When he finally seemed to be awake for good, he got dressed and went to a public bath for a quick shave and a long soak. The hot water made him feel close enough to human that he started to feel guilty about his replacement, who was probably frantically trying to keep up with the bodies coming in and wondering when Piper would come back to relieve him.
The world goes on, he thought grimly. Even for those unlucky in love. And hopefully for those shot with crossbow bolts. He wasn’t sure if he could find the gnole warren again. Hopefully someone would think to send him a message when Earstripe woke. If he woke.
He tried to think of something else, but the only other thing he could think of was Galen, which didn’t help at all. Sleep had dulled his misery but consciousness seemed to be sharpening it to a point. He walked to work with his shoulders hunched, staring at his feet.
“You look like hell,” said Kaylin, the guard on duty.
“Thanks,” said Piper. “How’ve you been?”
“Knee hurts like hell in this weather.” She slapped her left leg, which was missing from the knee down. Kaylin was one of three guards stationed at the top of the steps to make sure no one came down to bother the bodies. She was married to a baker who sent along vast quantities of pastries every feast day, apparently convinced that Piper was going to starve to death if not given enough fruit pies.
“How long have you been married?” he asked abruptly.
Kaylin’s eyebrows rose. “Nineteen years,” she said. “Why?”
Two weeks. You don’t get to sit and mope because you knew someone for two weeks. Nineteen years, now…that would be worth moping over. He shook his head and turned away, but she’d known him too long. “There’s someone out there for everyone,” she said. “Even nice young doctors who spend all their time chopping up bodies.”
Piper grumbled something as he started down the stairs. “I’ve got a nephew about your age,” she called after him. “Sweet boy. Strong stomach.”
Piper snorted. Ironically, a strong stomach really did have something to recommend it. There had been more than a few men over the years who had been very interested in getting to know a doctor, right up until they found out exactly what sort of doctor he was.
Yes, but how does Kaylin’s nephew do with death traps created by the ancients?
Does he have red hair and jade eyes and strong arms and can he make me laugh?
He opened the door to his workroom and his replacement looked up. “There you are! Lady of Grass have mercy upon me, where have you been? I was afraid I’d have to hire someone to replace me replacing you.”
“Sorry, Sanga. Things got very dicey.”
Piper suffered through a one-armed hug. (The other hand was holding a bonesaw.) Sanga had dark skin, broad shoulders, a big beard and an even bigger laugh. He also had one of the most delicate touches with a scalpel that Piper had ever encountered. If anyone working at the guard or the government noticed that Piper was gone, it was probably because the quality of the work had improved significantly.
Sanga held him at arm’s length and frowned. “You look terrible, my friend. Just how dicey did things get?”
“Very, very dicey.” Piper went to a drawer and pulled out a fresh set of gloves. “A very nasty fellow was kidnapping people and feeding them to ancient machines in his basement.”
“Lady of Grass! Were you hurt?”
“No, but my friends were. They’re recovering. Hopefully.” He was going to have to find some way to check on Earstripe. Perhaps he could go to the Temple of the Rat and ask for Brindle. And risk running into Galen? Do you want that?
He didn’t know what he wanted. The thought of seeing the paladin again was like a knife in his chest, and yet he was desperate for a glimpse, even though he knew that it would hurt.
He set to work on the next body on the slab, reading the notes and throwing himself into work. He knew that Sanga was watching him, but the other doctor said nothing, only continued his own job. Between them, the backlog began to go down. By the end of the day, when Piper called for the grave-gnoles to come and take the bodies away, the morgue was empty.
He wished he could speak to the grave-gnoles and ask them about the warren, but while the shrouded figures had made it clear that they understood some human speech, they would not speak. Piper’s communication with them consisted of the locations where the bodies were to be taken, “hello,” “please,” and, “thank you.” The one time that a particular graveyard had been closed due to rising water, the gnole had communicated the matter entirely in mime. “Can you take me to the gnole-burrow on the other side of the river so that I can find out if my friend is recovering” was a fairly complex concept to express in mime. He vowed again to find a gnole dictionary somewhere.
