Chapter Twenty Four
Mark sat in the sun in the breakfast room, paper strewn on the table, sketching, his gaze occasionally lifting look over the jagged, bleak rocks. Beyond them the land rose into a long, sharp hill with black edges, as if it were parts of a notched sword peaking through a rotted scabbard of green.
Rohn came in and settled nearby. “How are you this morning?”
Mark felt his strength ebbing with every breath, but he said, “I feel stronger.” He pushed the paper toward Rohn. “What do you think?”
Rohn gazed at it. “A garden.”
“Just a little one. An acre or so. A wall, trees in pots, vines on the wall, benches, and flowerbeds with those knee-high things with blue flowers that seem to do well growing in sand near the surf.”
“What’s this?”
“A gazebo with a pool at its center and a small fountain. A horse fountain, naturally. You remind me of a horse sometimes, lost and trapped but bravely trying to trust any hand offered no matter how many times he’s betrayed.” Mark let out a sigh.
“You have a visitor.” Rohn spoke so gently to him now, as if a hard word might break him.
He didn’t want visitors, and Rohn knew it. Mark had heard coaches and riders come and go for a week and no one had disturbed him. Rohn wouldn’t bother him with it unless it was important. “All right.”
Rohn left, and a moment later heavy footsteps approached.
Mark’s heart staggered and his breath hitched. He knew those footfalls. He didn’t dare look in the doorway for fear of being wrong. At the same time he wanted to be wrong, because this would likely be the last time.
“Hey,” Grant said.
“Hey.” He barely made a sound, and he doubted Grant heard him. “Hey,” he said a little more firmly. “Please, have a seat.”
“I shouldn’t stay. I just wanted, you know. To say I’m sorry.”
“I have one more lesson for you if you’ll sit.” Mark gestured to a chair.
For a moment nothing happened, and then Grant walked into view, dressed in his new shirt and a halfway decent pair of trousers and a new pair of boots. He even wore a waistcoat, though it wasn’t fitted very well to him. He sat and sank, all the strength sapped from his spine.
Mark wrote his name in a simple, even hand. “Mister Grant Roadman of Perida.” Mark pressed the paper to him. “Upstairs there’s a children’s book. Rohn said you can have it. On each page there’s an object, a common object. The first sound is the same sound as the letter on the page. You can teach yourself to read from that, but it would take a long time. It would go a lot faster if you let me tutor you, but you would have to come every day and work at least an hour at a time at it.”
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“That I’m dying?” Mark chuckled. “I’ll be all right.”
Grant ducked his head. “You haven’t seen this poison work,” he muttered.
“No, I haven’t. But it’s been eight days, and the doctor said I wouldn’t last a week. I’m eating, and I’m keeping the food down. I can drink water. I just have to eat and drink more than I’ve managed to so far.”
“You’re eating?” He sounded almost offended by the idea.
“Bread and milk.” Mark pawed the hair that had fallen into his face. His wrist brushed the first bristles of a beard. He hated it. It itched. He’d shave as soon as Grant left.
“About what I did—”
“It’s all right.”
“It isn’t. You’ve been nothing but good to me. I listened to those idiots and got mad at you for them making fun of me. I got home and wished I’d flattened ‘em all twice over. And I knew then I had to come back here and make things right and let ‘em sneer. Because they don’t care about me. Next week they’ll be ribbing some other man about his woman, and the next about another man’s crippled son. I shouldn’t have cared what they said in the first place. I should have laughed. But I fought ‘em, and I fought you, and when I came to say I was sorry they said—” Grant swallowed noisily. His breath shivered out in a shaky sigh, and he gazed at the paper with his name on it. “I figure whoever poisoned you’ll try for you again. And this time I’ll stop ‘em.”
Mark reached for his hand, but the big man flinched back. That would never go away. Mark acted as if he was only drawing another piece of paper closer to himself. “So, are you willing to work at Hevether?”
“I won’t be no servant to you, but the colonel said I could work here if it’s all right with you.”
Mark drew up a contract and read it to him. “If you agree to the terms, then sign and you and Philip can start moving your possessions into the house. There’s an unused room in the house I think you’ll like. It’s next to Norbert’s.”
“My thanks.” Grant labored over his signature, copying it with far more ease than how he’d begun not so long ago with a G in the sand.
“You’re welcome.”
