Falling From the Tree (Darshian Tales #2)

by Ann Somerville

“Yes, b-but....” He saw the man now—his expression was truly alarming. Karik drew breath to tell Arman to watch out, but then to his horror, he realised what the man had been concealing in his coat. “Knife! Arman!”

  He didn’t even think, he just flung himself in front of Arman, and grunted as something hit him hard in the gut, knocking the air out of him. “Pissing Prij!”

  The stranger lifted his hand, the one holding the knife, and Karik dazedly tried to ward off the blow. The knife sliced down his arm, but it didn’t hurt as much as it should, perhaps because he was suddenly having trouble breathing. Around him, people started shouting, and someone had their arms around the man, who was still madly striking out. He managed to slash several other people, or so it seemed from all the blood.

  Karik felt very odd. He looked down—oh. “Another...knife,” he whispered, sinking to his knees.

  “Karik! Gods, someone get a healer!”

  He looked up. Arman was kneeling beside him. There was something he had to tell Arman.... “Kei—”

  “Just stay still, Karik. Will someone get a pissing healer now! The boy’s hurt!”

  Arman caught him as he slipped sideways.

  Seeking Home: 14

  Arman stripped off his shirt and packed it tightly around the knife buried in Karik’s stomach, his mind going automatically into battle mode. “Someone give me a shirt, a cloth, something!” He clamped a hand around the long, deep cut, trying desperately to stop Karik losing any more blood—they were awash with it. He was aware that behind him the man who’d attacked had been wrestled to the ground, and soldiers were running towards them, but that wasn’t his concern.

  Karik’s good hand gripped his shirt weakly. “Ah-Arman....”

  “Shhh, don’t try to speak, son.”

  Shock and pain were stark in the boy’s large green eyes and Arman had the most unpleasant jolt of déjà vu as he looked at Karik’s pale and sweaty face. He shook himself—now was not the time to be lost in his memories. “A cloth, a scarf, for mercy’s sake!”

  A woman thrust a scarf at him and he tied it quickly around the fast bleeding arm, though that wasn’t the main problem. The stomach wound was serious—he had to get Karik to a healer and fast. He put his arms under Karik’s knees and back and lifted him, grateful the lad was still small for his age. “Get out of my way!” he bellowed, holding Karik carefully.

  Miraculously, the crowd parted for him, letting him through and then he ran with Karik in his arms, ignoring the pandemonium around him, ignoring the soldiers who wanted to help—he couldn’t waste that kind of time. The academy was just a few hundred yards away. He ran for it as if Karik’s life depended on it, which it certainly did.

  He bellowed again for a healer when he got to the academy, and people came from all directions to help. “Lord Arman, let me see him.”

  Pitis, thank the gods. He laid Karik down, and Pitis knelt, quickly examined Karik’s injuries, then shouted for his medical box and clean bandages. Now Arman saw Karik had been stabbed not once, but twice—and the second wound looked horribly close to his lung. The boy was ashen and barely conscious, breathing harshly, painfully. “Just hold on, Karik. They’ll help you.”

  Karik tried to speak, but he coughed instead, bringing up blood. Arman stared at it in horror. Gods—just like Loke.

  Pitis pushed him back firmly. “Pardon me, my lord, I need to work.” Arman let himself be moved—the worst thing he could do was to hinder the healer at this point—but he remained close. He needed to know Karik was going to be all right.

  Pitis called for a litter, once a kit and bandages had been brought and he had made a temporary dressing on the gut wounds and the arm. “Let me,” Arman said urgently. “Where do you need him to be?”

  “I need to deal with those wounds—bring him to the medical wing. Gently!”

  The knife was still in Karik’s stomach—Kei had once impressed upon Arman the importance in such situations, theoretical though he had then thought them to be, of leaving the object in place, lest it cause unstoppable bleeding. But because it was still there, he risked doing more damage if he was not very careful. He lifted Karik as tenderly as a newborn, although it still made the lad whimper in pain, and then followed Pitis’ rapid steps towards the medical wing where healers and medics were trained. There was a large and well-supplied treatment room there. He just hoped Pitis had enough of Kei’s skill to save Karik’s life.