Sanga clapped him on the shoulder. “You should call it a night,” he said. “You still look terrible.”
Piper sighed. He was surprised at how tired he was, for having slept for nearly two days. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. He led the way up the steps, waved to Kaylin, and opened the door to the outside.
—into ivory and watery green light and soon he’d hear the click and the blades would fall and he would never get out none of them would ever get out—
His heart seized and he jumped back, gasping. Sanga put out a hand to keep from running into him. “Piper?”
He shook his head. There was no ivory. There was only the late evening sky in a band above the buildings, shading from darkness through shades of blue and finally to a faded greenish light over the river. It must have been that quality of the light that had tricked his brain. He had never even noticed it before.
Oh god, he thought wearily, am I going to panic now every time I see light that color? I live in a city on a river. Does this end with me pulling up roots and moving somewhere else? Charlock, maybe, so I am in a desert instead?
This seemed rather ridiculously excessive. He realized that he was standing in the doorway still and flushed with embarrassment.
“Piper, is something wrong?” Sanga asked again.
“No,” he croaked. “I’m fine. Just…uh…go on without me.” He flattened himself against the wall to let the man pass him.
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” Sanga said, eyeing him worriedly. “If you need to rest more.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure. Lady of Grass watch over you.”
Piper nodded.
“It’ll go away in a minute,” said Kaylin behind him. “Just breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Count ’em if you have to.”
He turned back to her, startled. She was watching him with compassion but no pity. “The breathing helps,” she said. “Try it.”
He did. He counted ten breaths and it did seem to help. The sky was just the sky and he’d startled himself for no reason. His hammering heart slowed.
“How did you know?” he asked.
One corner of Kaylin’s mouth crooked, though there was no real humor in it. “You had the look. We all know the look.”
Piper swallowed. He knew the look too. The war with Anuket City had been over a decade ago, when he was young and the ink was barely dry on his medical certificate from the College of Physicians. He’d never been anywhere near the front lines, but like nearly every doctor in Archenhold, he was pressed into service treating soldiers and refugees injured by the rampaging clocktaurs. He’d seen the eyes of men who had left some part of their soul on the battlefield, the stare into the distance. But those men had been in battles, facing impossible enemies, for days or weeks at a time. Piper had spent two days in an ivory maze, and less than an hour total in actual danger of falling blades. What right did he have to it?
“I can’t have the look,” he said. “I didn’t…it wasn’t bad enough. I shouldn’t be jumping at shadows. Not over this.”
Kaylin snorted. “I knew men who could stand toe-to-toe with a clocktaur and not turn a hair, who’d lose their damn minds if they were locked in your morgue overnight. Brains don�
��t care about bad enough.” She slapped her stump. “I hardly ever think about the fight where I lost this. Doesn’t bother me. But there was one time where we were all in a tight pass, trying to stop a clocktaur. This was back before we ever really knew what they were. Damn thing charged straight through us. The brass didn’t know yet that you couldn’t slow them down by throwing bodies at them.” Piper winced. “The ones who survived either hunkered down against the walls or got behind it in the first charge. That one…yeah. I still have nightmares about that one.”
“I’m sorry,” said Piper. He thought of Galen’s screaming nightmares and wondered again what he saw in his dreams that led him to attack everything around him. What have I been through that could compare with that?
“Don’t have to be sorry,” said Kaylin. “Just saying. Wherever you’ve been for the last week, that was bad enough. If it’s coming back once, it’ll come back again. Just breathe.” Her eyes sharpened. “And you tell me if you get to thinking of doing anything stupid, you hear?”
Piper blinked at her, wondering what on earth she meant, before finally putting two and two together. Ah. Yes. “I won’t,” he said. “I mean, I will talk to you. But I won’t. It’s not…” He made a meaningless gesture. He’d never contemplated ending his life and couldn’t imagine starting any time soon.