“I forgive you,” Grant said. “But I won’t forget. You took advantage, with your money and your goodness and your jester’s sway. I figure you didn’t mean to harm me, but it wasn’t fair to call me a friend when all you wanted was to touch—” He almost choked. “—touch me now and then and maybe hope one night I’d be drunk enough. I done it with women. I know. It wasn’t fair to them neither, though they said they didn’t mind.”
“I never hoped. I swear.”
Grant’s face, already held low, turned away. “Sorry, but I can’t trust that.”
Grant left. A short time after Rohn came in. “You’ve been up a long time. You should get some rest.”
Before lunch. Mark’s belly ached at the thought of it, both with hunger and revulsion. “I’m all right. Besides, it’s time to invite ourselves over to Winsome’s for a visit.” It wasn’t just a distraction. Even more than before, he felt time slipping away from him, and he had work to complete.
“No.” Rohn spoke the word with a tortured gentleness.
“Please.”
“You are not going to linger just long enough to see me married and then die. It’s you, or no one.”
“Actually, I plan to live.” He was proud of Rohn for figuring out what drove him to stay alive this long.
“Then what is your flogging plan?”
The raised voice was so much better than the endless guilty gentleness. “Just, living.” An unachievable goal, but living forever always was. “And working. I plan to work for you as long as I can. Stop trying to bury me. It’s not going to get you out of the perfect match.”
“Perfect? I don’t even love her.”
“You’re a bad liar. The only reason you’ve fooled yourself this long is because you’re gullible.” Mark started writing.
“What are you doing?”
“Dear Winsome. I honestly do love breasts. Pay no mind to all those rumors about me liking the naughty parts of broad-shouldered men—”
Rohn tore the paper out from under Mark’s quill. He read and sat back, a smile easing his expression. “You’re—you’re insufferable.”
“Remember, she’s still in danger. She might even put herself in greater danger trying to discover who poisoned me. Help her. And for pity’s sake let yourself admire her, and let her love you. Don’t let what we had turn into another tragedy that buries your heart. I want you to love and be loved. Are you really so afraid to open your heart that you’d sacrifice not just your own future but hers and Meridua’s as well? And to preserve what? Your own loneliness?”
“I could get her killed too.”
Mark wondered if Rohn counted him among those he’d gotten killed. “She was already in danger. Get her out of her father’s house and into this one. You can protect her better if she’s here and I can help her so that she isn’t working alone. Please.”
“All right! All right.”
“And you write her. I’m tired.” Mark tossed his quill aside.
Rohn looked a long time at the quill before he left the room.
The bell rang, its
sweet ring still new and relatively unfamiliar in the house. Philip had been amazed that Rohn agreed to have it installed, after adamantly resisting one for years. Mark found little pleasure in it. Rohn gave in to almost everything he asked these past few days.
Trudy bustled in. “It’s here. They’re both here at the same time.”
“What?”
“Your gifts to each other.”
“Stephen is here?” His heart plunged. “Oh. Is it wrapped?”
“Yes, yours is wrapped. The colonel’s gift to you is not.” She broke into a grin. “I have to go fetch the colonel.” She darted down the back way.
Mark pressed himself up and grabbed his sword cane. He hated it, but it helped keep him steady as he shuffled toward the front door.
Please be a good likeness. Please. And please don’t let Rohn fall apart.
Rohn trotted down the stairs, Trudy leading the way. Norbert came out as well. “Philip will be beside himself to miss this,” Rohn declared. His hand worked at a waistcoat button. Mark walked over to him and drew Rohn’s hand away from it before he could pull it off with his worrying.
Trudy opened the door with flair. There stood the painter dressed in his best uniform beside his shrouded painting, hat held over his chest.
An unbelievably enormous black dog watched over pale gray, cream and nearly white puppies, the smallest of which had to weigh no less than seventy five pounds. Their handler stood by in a sailor’s shirt and trousers, his cap stuffed in his pocket.
“Stephen? What are you doing here?” Rohn asked the painter.
“I’ll wait after the dogs if you don’t mind, sir,” Stephen said.
“Very well.” Rohn took a long look at the shrouded painting, and then turned to Mark. “One of the puppies is yours, if any suit you, and if you suit it.” Rohn’s hand found another button to worry.
Mark knelt, more than a little uncertain until they all trotted over to investigate. Their mother watched with proud detachment, her handler by her side. The man didn’t have to bend or stoop to rest a hand on her back.
