by Lynn Abbey
“You have secrets,” Naimun said suddenly, in a low voice. “I know what they are.”
Pel’s heart stood still. What did he know?
“My father’s life is too long. The injury in his leg which will not heal provides the perfect excuse for a dutiful healer to visit him. Perhaps the lady who gave you this stone”—again Naimun fondled the blue rock, the glow reflected in his eyes—“would want you to practice your craft to the best of your ability. But, alas, in this case you were unable to save your patient. Bad luck. The will of Irrunega. No fault to you.” He smiled, but his eyes were intent, focused. “Within the week, healer, I expect to hear news. Use this when you visit the palace. It will assure those you meet that you were summoned there by the son of Arizak, your services a gift from his devoted heir.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a heavy bronze-gilt armlet studded with gems and set it beside the gold coin. “The guards will allow you into Arizak’s presence. Do not fail me. I will reward you very well. But if you do not”—again the eyes went dead and flat like those of a snake—“you will wish you had poisons to take to avoid the pain that awaits you.”
With a swirl of cloak he was gone, leaving Pel to stare at the big ring on Meshpri’s altar. It seemed too large for Naimun’s arm. The cabochon jewels around which the relief of a dragon twined were worth a fortune. What if he sold it and fled on the proceeds? The summer sea was smooth enough—he could commission a ship with that much money.
But in the meanwhile, a patient awaited him, one in whom the gods themselves took an interest. As soon as he was sure Naimun and his friends had gone, he gathered up his supplies. Just before he closed his bag, he tucked the heavy metal armlet into it.
“Too slow!” Arizak complained, as Pel pointed out the improvement in the raddled flesh of the stump. “Can’t you just drain the frogging mess away all at once?”
“No more than I can replace your blood all at once,” Pel explained. “It takes time. You should be pleased that it is going as quickly as it is. What are the marks I see here and here?”
Arizak grunted and took a deep draught from his wine. “The others have been cutting away the black flesh. Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“Well, ser, if you were a patient in my shop, I’d use maggots to do the job for me,” Pel admitted. “They only eat dead meat, and their touch is far gentler than the knife.”
“Hah! We Irrune would do the same.” His head snapped up and he turned to the silent serving woman. “Go get some maggots out of the kitchens. Don’t tell me there are none. I can almost smell them in the bread sometimes. Reminds me of the old days.”
The amber-eyed lady escorted Pel back into the secret passage.
“He wants an artificial foot that will allow him to ride the stirrup again. Can you make one that will not hurt him?”
“I believe so,” Pel said. “My master taught me how, though I’ve never fitted one myself. There might be a few trials and errors.”
“He accepts that,” the lady assured him. “Our customs eschew the dependence upon gold and silver that most of you in Sanctuary prefer,” she said. “Our way is to trade directly for what we wish, and to reward those we choose to reward in a tangible manner. What would you like? Anything may be yours, I am so pleased to see my lord mending, in however small a way.”
Pel smiled. “Well, if a man came to me in the Avenue of Temples with such a difficult case, I’d charge him the equivalent of a couple of blocks of dressed stone per visit. I’m trying to rebuild my home, and most of my income goes to materials.”
“So be it.” The lady sounded amused. “Such stone will be delivered to you. I see you still have my globe. May it light your way safely home.”
Pel hesitated. “I have a problem, lady, with regard to your globe,” Pel began. He told his story of Naimun’s visit, and showed her the bronze ring.
“This belongs to my son. It went shortly after he arrived last week. I wondered—” Her eyes met Pel’s. “You know who I am, now.”
“Yes, m’sera. But I have never heard you say your name, so I couldn’t confirm it if anyone asked me.”
“You are discreet, healer. I will take care of this myself. That snake will never take my son’s place.” She tucked the arm ring into a fold of her enveloping cloak. “Farewell.”