“Good. But the door’s open.” She nodded to him, then pushed herself to her feet, grabbing her crutch from beside the door. “Come on, doctor. I’ll walk you out to the street, at least, and you can tell me about the week you had.”
* * *
Piper got home feeling, if not better exactly, at least a little comforted in his misery. He opened his front door and the walls were not ivory, they were just a little dingy from burning candles and lamps all the time, they needed a new coat of whitewash, that was all. He took a deep breath. See, there’s the painting you bought when you first moved in. The one with the ducks and the cattails. You’ve lived here for most of a decade. He stood on the threshold and told himself this until he believed it and stepped through.
I suppose I should be grateful that it’s doorways that are getting to me. I go through them so often, I’ll have to get over this in short order. I won’t have any choice. If it was something else, it could linger for years. Like night terrors, say.
He grimaced. He wished he could talk to Galen about it.
No, if he was being honest, he wished that he could feel Galen’s arms around him, feel those hard shoulders ready to take on the dangers of the world. He’d felt safe then. They’d been in a maze of traps, they’d nearly died a dozen times, and yet he’d felt safe.
You’ll feel safe again. It just takes a little doing. You have friends. You aren’t alone, no matter how it feels right now.
Granted, most of his friends were also incredibly busy and he hadn’t spent time with one that wasn’t related to work or a court case in…ah…well, a long time. Still. And there’s people like Kaylin, and Sanga and the other lich-doctors. I don’t have to be isolated if I don’t want to be.
Someone tapped on the door at gnole height.
Piper’s first thought was that it was Earstripe, but that was ridiculous. Earstripe wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. Assuming he’s even alive. Oh god, please let this not be a gnole sent to tell me that he’s dead.
He wanted to run and throw himself on the bed, away from the knock, but he didn’t. He opened the door instead, and sure enough, there was a gnole standing there, a small brown-furred one, looking up at him with bright eyes.
“A gnole has a message for Bone-doctor?” they said.
Piper swallowed. “That’s me.”
“Our gnole says to tell Bone-doctor that a gnole called Earstripe lives. A gnole’s fever is broken, yes?”
Piper sagged against the doorframe. “Oh, thank the gods,” he whispered. Rat and Lady of Grass and Four-Faced God and Forge God and all the rest of you, thank you. I will go to every temple in the city and put something in the poor box. Well, maybe not the Hanged Mother. But everyone else.
“Bone-doctor understands?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I understand. Please tell Skull-of-Ice that this human is grateful for the message.” He paused. When in doubt, ask. “Is that the right thing to say? A human does not want to give offense to Skull-of-Ice.”
The small gnole grinned up at him. “Close enough. A gnole will say it right to ours.”
“Thank you.” Piper dug a coin out and offered it. “May I pay you for your trouble?”
Nimble fingers made the coin disappear. “A gnole does not require payment to carry a message from ours…but a gnole will take a gift for translating for a human.” The gnole waved and scurried back down the stairs, humming to itself. Piper closed the door and latched it, then went into his bedroom and lay face down on the bed and cried for a little bit from sheer relief that he hadn’t killed his friend after all.
Thirty-One
Galen was dripping with sweat and had reopened the cut on his calf and was finally starting to relax.
Wren, a round woman who barely came up to his collarbone, stepped back, lifting her wooden practice sword. “Had enough?”
“You’ve both had enough, I think,” Stephen said from the sidelines.
“I can take more,” said Galen.
“So can I,” said Wren, “but you’re bleeding pretty good and I don’t much feel like having the healers yell at me.” She glanced over at Stephen, who nodded.
Galen sighed. He knew it was for the best. It was rare enough that the Saint of Steel’s chosen worked out against each other instead of sword drills against inanimate objects, and they always had a third paladin to watch them if they did. Otherwise there was always the chance of the tide rising for one or both and driving them to murder. If they did train against another paladin, they did so carefully and they stopped early.