The puppies felt so unbelievably soft. Unlike most dogs their scent wasn’t offensive at all. It was like clean silk and milk, or rather his memories of milk from before the poison did its work and spoiled his sense of taste. They had clean breath, a little on the milky side as well. One pounced up and licked his face. It tickled. He started to giggle. He couldn’t help it. They grew bolder and swarmed him in gentleness, their eyes bright and eager to be loved, a little shy, not at all overbearing except the one that kept pouncing him for kisses. “You little rogues,” Mark admonished them, running his hands over them as they tumbled over each other and put their broad feet on him.
“They’re all of fine temperament. Anyone of them would be a fine choice,” the handler told him.
A mid-sized pup of purest white with a faint ginger mask had nestled beside Mark’s leg on the left, patiently waiting for Mark’s hand. Mark wrapped an arm over it and it flopped its weight down, exposing the belly. Its short, feathered tail wagged. Two of the other puppies came over to snuffle it. It allowed them to for a little but then it rolled back up and placed one leg on Mark’s, spine tightening, tail raised to form a curve, and the hair fluffed up. Her lip lifted into a sneer.
“That’s Gale,” the handler told him. “She’ll be smaller than the boys when she’s grown, but she has the heart of a soldier.”
“How much smaller?” Rohn asked.
“She’s big for a girl but it’s hard to say. She might top two hundred like her mother.”
“Are you going to be a big girl?” Mark asked her, rubbing her chest, her ears—she seemed to love it all.
“Well I hope he likes her ‘cause she’s picked him. If he wants any other he’ll still have to keep her,” the handler said.
“How about it?” Rohn asked.
Mark hugged her. “Just her.”
“She’ll keep you safe,” Rohn told him.
“You’re obsessed,” Mark whispered into her fur. “He’s obsessed with my safety, Gale. You’ll have to help me keep him in his place.” He never thought he’d think it of a dog, but she smelled good. Yes, like a dog, but that milk scent, and little like the sea.
“I’ll be going, then,” the handler said, and Rohn shook hands with him.
“Thank you,” Rohn said.
“Won’t she miss her family?” Mark asked.
“You’re her family now. She’s chosen you.” The handler smiled secretively, donned his sailor’s cap, and walked off. Sure to his word Gale didn’t venture to follow. Instead she started to explore.
Stephen took a breath. “I have my doubts about this, sir, but it’s what the l’jeste asked for. Me and the others, we’ve been working on it together, but I can’t swear as to how well we did. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.” He bowed and started to go, but then he stopped. “Sir, it was an honor to serve with you in the war. All through the war. You needn’t feel uneasy about what anyone thought. None of us ventured an untoward thought to it. We was all brothers, and we loved him too.”
Rohn gasped and put a fist to his mouth. His breath shuddered. Mark started to tremble too. Stephen put on his soldier’s cap and fled.
“You didn’t.” Rohn approached the painting breathlessly. Mark’s heart hammered hard against his ribs. Rohn touched the shroud, caressed the soft cloth. Tears blurred Mark’s sight. Rohn drew the shroud off, and Mark saw for the first time the proud young man with dark, Hasle curls and dark, earthy eyes. He seemed tall in the portrait, a hint of gentle mischief in his gaze and the turn of his mouth, but he seemed very serious as well. Driven. Passionate. Wise.
Unbelievably handsome. Slender but broad of shoulder, he looked classic and fine in his lieutenant’s uniform of black and gray, the island’s officer colors.
Rohn just stood and stared.
“I knew it would hurt,” Mark told him. “But I began to think about how much I wanted to see ... I can hardly remember my parents anymore. My father never had a portrait done. He had a small portrait of my mother that he took with him everywhere. It vanished with him. I’d hoped there would be a painter among the ranks. I was surprised to find one that knew you both well. Is it a good likeness?”
Rohn reached but didn’t quite touch the face. “Yes.”
Gale dashed over to Mark and sat beside him. Mark hugged her close. She seemed to know that he needed someone to hold. He stood and left Rohn with the portrait. Gale got a little underfoot but she didn’t trip him as he shuffled toward his room. It seemed he needed a nap after all. He was so exhausted he could barely put one foot in front of the other.
“Lark.”