He didn’t have to worry about guiding himself out The blue globe gleamed brighter when he took the correct turnings, and dulled to a mere flicker when he went the wrong way. It left his mind free to design a prosthetic foot for the lord of Sanctuary. The base would be wooden, covered and padded with leather. Two pieces, one for the ankle to instep, and the other from the arch of the foot forward. Both would be tightly wrapped in the leather so the foot would flex slightly when he pushed off in a step. If his balance was good he would soon forget he was wearing it. Pine was the best choice: light, though not light enough to simulate a real foot. Lint or a silk pad in the cup at the top of the foot in between the straps would protect the stump. The risk was if Arizak used it too much, and rubbed his leg raw. Well, they knew how to summon Pel if he was needed.
He trusted the lady to deal with Naimun, but he would still have to watch over his shoulder for a good long while. Rumors were rife in Sanctuary that those who went onto the middle son’s bad list tended to wind up floating in the river, or were just never seen again.
Pel slipped out into the warm night. The blue glow dulled, leaving the globe a simple stone. He looked at it in wonder as he walked toward the long stone lane from the kitchens to the street. No one else was out. What meals might be prepared must be made with foodstuffs brought in during the day. A single lantern told him where to turn for the main street. The stone stayed quiescent. Pel watched it in case Verrezza might summon him to return.
“Thief!”
Suddenly, a hand took him by the throat and slammed him into the wall. Out of reflex, Pel flung his wrists upward, knocking the other’s arms away. Scarcely seeing his opponent, he turned to run. More hands grabbed him, punching and clawing at his shoulders. He threw a vicious backward kick. A loud oof! came from the man behind him. Pel ducked under the arms and used his shoulder as a battering ram into the midsection of the man on his left. The man on the right reached for him, but got his groaning comrade instead.
Clasping the stone and his bag to his chest, Pel ran. His feet flailed on the hot, wet cobblestones. The sound of booted feet scrambling pursued, coming closer and closer. He dared not look behind him.
He opened up his long legs, wishing he had wings instead. At the end of the lane he dodged across and plunged into the narrow, stinking alley opposite. Constricted by his surroundings, he shoved past or leaped over trash-filled baskets, discarded furniture, and one drunk mumbling to himself against the wall. Pel changed direction, cutting into the next street and ducking underneath the very noses of a couple of burly seamen grinning over the contents of a clay jug. He hit his stride on one long stretch, hoping to make it to the Vulgar Unicorn before his pursuers caught up with him. The bartender owed him several favors.
Only a few hundred yards to go. The echo of many running feet made his heart pound.
To his dismay, one set of feet came closer and closer. Pel gave his uttermost effort, but the man behind him caught him just steps away from the welcoming door.
An arm around his throat hooked him off his feet and yanked him into the nearest alley. A big face, burned brown by the sun, pressed up close to Pel’s.
“Thief! Give me that,” per-Arizak growled. He wrenched the stone out of Pel’s hand. It burst into light as if glad to see the Dragon. For a moment Pel could see in it an image of the boy per-Arizak must have been. He grabbed Pel’s bag and began to paw through it. “Let’s see what else you have stolen.”
“I didn’t steal the stone,” Pel protested, as the Dragon’s friends caught up with him. “She gave it to me. I’m a healer. It’s a loan. She’ll tell you!”
“A healer! So my mother did bring in another shite-handed potion-maker,” pe
r-Arizak grinned. Pel started to dive past him for freedom, but the big man drew a sharp dagger and put the point to his throat. “Let’s see what you have here: leaves, brews, powders … trash.”
“I do no harm,” Pel croaked, rubbing the parts of his neck not immediately adjacent to the dagger point. “She called me.”
“I know what she called you for. You do more harm than you know, Wrigglie.”
“But I …” He hesitated to break confidence, but he couldn’t help Arizak if he was dead. He prayed to Meshpri for forgiveness. “I am aiding your father, not harming him.”
“That’s the wrong thing to do.”
“What?” Pel asked.
Per-Arizak leaned close, so that Pel could smell the thick, sour liquor that was on the big man’s breath. “You interfere in a natural process Do nothing. Let him die in his own time, according to the will of Irrunega. It can’t be long, not the way I saw the blackness advancing up that stump of his. Better that he had died cleanly in battle.”