I can hardly fault Stephen for caution. I broke his arm once in the early days. If Istvhan hadn’t strangled him into unconsciousness in his usual friendly fashion, I’d have been in palm-sized bits.
It frustrated him, though. He wanted the silence inside his head that came with fighting. Pell work wasn’t the same. If you didn’t have to dodge, didn’t have to worry about the next blow, you found yourself thinking, and the last thing that Galen wanted to do was think.
He had made his report to Bishop Beartongue, and then he had made it again, to two guards with expressions that could have curdled milk. He’d taken pleasure in dwelling on Mallory’s malfeasance and giving Earstripe all the credit for tracking down the murderer, watching their expressions grow sourer and sourer, until curdling water was not out of the question. That’ll put a flea in somebody’s ear, that’s for certain.
And then everything had gone back to normal. He had rested for a day or two and then he was right back on duty, escorting healers, standing around in court, and generally doing all the things that the White Rat asked scary men with swords to do.
Normal, except that he could not stop thinking about Piper.
At first, it was to wonder if he was as tired as Galen was, if he had gotten enough sleep, if someone was making sure he ate. Galen even thought of sending Marcus or Shane to check on the man, but he knew that was ridiculous. Saint’s teeth, I’m turning into as much of a mother hen as Stephen. But as the days fled and he found himself walking and standing guard and walking and standing guard and very little else, the thoughts evolved. When a healer’s patient had a difficult childbirth, Galen thought of Piper’s frustration and wondered what the doctor would have suggested to make it safer. When the healer reached into his bag and pulled out instruments, he wondered if Piper used the same kind or if he had any opinions about forceps the way he had had opinions about scalpels.
But even that was preferable to nighttime, when Galen laid in his solitary bed and thought of Piper’s mouth on him, those long fingers stroking him, his body aching. He could not even bring himself off without thinking of Piper, and so he stopped because he had no r
ight to pleasure himself while thinking of the man he’d hurt so badly.
Because that was the image that came to him the most. It overlaid everything. It drove into his skull at odd hours. Piper’s face in profile as he knelt by the hearth, his lips set and bloodless, his hands shaking as he tried to strike the flint. He hadn’t looked at Galen, not once, but he didn’t have to.
You miserable thoughtless bastard. He was completely exhausted. You spent days in that damn maze and then he spent hours keeping Earstripe alive, and all he had was half a catnap in the boat. He was dead on his feet, and you couldn’t wait even a day to be done with him. You had to drive him off right that minute. So noble. So self-sacrificing. So paladinly, giving someone up because they’re too good for you. Not thinking that maybe he’d handle it better when he wasn’t half-dead.
Not thinking that maybe in a day or two, he’d have wanted to give you up on his own.
Stephen snapped his fingers in front of Galen’s face. “You in there?”
“What? Yeah. Sorry.” He shook his head. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that we’re going to get you re-stitched up,” said Stephen.
“It’s nothing.”
“Sure.” Stephen didn’t touch him, but he maneuvered Galen toward the door anyway, rather like a herd dog with a truculent sheep. Galen grumbled but went along.
“You’re brooding,” the other paladin said.
“I suppose you’re the expert,” Galen muttered.
“I am, actually. I am a superb brooder. You, however, make bad jokes and then go to a tavern looking to get laid. Except now you’re brooding instead.”
Galen grunted.
The healer clucked her tongue, glared, muttered something about paladins, and set to work. Galen grimaced at the pinprick pains. He’d been thumped and whacked and stabbed any number of times, but needles were different somehow. He’d born up to Piper sewing him up because…well, mostly because it was Piper doing it. He hadn’t wanted to watch the actual stitching, so he studied Piper’s face instead, the narrow lines of beard blurred by stubble, the frown of concentration as he worked, the…
Paladin’s Hope: Book Three of the Saint of Steel Page 21