Mark kept walking. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Mark smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Lark and Rohn rode to the Kilderkin estate, Gale riding in the saddle draped over Lark’s lap. The Kilderkin family had a house in town, but for whatever reason they wanted a more private visit. Lark had little doubt that it had something to do with Rohn’s cold courtship and Lark’s perhaps overly friendly regard for this prominent, if somewhat socially shunned young gentlewoman of Perida.
“She actually fought in the war?” Lark asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” Rohn lifted his head and his classic, broad-shouldered chestnut gelding arched his neck proudly. Bindart hurried up as she often had to do to keep up with the big horse. “She served on The Hellardian.”
“The flagship.” Mark had had plenty of time for reading, so he’d learned many of the names surrounding the war, and finally had the beginnings of a sense of who comprised the heart of Perida.
“She was a sharpshooter. She shot more enemy officers than I did. After the war she never quite fit into society again. She wasn’t the only woman who served, but she was the only one who killed so deliberately and so often.”
“I would have never guessed. I thought such a duty would make a person cold.” He had a hard time imagining that gentle-hearted creature
shooting anyone except perhaps at a last defense.
“Like me?”
Lark smiled. “When I first met you I would have said yes.”
They rode the last stretch in silence, enjoying the heavy, warm air of the thick woods, the strange birdcalls and flashes of brilliant color in the trees. Unfortunately the scent of fruit, no matter how temptingly sweet, made Lark’s belly uneasy.
Juggler met them at the door. “Welcome.”
Did you do it? Am I inconveniently alive, Juggler? I remember how quickly you called for a pistol to end my agony. Mark would have been nervous, angry, and upset but Lark knew at his heart that even if Juggler had done it, he wouldn’t have wanted to. In a strange way they’d become friends. “Thank you for having us,” Lark told him while Gale investigated the jester. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“And who is this?” Juggler crouched to run his hands over Gale.
“Gale.”
“She’s beautiful. How old?”
“Four months.” Amazing how quickly Lark had taken pride in her, though they barely knew each other. She behaved as if she’d known Lark all her life.
“She’s going to be a brute. Heart of a marine.” Juggler straightened up. “They’re waiting in the library.” He led the way to where Baron Kilderkin with his wine-sotted features and the young Lady Winsome posed like dolls in neighboring chairs. Juggler took the chair beside his master, and Rohn shook Lord Kilderkin’s hand before he took the chair beside Winsome.
Winsome broke from her pale nervousness to smile at Gale. The dog investigated her first and allowed a petting, gave a sniff toward Baron Kilderkin, and returned to Lark. She flopped onto his feet so he couldn’t move even if he’d wanted to.
“You’re looking very well,” Winsome told Lark.
“You don’t have to say that.” He knew his skin had begun to turn yellow and his cheeks had started to sink.
Her chin peaked under her lip. She bit her lip but not in time to hide a tremble.
“That was quite a party,” Baron Kilderkin declared.
“Thank you.” Rohn bowed his head briefly. “But I’m glad it’s over, for now I may turn my attention to more important engagements.”
The word engagements made everyone shift, Lark least of all though he suspected that he felt it more. Until this morning he’d allowed himself the luxury of not thinking about losing Rohn to a woman. They would still be living in close proximity until Lark eventually died, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same. They’d had one moment, and that would be their only moment of intimacy. From here on she would be between them whether she was physically present in the house or not. Rohn would insist on faithfulness, and Lark doubly so. He wouldn’t betray Winsome’s trust any more than Rohn would.
“For someone who has declared an interest, so far you’ve shown my daughter little enough attention,” Baron Kilderkin declared. He glanced over at Lark. “And she has not mentioned you overmuch, though another is often spoken of. I will not have a ruse. I won’t accept it from any of you, especially my daughter.”
“Father—”
“I know that part of my daughter’s many charms is her bravery and her willingness to ignore society’s opinion of her in order to follow her heart. But in this I will not yield. I approve of Baron Evan wholeheartedly, but I do not extend those feelings to that blond rat.”
Lark and Winsome both set hands on Rohn’s arms in time to keep him from vaulting out of the chair.
“Father,” Winsome protested sharply. Juggler’s expression had closed so much he seemed lifeless.