“But your mother …”
“Will do as I say, once I am ruler of this stinking hole,” the Dragon stated, plainly. “As you will. When I rule, as I will, if you obey me now, you’ll live a long and peaceful life If you don’t”—he reached into his pouch and brought out the gleaming globe of stone—“they’ll find this embedded in your skull. Take it. You can return it to my mother when you go to tell her you can help her pervert the course of time no longer.”
He pushed Pel against a wall, dismissing him, and gestured to his friends. They shoved past the healer and strode into the Vulgar Unicorn, calling loudly for service.
Pel stood on the pavement, the light from the stone leaking out from between his fingers in the dark of the moonless night. The third and eldest of the sons of Arizak had discovered him and made his demands. What each wanted were all contradictory to one another: heal, kill, or leave alone. He could fulfill one, but not all of their wishes. Any of the three actions would get him killed, not once, but twice. Only one followed the teachings of his savior gods.
Pel turned away from the brightly lit door and started to trudge toward home.
Now what do I do? he thought, praying hard for an answer. He did not want to die, nor did he really want to leave the city he had vowed to help heal.
But there was no answer from Meshpri or Meshnom. His only guiding light on his way was the globe.
Good Neighbours
Lynn Abbey
Chersey felt guilty.
When Dace had arrived at the changing house last winter, crippled and reeking of the Swamp of Night Secrets, she’d welcomed him out of charity. Charity was a godly virtue and Chersey, who’d come of age during the Dyareelan Troubles, had lived comfortably without gods until recently, when she’d warmed to the sensible words and good examples the Raivay SaVell espoused from the ruins along the Promise of Heaven. Charity, the Raivay said, was the path to Paradise.
Chersey didn’t worry about Paradise, but charity toward the Nighter had lightened her heart. She’d trimmed his dark brown hair and supplied him with new garments—
Well, not new garments. The changing house stored great quantities of secondhand garments. The boy, bless his soul, hadn’t cared that his new clothes weren’t. Chersey had given Dace a pair of boots, too. He’d appreciated the footgear, but his eyes had sparkled brightest for a carved-wood crutch her husband, Bezul, had dug out of the warrens.
Bezul admitted the crutch was one of the first items his family had traded after they’d descended to Wriggle Way from their former home among the city’s goldsmiths. Fools they’d been then: Folk didn’t come to a changing house when they needed crutches.
Except Dace.
The youth didn’t talk about the swamp; he didn’t need to. His life was written in his scars and, of course, in his withered right leg. He’d never used a crutch. What good was a crutch in a swamp?
Between the crutch and boots, Dace’s first days at the changing house had been a series of stumbling disasters. Chersey had come within a breath of banishing him from her kitchen. If she had, then neither she nor Dace. would have discovered that he was a kettle wizard. The boy need only taste a dish or smell it on the fire to deduce its ingredients. Chersey had been preparing food as long as she could remember, but Dace prepared meals.
Dear Bezul had been diplomatic, insisting that no one could make a better stew than his wife, but he’d come around when Dace began doing things that Chersey could never have imagined. Bezul’s redoubtable mother, Gedozia, had taken longer, in no small part because Dace wanted to take over the marketing and marketing was Gedozia’s domain.
A gimpy Nighter can’t bargain! They’ll take one look at him, raise their prices, and we’ll be on the street before we know it.
Then, overnight, Dace shed his Nighter twang as easily as he’d shed swamp dirt and rags. He spoke common Wrigglie now, and it was easy to forget he wasn’t cityborn.
That boy is shameless, Gedozia said when the two of them returned from the market; and, coming from Gedozia, that was a compliment.
When the first sultry spell of summer had settled over the city, Gedozia declared that her ankles had swollen and the thrice-weekly trek to market was more suffering than she intended to endure. Dace, whose every step had to be more painful than any Gedozia had taken, leaped at the opportunity to carry the household purse.