  There were other healers now, coming to assist the master. Arman laid Karik on a large, clean table, and then stepped back as Karik’s shirt was cut away and his trousers removed. One of the healers asked him politely to leave, and the doors were firmly shut behind him.

  Only now could he stop and assess what in hells had just happened—who was that man, and who had been the target? Him? Karik? Or would anyone have done?

  He was covered in blood, to the alarm of the clerks now approaching him to see to his needs. He allowed them to wipe him down a little with a wet cloth. A towel was brought to cover his bare chest and filthy trousers while a change of clothes was fetched from his quarters in the House, but he refused to leave to clean up properly until he had news of Karik’s condition. The state of his clothes was unimportant. His mind was on the boy on the other side of the closed treatment room doors. If Karik died...the way Loke had died....

  It had happened so astonishingly fast, and even he, who was once used to sneak attacks and the speed of battle, had moved so agonisingly slow. It had been Karik who had spotted the danger and dived in front of the man with the knife—what had possessed the child to take such an appalling risk, and for a man who had been so harsh to him of late?

  Someone came up to speak to him—Eruk, the senior administrator of the academy. “Is there something we can do to assist you, my lord?”

  “Yes there is. Have someone find Lord Peika, tell him what’s happened, and that I will be tied up here—do not approach Lord Meki. Lord Peika will let him know. And find out who that pissing man was, and what he was doing here.”

  “Yes, my lord. If there is anything else, someone will be close by to attend you.” Eruk bowed and left to do his bidding. A chair was brought for Arman, since it was clear he wasn’t going to move from the corridor outside the treatment room, and he sat wrapped in the towel, praying the boy would survive. A gut wound didn’t have to be fatal, Kei had proved that to him...but Kei was not here, and Arman had no idea if anyone with sufficient skill was even in the building. Karik had been coughing up blood. That couldn’t be a good sign.

  A soldier was waiting for his pleasure, so Arman beckoned him over. The man saluted. “My lord, we have the man in custody. He’s refusing to tell us who he is, but it seems you were the target of his intentions.”

  “Find out who he is and what he has against me. And don’t let him loose.”

  “No, my lord. We’ll hold him until he can be formally charged. He’s incoherent at the moment and still violent. He’s being restrained for his own protection as much as anything else.”

  Arman didn’t care about the man’s welfare, but he did want to know why this had happened. He asked to be kept informed, dismissed the soldier and continued to keep vigil.

  It was obvious people didn’t know how to react to the situation at all, and he got the impression of carefully restrained hysteria, of people not wanting to invade his privacy but being protective of him at the same time. Violent attacks in this part of the city were almost unheard of—they were rare by Utuk standards anyway, and an attack against a Ruler inconceivable outside of war. There would be consequences of this act, undoubtedly, but he would deal with them later.

  A young female voice broke into his dark thoughts. “Arman? I heard someone was hurt—are you hurt?”

  He looked around and saw Seiki. Ah, yes, Kei had said she was working with Karik. He covered up the worst of the bloodstains, but she still gulped at the sight of what he couldn’t help but leave on show. “Seiki, my dear, you should go home. This is not a good place
to be right now.”

  “But who’s hurt...Karik! Oh, gods!” She gripped her arms as if she was cold. “What happened? Is he dying?”

  “I don’t know. Seiki, please, just go back to the House....” Why was she here without someone to look after her?

  She shook her head. “No, I’m going to wait. Karik’s my friend. Are you hurt? There’s so much blood...his blood? What happened?”

  He wished his hands were cleaner so he could use them to soothe the slight hysteria he heard in her tone—all he had was his voice. “Someone—a lunatic by the look of it—attacked me outside the House. Karik stepped in his way, to protect me, I think.” He kept his tone as matter-of-fact and calm as he could. “I don’t know what his condition is—his injuries are not slight. More than that, I’m waiting to hear. You could go back to the House and know just as much without being in the way—”

  “I’m not in the way any more than you are,” she said, setting her mouth stubbornly. “Oh, gods, he can’t die.... He can’t, Arman.”