“I’m in no condition to court anyone,” Lark reminded the baron gently. “Besides, I know you have few avenues of threat. Cutting off her wealth to make her seem less attractive will do no good. Our household has plenty.” It started to dawn on him, but he had trouble believing it. “But I do believe your daughter loves you, and if you demand, she will obey. I will add this for your consideration. As soon as I’m strong enough I plan to sail for the mainland. I will be quite out of the way.” Had the baron lost all care for his soul to protect his daughter, and arranged to poison Lark? He might have even done it himself.
Lark looked to Juggler. If so, had he done other things as well? Had he damned himself and his jester? If so, then the sense of kinship he felt toward Juggler made even more sense.
But this was all guessing. Just because it rang true, it didn’t mean it was the answer.
Sometimes there’s more than one answer. The memory of Gutter’s voice comforted him at the same time that it reminded him.
Baron Kilderkin frowned under everyone’s gazes for a long time before he spoke. “That is reassuring.”
Rohn was trying to catch Lark’s attention but Lark didn’t let him. It would be for the best. Lark wanted to see Gutter again anyway. Whoever had poisoned him had done him a strange favor. Lark wasn’t afraid anymore. He’d just ask Gutter directly about everything.
Juggler seemed to wake from death. “Perhaps Lark and I should leave you to continue your discussion in private.” He stood and Lark followed his example. They bowed and Gale followed them out, up a narrow set of stairs, and into what Lark guessed was Juggler’s sitting room. Juggler made the rounds lighting mismatched lamps until the room glowed with light. He could have more easily opened the dark curtains, but he didn’t seem inclined to even brace one aside.
The room was crowded with old weapons, books, armor, musical instruments, bags, clothes hung and strewn everywhere—he couldn’t possibly entertain anyone here. The clutter made it seem more intimate and private than any bedroom. And it revealed even more of Juggler’s pain, but his love as well. He loved memories, and music, and dice and cards and games and gloves and weapons. He had some exquisite pistols, and his collection of daggers, though seemingly strewn with no care whatsoever, had no sign of dust or rust. Not even a stray fingerprint. Gale snuffled everything, and sneezed a few times.
“This is a beautiful piece,” Lark told him, not daring to touch the gold and ebony pistol with blue abalone inlay. It was far closer to a work of art than a weapon.
Juggler picked it up brusquely and handed it to Lark handle-first. “Keep it.”
“What?” It was loaded, and Lark didn’t like the way it was pointed toward Juggler’s chest. He accepted it just to point it somewhere safer.
“They’re your colors. Keep it.” He sat down at a small table and cleared it off with a sweep of his arm. “Cards?”
Lark set the pistol on the table with the muzzle pointed toward the thick outside wall. He found a small stool set askew in a corner and carried it to the table. “Yes. Thank you.” He had to be careful of what he admired, it seemed. “You’re too generous.”
“Look at this.” Juggler gestured around the room. “What am I going to do with it all? I’ve already given away a fortune to my men. I don’t even remember who I killed for that anymore. It’s another sign that it’s time to give it away.” He found a deck of cards within reach without having to hunt for them and began to shuffle. “Game?”
Gale returned to Lark and leaned carefully against his leg. “How about tellu?”
“I’ve never played.”
“Excellent. I’d love to teach you.”
Juggler rewarded him with a slight, brief smile. “I’d love to learn. Show me.”
Lark dealt two hands face-up on the table and started going over the rules. Juggler caught on quickly, and recognized its relationship to the much more risky and famously bankrupting dukalt. In many ways it was a cleaner game, without dukalt’s many traditional and quirky trumps and named hands introduced over hundreds of years by nobility and jesters in famous games. A keen mind could track the deck and better his chances of winning tellu. In dukalt, too much favor rested with the leader, and tracking the deck or studying odds gave little advantage. Players would often hold out longer than they ought to in dukalt, hoping that the lead advantage would help them win back their losses.
They played quietl
y for at least an hour without wagering, just counting points to declare a winner. Gale sat under the table, her head resting on one of her legs and one of Lark’s feet. When Juggler finally won a hand he slapped the table and laughed. It startled Gale, but she set her head down again. “I finally got you.”
“You did.” It was a pleasure playing with someone who could keep track of points without paper or even a comment. They both simply knew each others’ scores.
Juggler’s pleasure faded. “Feather is quite taken by you.”
Lark’s skin prickled with warning. “Are you in love with her?” Gale lifted her head.
“Isn’t everyone?” He chuckled softly, his gaze down-turned Lark sensed something there, something important. Juggler had yielded something to her, and he hadn’t wanted to. “No, I don’t love her. Far from it. We played a while. No, I love an entirely different sort of woman. I haven’t seen her in weeks. You’ve been quite disruptive.”
