness. She embarked in a thorough cleanup. With two squeamish fingers, she seized the zebra hide by the tail and stuffed it under the berth along with the cushions, before she made the bed with a double set of fresh linens and a pillow she had brought from the warehouse. Clean was to health what filth was to illness. She swept the floor and wiped every surface she could reach with an infusion of crystallized pine resin, dry citrus peels and lard ashes. It took a while, but it had to be done.

  Now a collection of ready and fragrant brews dang
led in tiny sacks from pegs on the wall and the infamous shelves were full of her expanding selection of oils, tinctures, salves and balms, all of which she had concocted in her efforts to mend Laonia’s wounded lord. As she looked around, the cabin’s transformation was noteworthy and the smell of clean satisfied her discerning nose.

  She sat on the berth next to the senseless Lord of Laonia and laid her hand on his forehead. He was still feverish and very much asleep. She might have been a bit overzealous with her calming brew’s proportions the night before, but she couldn’t risk having to deal with him on top of everything else. He needed to regain his strength for all that was about to come.

  He looked boyish when he slept. His sharp features softened and the lines on his face relaxed, giving him a peaceful expression she hadn’t seen before. Her fingers tripped over the roped scar on his cheek. No salve could erase that mark from his face, or the pain and suffering the burn must have entailed. She looked closely at the scar’s tear-shaped center. It was strangely familiar to her. Where had she seen something similar?

  Lusielle dug under the covers and followed the chain around Bren’s neck to the ring lying on his chest. It rose and fell with his respiration, beckoning her like a charm. She reached out to touch it, but Bren stirred, startling her. She had to still her heart from the fright.

  Foolish wench. Why would anyone be afraid of a trinket?

  She waited until the man settled back into his sick sleep. This time, when she grabbed the ring, she did it decisively, turning it between her fingers. The silver ring was heavy to her hand and warm with his body’s fever. It was beautifully designed, composed of five stacked, soldered, half-round rings and crafted with stylistic flare. The flat, tubular top would likely cover the whole knuckle of Bren’s middle finger if he wore it.

  Why didn’t he?

  Because he wore it on his face instead.

  The answer, shocking as it was, came suddenly to Lusielle. She had been too busy to make the connection before, but now she held the lordship ring next to the scar on his cheek. The scar matched the tear in the center of the ring exactly, and so did the intricate roped filigree edging the elaborate tear.

  Why would anyone force a burn like that on someone else’s face? Had he been attacked? Tortured? Branded? He had spoken before of battles, purges and such. Was it an act of vengeance or was it yet another gruesome tradition unique to the grisly house of Uras?

  The knock rattled the door and her nerves.

  “Mistress.” Carfu’s face peeked from behind the door. “The crook’s asking for you.”

  “Very well.” Lusielle tucked the ring back under the covers and rearranged the blankets around Bren’s shoulders. “I suppose it’s time to set him straight.”

  “Take this.” Carfu slipped a small blade into her hand.

  “Thanks.” Lusielle noticed the jeweled handle before she tucked it into her sleeve. “Where did you get this?”

  “Neverus,” Carfu said. “Come, mistress, the man’s waiting.”

  Lusielle followed Carfu out the door, but she turned at the threshold to take a last look at the lord resting on the berth. She had a lot of questions for him when he woke. They all needed answers.

  * * *

  The so-called captain was a greasy bandit, a pirate who used his barge and crew to steal from the lawful traders who navigated these waters. He was slick, expensive, secretive, suspicious by nature, and down to the ground dishonest. He was exactly the type of captain that Lusielle needed.

  “Did you find everything to your liking in the cabin?” he asked, eyes straying from her face to her bosom.

  “The cabin is adequate,” Lusielle said. “Now, if I could just lay down a few simple rules to make our journey profitable and pleasurable for all involved.”

  The man flashed a sly smile. “You realize, mistress, than once aboard my barge, you’re under my care.”

  “We rely on your expertise to sail us down as quickly as possible to our destination.”

  “You haven’t said, mistress,” the captain said. “Where’s that?”

  “South for the moment. I’ll let you know when the time to disembark comes close.”

  The man had the gall to laugh. “Disembarking is always a difficult job.”

  Was she supposed to be scared?

  “The people I hire are always most careful to please me,” she said. “I’m a demanding mistress, one who always gets her way.”

  “I know many ways of satisfying a demanding mistress.” The sly smile again. “I reckon I might try some of them on you.”

  The sword was out of the scabbard. Time to unsheathe her own blade.