  “Then let’s hope he doesn’t, but getting upset won’t help him. If you’re going to stay, you need to stay calm. I’ll have you removed if you can’t—he doesn’t need anyone being hysterical. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, though she looked quite pale. Arman motioned to one of the clerks still hovering about, and asked him to bring a chair for the girl, since it was clear he had no hope of making her see sense and leave. “Bring her a mug of tea as well,” he added.

  He guessed Lord Peika was handling matters outside since no one came to bother him from the Rulers’ House, and was grateful for the man’s competence. He heard a good deal of activity going on past the corridor, and outside the building, distant shouts. He could imagine the chaos such an unprecedented thing was creating.

  But in here, all was still and quiet. There wasn’t a sound from beyond the heavy doors and if Seiki knew what was happening, she wasn’t saying as she sipped the tea and bit her lip anxiously.

  They waited in silence for at least an hour, or so it seemed. Though he’d been waiting for it, Arman still started when the doors opened and Master Pitis came out, wiping his hands on a towel. He wore an apron spattered with blood—at Seiki’s horrified gasp, he hastily removed it. “How is he?” Arman demanded.

  Pitis frowned. “His condition is grave, I fear.” Seiki made another little sound of shock. “I’m sorry to upset you, my child, but there is a lot of damage for such a small knife to have made. He has a punctured lung—that’s the worst of it but not all—and has lost a lot of blood. We’ve done what we can, the rest is up to him. He’s young and in good condition. These are all things in his favour.”

  “Where will you keep him? Can I see him?”

  “Here and soon, my lord. But not,” he added, his nose wrinkling in distaste, “in that state. The last thing he needs is more contamination.”

  “Would Kei—with his gift—make a difference?”

  Pitis stiffened a little. “We have two mind-movers here who are healers, my lord. He’s received the best possible attention, no disrespect intended to Master Kei. Please, my lord, if you wish to see him, you must wash and change your clothes.”

  “May I see him too?” Seiki asked. “Please?”

  He hesitated and looked at Arman before he answered. “For a short time, child, but he’s not conscious.”

  “Pitis, let her see him while I change and find Lord Peika. His parents will need to be told, but I would rather wait until we know more. When will we know?”

  “The next few hours, the next few days—I cannot say, my lord. Every minute he survives is another minute his body spends healing itself. But I would be lying if I said he was not in danger.”

  Gods. “Thank you for your honesty. Seiki, do what Master Pitis tells you, and when you are asked to leave, do so. I’ll be back shortly. Please ask Neka to come here when she can manage.”

  “Yes, Arman. Thank you.”

  Pitis took her in charge. Arman forced himself to concentrate on the things that needed to be done. A clerk approached him. “My clothes?”

  “This way, my lord—and Lord Peika asked to be told when you were at liberty to speak to him.”

  “Is he here or in the House?’

  “With the soldiers holding the prisoner, my lord. But he said he would come to you.”

  “Then if you could, please tell him I’m free.”

  He was shown to a small washroom and he stripped down to his loincloth—Pira would be horrified at the state of his clothing, not that it would be the most distressing thing about this by a long way. He rubbed his eyes—what should he tell Jena? And when? He really needed Kei’s advice now.

  His hands were shaking—staring at them, he suddenly felt a rush of nausea, of distress. He never thought to have to deal with anything like this again—never thought to hold a dying boy in his arms. He slammed his fist into the wall. Karik would not die. He would not allow it.

  He left his trousers in the washroom, but made sure his appearance was orderly and clean. He had a position to uphold, and people looked to him to lead. He had to appear calm, even if he wasn’t.

  Lord Peika had looking calm down to a fine art, of course, and the man’s kind and serene expression was a welcome relief from all the stress. “Arman, I’m so sorry. I’ve told Meki and the others.”

  “Thank you—Peika, I have to look after this, however long it takes.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry about anything, and whatever you or the boy need, just say. How is he?”

  “Gravely ill, I’m afraid. I haven’t yet seen him. I’m going to be here for a while.”