“I’m sorry I took you away from her.”
Juggler stood and fetched a small vial from an elaborately carved wooden case full of vials. Opened it.
The scent of that spice made Lark’s stomach lurch. He surged off the stool, nearly tripping over it in his haste. Gale hurried to the door and gazed at Lark anxiously.
“You ought to know its history, and how it’s made,” Juggler told him. Lark fought to hold on to the colonel’s calm heartbeat, but he’d startled Rohn and now his heart lurched drunkenly between outright fear and the colonel’s growing uneasiness. He hoped Rohn wouldn’t come upstairs to check on them. He wanted to hear what Juggler had to say.
Gale came back to him and put herself solidly between him and Juggler.
“There’s a rare flower known as deatlall, a nasty thing with a deep gullet full of liquid. Insects are drawn to it, crawl inside the flower, slip on this stuff, and drown in the gullet. The liquid has a scent very much like fresh blood, but it’s not the liquid that’s deadly to human beings. It’s the slippery lining. It’s deadly to pigs too. The flower grows in treacherous, swampy land but in a drought the pigs suddenly have access to it, eat it and die. It’s so toxic that eating the flesh of a poisoned pig also kills. You’ll find rotten pigs and dead gulls and dead rats all laying about, contorted by agony. The man who drank your punch after you did died very quickly in convulsions, but those thirty seconds or so must have lasted an eternity to him.”
Lark forced himself to sit. He didn’t have the strength to stand much longer and his trembling didn’t help steady his legs. Gale braced against his knees.
“The poison’s potency doesn’t last, though. It took a lot of alchemy to develop it into this syrup. Just knowing the recipe is considered a sin.” Juggler closed the vial. The scent permeated the room, rich and cloying. The jester went to the window and cracked it open. “Boiling it destroys it utterly, but it can be reduced with sugar in clear water very carefully on bright days in a cup resting in black sand. It takes a long time to make just a little amount. I renew my supply every six months or so, when I suspect the potency is ebbing. It’s most destructive when ingested, but it can also do quite a lot of harm when painted on bullets, blades, and of course on puzzle scrolls.” He offered it to Mark. “Take it.”
“Why are you giving me this?”
“A little of the islands to take with you to the mainland. That is, if you really intend to go. More than one jester has seemed to sail away, only to be let off by long boat in a remote part of the island to return in disguise and hide in a baron’s house, or a shack by the sea, or in the jungle, or near the swamps where few dare to go but a handful of hardy families who make their living in happy seclusion.”
“I truly mean to go.”
Juggler seemed relieved, but his expression lost its life. He sat heavily in the chair. The tension Lark felt in Gale’s body through his knees ebbed.
“I’ll miss you.” Lark meant it, though part of him felt a relief that mirrored Juggler’s. He’d be away from whoever had tried to assassinate him. He hoped so, anyway. “I will come back as quickly as I can, though.” If I live long enough. “I have to help the colonel.”
“Will he actually campaign?” There. Hostility, but it didn’t seem to be directed at Rohn, or Lark. Someone Rohn was connected to?
“I don’t know,” Lark answered carefully.
Juggler smiled faintly. “He’ll have plenty of barons campaigning for him.” Sorrow, or maybe just fond memories that hurt only because they’d fallen into the past, gentled his gaze. The two strong emotions made no sense so close together, discussing the same person. There had to be a third party Juggler hated. It couldn’t be Feather, could it?
“Rohn told me he knew you.”
“He mentioned me?” Juggler shouldn’t have been surprised, but his voice gave him away.
Lark nodded.
“I thought he’d put me out of his mind as much as possible. Or did he warn you about me? That would be closer to what I would expect.” He tried to sound self-effacing, but the last word had a well-honed edge to it.
“He spoke gently of you. You are a hero, no less than him.” Lark shuffled the cards, trying not to reveal how closely he watched Juggler.
“Ha.”
“You both know what heroes do to win wars. I didn’t mean hero in the bland way that history declares it.”
Gale heard the footsteps on the stairs and the short way down the hall, her ears pricked, eyes bright. A knock sounded. Juggler rolled his eyes and went to the door. He opened it impatiently. “What.”