The household was eating better and spending less money—because Dace was not only a better bargainer than the old woman, he didn’t skim padpols for his own indulgence. Chersey had to tell him to keep a coin or two for himself. Youths his age needed a few padpols and she needed to assuage her guilt.
Like some high-born lady, Chersey consulted with her cook while the family ate breakfast.
“Any ideas for tonight’s supper?”
Dace looked up. He was chopping last night’s leftovers into the stockpot. Dace wasn’t a handsome youth. His grin was lopsided, as if whatever had crippled his right leg had touched his face as well, but his eyes were lively and his gaze was direct as he said, “Depends on what I smell along the Processional.”
Chersey laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were looking for a finer kitchen than this one.” When Dace shook his head, Chersey continued in a more serious tone: “Really, you need to be careful—”
“The Processional’s there for everyone, Governor’s Walk, too. The guards don’t hassle me and if the nabobs don’t want me sneaking their recipes, they should tell their cooks to close the doors.”
“The guards aren’t there to protect you, not on the Processional. You’d be wiser to take the Shambles bridge—the way is shorter and if you smell anything around here, we can afford the spices.”
“Ser Perrez says not to worry, we’ll be rich soon.”
Perrez was the only household name Dace hung a handle on. He’d learned that flattery was the way to deal with Bezul’s younger brother, Gedozia’s favorite son. Chersey had watched Perrez grow from a dreaming youth into a scheming manhood and was wise to his dreams. She wished she could bestow that wisdom on Dace, but there was no putting old heads on young shoulders. If the youth’s wits were as sharp as his nose, he’d uncover the truth about Perrez soon enough with no help from her.
The morning chill had vanished long before Dace made his last purchase. Chersey had given him an uncut shaboozh because it was Shiprisday and on Shiprisday, Dace bought extra bread and cheese. The mistress didn’t demand a precise accounting of expenses and wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow if Dace had come home without a padpol. She was generous that way, and trusting—totally unlike the family Dace had left behind.
The changing-house folk didn’t pry into Dace’s past, and he was grateful. His kin weren’t worth remembering, though Dace hadn’t managed to forget them … yet. A year ago he’d seen a shaboozh clutched tightly in his uncle’s hand, but he’d never held one, much less spent it all in a single morning.
Dace took his responsibilities to heart. Gedozia had taught him to
bargain, though, truth to tell, Gedozia was sharp and bitter and lacked the friendly patience that yielded the best prices. Dace had memorized each farmer’s name, his village and his welfare. He bantered as he bargained, shaving a padpol off the asking price or gaining an extra onion as his reward. Today hadn’t been a good day for bonus produce, but he’d wound up with three leftover padpols.
The broken black bits were knotted securely into a pouch he wore inside his trousers where it wouldn’t come loose or attract unwanted attention—not that three padpols bouncing on the Processional’s cobblestones would attract attention. Folk on the Processional didn’t stoop for padpols. They scarcely stepped aside for a cripple in secondhand homespun.
Dace sated his curiosity about Sanctuary’s richest and best-fed families with quick sniffs and glances. Someone had dropped a coin at the feet of a juggler who was putting on a show outside the whitewashed mansion of Lord Noordiseh. Dace stood on tiptoe—a stance both awkward and painful—at the crowd’s fringe. He caught glimpses of the bright-clad sailor swirling five knives between his rapidly moving hands.
He’d seen jugglers on the streets before, but none who’d added the element of danger to their routine. Each time the juggler caught a knife, there was the chance he’d grasp the flashing blade. Dace couldn’t tear away from the spectacle. His ears were deaf to the commotion at the mansion’s door until it was too late—
“Make way! Make way!” burly retainers shouted as they shoved through the crowd.
The juggler caught his knives without trouble; Dace was not so fortunate. Already unbalanced on his tiptoes, he crashed to the cobblestones when someone jostled into his crutch. More mindful of his purchases than his bones, the youth clutched his bulging sack to his chest as he fell. His crutch flew and he landed on his back, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough that he lay motionless, waiting for his body to become his again.