  “Then I’ll send people from the house over to attend you, so we don’t disrupt the academy more than we have done.”

  “And the man? Who is that bastard?”

  “He’s refusing to say, but to be honest, he seems to be rather crazed. If we can get him to calm down, I’ll ask one of our mind-speakers to examine him.”

  “Ask Master Bikel. He’ll suffer no nonsense.”

  “Good idea. Where is Kei? With the boy?”

  Arman shook his head. “No—of all the rotten luck, he’s at the prison island. He won’t return until the tide tomorrow morning.”

  “We could—”

  “No, it can wait. Pitis assures me that every care has been taken, and right now I’m more concerned about telling Karik’s parents. You’re a father, Peika—should I tell them now, or wait?”

  The man’s genial features twisted with sympathy. “I think they need to know, though it will be hard on them. Neka is a personal friend of theirs, I believe?”

  “Yes, very close. Gods, Peika—how can this happen here?”

  “Indeed, that’s what I want to know. Why were you on your own without an escort?”

  Arman frowned at him. “I had an early errand to run for Kei—damn it, we don’t use the soldiers for protection, they’re just to manage the crowds!”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not blaming you—but if you’d had an escort, the man would not have got so close.”

  “We are not, or have not been, in the habit of keeping people away, have we?” Arman clenched his fist. “Do we have to live like the Prijian sovereign now? Because of this?”

  “Peace, Arman. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I want to know what this man’s grievance is—but we can’t rule out the possibility you were targeted because of your background.”

  “You mean as a murdering bastard.” Anxiety made him tarter than he meant to be.

  “As a Prij,” Peika said, not at all disturbed by his rudeness. “This doesn’t get us anywhere. For now, do what you need and leave the business of the Rulers aside. You were due some time for personal matters anyway.”

  Arman rubbed his forehead distractedly. “I left the reports on the Andon mission on my desk.”

  “We’ll find them and Jiv can tell us the rest. You have an illness in your family, we understand. Just like when my son caught bej fever, you remember? When I was
gone for a month?”

  “Karik’s not my son,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t want sympathy on a false premise.

  “No, but the boy is your family nonetheless. Now go to him and keep us apprised of the situation.” He clapped a hand on Arman’s shoulder. “Tell him, when he’s up to it, that he had the best wishes of the Rulers.”

  Arman bowed. “I’m sure, when he’s up to it, he’ll appreciate it.”

  Lord Peika smiled and left him to it. Arman went back to the medical wing and asked to be taken to Karik. He was told that he was in the infirmary so he went there quickly. Pitis and another healer were talking quietly while Seiki sat at Karik’s bedside—the lad still seemed to be unconscious. The infirmary was large, but apart from Karik, there were only two other patients at the end of the room. “Pitis, I want to be able to stay with him—can that be arranged?”

  “It’s irregular, my lord—” Arman gave him a fierce look. “But in the circumstances, we can arrange it. If we suddenly need the bed, then we’ll probably move Karik too because he needs to be given close attention. For now, he’s safe enough here.”

  Arman nodded and pulled up a stool next to Seiki, crying silently. “He looks so pale,” she whispered. “Is he going to die?”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood. Now don’t cry, child, that won’t help.” He put his arm around her and she turned her face to his chest and sobbed. He stroked her hair, while looking at Karik. He was propped up on a mound of pillows, and his breathing seemed rather laboured. A punctured lung—a dangerous thing. Even in unconsciousness his young face showed signs of his suffering in the lines around his mouth—was he drugged or had he passed out from the blood loss? “Hush, Seiki. He’s in good hands, my dear.”

  “B-but if he dies...I’ll be all alone...I never had a friend like him...please don’t let him die.”

  He hugged her tighter and wished he was better at comforting people. He saw Pitis hovering—he clearly wanted Seiki to leave, but Arman couldn’t, in pure humanity, make her go. He tilted his head and signalled that he would take care of her. Pitis bowed and withdrew. The other man remained, talking to one of the patients at the other end of the room—he was clearly the healer on duty this morning. Arman had no doubt the man was competent, but he desperately wished Kei were here—there was something so reassuring about his manner.