“Pardon me, lord jester, but the baron is on his way out and requests that Lord Jester Lark accompany him home.”
Not now. Damn him. Lark braced up using the table and his cane. Gale got out of his way, though she stayed close. He’d started to hunger anyway. Hunger no longer meant an uncomfortable yearning. It meant rising pain that quickly peaked into agony if he ignored it too long. He took up the pistol with some trepidation and thrust it through the back of his belt. It made a tight and uncomfortable fit beside his spine. “I would stay, but—”
“No need to make excuses. It’s time.” Juggler followed after them down the stairs. “Come visit one more time before you go. I’d like to play tellu again.”
“I’ll try. And you’re always welcome to visit me.” Lark offered his hand and Juggler grasped it firmly, not shaking, just holding with both hands.
“Be careful.” Juggler seemed to be trying to warn him.
Lark hoped he’d elaborate, but he didn’t. “You too.”
Rohn waited outside already astride his horse. One of the Kilderkin servants held Bindart’s reins, and another stood by. The young man helped Lark up into the saddle, and then lifted Gale expertly by tucking one arm under her chest and another behind her legs. Lark felt a lump under the saddle, but he ignored it and tried not to let his expression change as he helped Gale settle in front of him. Winsome was nowhere to be seen, nor was her father.
Lark waved goodbye to Juggler, and they started homeward. “How did it go?” Lark asked.
“Much better once you were out of the room.” Rohn gave him a long look. “You’re pale. Is the pain, or something more?”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Bindart chose her footing very carefully. It almost seemed as if she were afraid she’d drop him. He stroked her neck affectionately.
“Nice pistol,” Rohn remarked dryly. “Now what’s this about you going to the mainland?”
“I think it’ll be best. Besides, I have a lot of business to attend to.”
“I forbid it.”
“We’re together on borrowed time anyway. Please let me do some good while I can.”
“You’re my jester, and my friend, and I will not watch you sail off knowing I’ll never see you again. If you go I’m going with you.”
Lark closed his eyes and let go. Mark slipped the mask off. It took him a few moments to feel more like himself—afraid, ill, but able to nurture and protect a fragile humanity that Lark so of
ten lacked. “I need to talk to Gutter alone. And as much danger as I’m in here, you’ll be in ten times or more on the mainland. Besides, you have a campaign. And I won’t be gone forever. Six months at most.”
“The doctor gave you less than a month. What makes you think you’ll even reach the mainland?”
“Dr. Berto also gave me a week, and I bet he didn’t think I’d make it through the night when he first examined me. He’s been wrong every time. I’ll live like anyone else. I’ll live until I die, and I’m not dead yet. I would like to settle a few debts, though. Gutter will answer my questions now.” Mark stroked Gale’s head, and then Bindart’s neck. “I’ll have Gale with me. It’ll be all right.”
“You keep saying that it will be all right, but it won’t. I lost—I won’t lose you.” The rough, low words rekindled Mark’s fears.
“You can’t lose me. We’re bonded.” He had to change the subject or he’d start to dwell on the terrors that awaited him. “So. Are you courting her or not?”
Rohn ducked his head. “I am.”
“Good.”
“You give up so easily.” Rohn’s expression tightened and he galloped off. Mark trusted Bindart with him, but he was certain Gale would fall and he was worried that whatever was under the saddle might hurt Bindart or be lost if he tried to catch up.
It’s for the best. I just have to keep imagining him with Winsome and a house full of children, all blissfully happy.
By the time he reached the house it was getting on toward sunset. Philip met him outside. He helped Gale down, and then Mark.
“There’s something under the saddle,” Mark warned him. “Let’s get her in. I don’t want any of the new servants to see.”
Philip took her into the stable, Gale roaming around them and the horse all the way. When they got Bindart in her stall Mark flipped up the saddle. It was a thin leather case carefully tucked between the saddle and blanket with ties draped under the saddle’s frame to help hold the case in place. Mark took off his waistcoat and draped it over his arm so that it hid the case where he nestled it under his elbow. He walked to the house, Gale trotting after him with her tongue lolling. He was careful not to hurry, and took the back way up to his room.
The case held several pages and envelopes. He drew one out.