  “It would be such a shame to lose your fine barge to carelessness,” she said. “See that man over there?” She gestured toward Carfu, who sat cross-legged by the cabin door with his heavy club on his lap, looking as unfriendly as always. “My associate and I have planted a number of my special mixtures along this barge. Have you heard about flaming powders?”

  “You mean explosive salts?”

  “The casks where we mixed the flaming powders are unmarked, undistinguishable in appearance from all the others and very delicate to handle.”

  “Are you insane?” The captain said. “You can’t have those on a barge!”

  “I assure you, each cask is carefully packed and prepared, scheduled to react at different times to ensure our comfort and safety. Some of those times, along with the location of those mixtures, are recorded in my mind. Some are only stored in his.” She pointed to Carfu again. “It would be good if you and your crew kept us happy and unharmed. Should Carfu and I fail to handle such cargo with the care that only we are trained to provide, I’m afraid a great calamity could occur, and your ship, along with the lives of all in it, will be destroyed.”

  The man’s wide eyes had found a steady target on her face. She saw the fear in his gaze, and watched as he chewed his lips, pondering the risks. She was counting on him having made his own inquiries. If he had, he must have learned that she was a most able trader and a well-known mixer of remedies and concoctions of all types. He might have even heard about her death sentence.

  The captain must have decided she was telling the truth, because his face shifted into a forced grimace. “Mistress, I live to serve you.”

  “Good then. I’ll be speaking to you later.”

  With precise, even steps, Lusielle walked back to the cabin, leaving the captain with a perfect view of her very straight back. Her tale was not entirely untrue, but it was by far the tallest she had ever told. She chalked it up to necessity. Of course, there was a fundamental weakness to her story. She was counting on the fact that the captain wouldn’t notice a small, obvious problem with her proposition: If she or Carfu blew up the barge, they would also die.

  If the captain spotted the tiny break in her logic, she hoped she had persuaded him with her attitude that she was reckless and would blow up the ship regardless. She knew that despite her warning, within minutes, the captain and his crew would be scouring the cargo hull looking for the deadly casks. They would be careful, and given the large size and the delicate nature of their load, a thorough search would take many hours. By her estimation, Lusielle only needed a few.

  The barge was moving swiftly downriver, propelled by the strong current which made the Nerpes the land’s main and fastest throughway. The pace was also aided by the favorable northerly wind filling the huge square sail. The barge advanced four times as fast as a galloping horse and, unlike the horses, it didn’t need to stop for rest, water and food. She knew they had a chance, if she could keep it all together.

  “Well done,” Carfu whispered when she opened the door.

  She smiled.

  “I’ll be looking out.”

  “Perfect.”

  She closed the door and opened the tiny porthole to allow some light into the murky cabin. She went over the plan in her mind one more time, while she brewed a couple of versions of her favorite teas on the little brazier she had
set up on the desk. She didn’t know which one she was going to need.

  Bren stirred. Delaying matters wouldn’t help, so she might as well tell him. “Good morning, my lord, I hope you’re agreeable to enjoying a few days on the river.”

  “The river?” He struggled to sit up on his elbows. “What by the Twins are we doing on the river?”

  “We’re going to Teos,” she said. “To pay Laonia’s tribute.”

  Panic flashed in his eyes. “Has the White Tide come?”

  “Not yet, but soon, I hear.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it, struggling to get his bearings. He looked at her, surveyed the cabin, strained to see through the porthole and then lay his head back on the pillow, kneading the bridge of his nose. She could almost read his thoughts as his expression changed, the systematic path of a trained intellect, the emotions he never shared, surprise, disbelief, pride, fury, and perhaps a little tiny flicker of hope tucked in the deeper recesses of his whirling mind.

  “The ingredients,” he said. “You’re using your ingredients?”

  “Aponte’s ingredients.”

  “Won’t he miss them?”

  “I’m not proud to say that there was an unfortunate accident. The warehouse burned down.”

  Simply put, he was speechless. She had no idea what he was thinking. Perhaps he thought her behavior was beyond reprehensible, scandalous. Perhaps a highborn lord like him wouldn’t want to have anything to do with a woman capable of stealing from her husband and burning down his warehouse to conceal the theft. Perhaps he was right.

  His silence was unnerving.

  “I realize my methods weren’t … lawful,” she said. “But I couldn’t think of anything else and time was running out. Orell was seen near Bovair the day before yesterday and rumor is that the Chosen rowed upriver over a fortnight ago. I swear. No one was harmed. This was just one of three warehouses. Aponte won’t be ruined.”