The broken seal ... RT—
His eyes rolled back and he smelled the spice. He’d been poisoned, dying. His head cracked on something and he was drowning in a stream of luminous sand that glowed an ugly yellow brown. He couldn’t scream, or move, or breathe—
Mark gasped in a hard breath that seared him more than his burning belly. He was on the floor and Gale was whining, rushing between licking his face and scratching at his door. He’d pissed himself and all he could smell was that poison. He was so weak he couldn’t even move.
Trudy knocked. “L’jeste? Is everything all right?”
Gale clawed frantically at the door and her whine turned to keening. Trudy opened the door and shrieked. Gale bolted out and then back in. Trudy collapsed beside him and stroked his face. “You’ll be all right. I’m right here. You’ll be all right.” She rubbed his back.
Rohn charged in. “What happened?”
“He had another seizure.”
Another. He didn’t remember having any others, but he knew he’d missed a great deal during the worst part right after he’d been poisoned.
Rohn drew him up into his lap. “Trudy, get Philip and then start a bath.” Rohn held him close. All Mark could do was rest in his arms. “You’ll be all right.”
Mark found the strength to speak. “I told you.”
Rohn let out a pained laugh. It felt good to hear it so close and drumming at his ear through Rohn’s chest. Gale climbed onto him and licked his face. “No,” Rohn told her sharply. “Off.”
She sat back, apparently understanding the command. Rohn had told him that the puppies had been partly trained, but they hadn’t had time to go over anything except a few simple commands like sit, stay and heel. He suspected it would be a lot more complicated than directing a horse.
“Don’t.” Mark had to gather his breath. “Touch. The papers.”
“All right. They’re all over the floor, though.”
“Leave them.” He’d had gloves on. Even if they were poisoned, it wouldn’t have touched his hands. It was random chance that he’d had seizure just then. But it didn’t feel random. He had to be careful. He wanted to be sure before anyone else got hurt.
His eyes managed to focus on one of the pages. He’d caught a glimpse just before everything went black, but he didn’t fully comprehend it.
They were written in the code he’d learned from the book, the book that came with the signet ring whose stamp was in the cracked seal. None of it was in Winsome’s hand. They were all original. He was within an arm’s length of knowing but he couldn’t reach it.
“Shh,” Rohn breathed in his ear. “Just rest.”
“There’s no time.”
“We’ll wash you, and feed you, and then if you’re strong enough you can start translating all that gibberish.”
“The seal.”
“I see it. Is it the one taken from Obsidian?”
“Yes.”
Rohn held him closer. “Those papers have traveled over water. I can smell it.” He pulled the ribbon free from Mark’s hair and stroked the locks until he’d pulled all the loose ends away from Mark’s face. “I can translate it while you recover.”
“No. Don’t touch them.”
“I can wear gloves as well as anyone.”
As his senses returned he realized more and more. “There’s no time. You have to get Winsome out of that house.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those came from the Kilderkin house. They might be her father’s, or Juggler’s—if anyone realizes they’re missing she’ll be in danger.”
“No. No. You’re confused. She must have gotten them from somewhere else. If if she hadn’t, her father wouldn’t harm her. Juggler wouldn’t harm her. No.”
“I think the papers did come from her house. It explains so much.” It explained why she didn’t come out and tell them what she knew, and why she was so reluctant to name allies and enemies. “I don’t know what they’d do to her, but we’ll never see her again, that much I know. No one will ever see her again.” His strength was starting to come back.
Philip hurried in. “Is he all right?”
“Philip, help Lark undress and get him cleaned up. And don’t touch those papers. I’m going back to the Kilderkin estate. If I’m not back in two hours, I want you and Grant to bring all the servants into the manor and secure every door with a lock on it in the house. All the new servants will stay downstairs, and you and Trudy and Norbert are to remain here with Lark. I want Grant on guard at the main stairway. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rohn transferred Mark into Philip’s arms and stalked out.
“Now now, sir,” Philip soothed. “You let me do the work. We all got practiced at this while you were at your worst. Norbert’s already making you a meal. You’ll feel better after.”
“Cover those papers with something, please.”
“I’ll do that in a moment.”
“And I don’t want any of the new servants anywhere near this hall.” The idea that Rohn might not make it back home started to grow, and he realized how little merit he’d given to Rohn’s fears. He wanted to use his lord and master’s same words, but Rohn had already left.
Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone.
As if she’d heard him, Gale came close again and licked his face. Disgusting, but she loved him and that made it all right.
“That’s enough of that, doggie,” Philip told her fondly, and began helping Mark take off his waistcoat.