Master of restless shado.., p.25
Master of Restless Shadows, page 25
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Atreau basked in the possibilities before the two of them. The bed stood only a few feet away. Couldn’t they both do with a little respite from a world of growing trouble? What harm could come of filling a few hours of this desolate night with companionable pleasure?
Then the ghostly, bleeding image of Miro filled Atreau’s mind. Sincerity, pleasure and affection carried their own dangers, he knew that—and shouldn’t have let himself forget for even a moment. He released Narsi at once and quickly walked past him back into the bedroom.
He was aware of Narsi’s perplexed expression, but he didn’t look back to him. It would be better for them both if the young physician took Atreau’s abrupt withdrawal as a personal rejection. Atreau went to his washbasin and splashed tepid water in his face. As he toweled dry, he caught Narsi’s gaze again. He appeared surprisingly serene, as if he’d expected to be released. Atreau couldn’t decide if he was relieved or vexed that the intimacy of their embrace hadn’t moved Narsi enough for him to feel irritated by its brusque ending.
Atreau pulled on his shirt and then caught up his sword belt.
“Do you truly mean to leave? In the middle of the night?” Narsi sounded almost amused. Then he offered Atreau an oddly gentle smile. “You don’t have to flee. I swear that I can restrain myself even if we return to sharing a bed. Or I could take the flo—”
“I’m afraid that your wiles are not what compel me to dash away,” Atreau said quickly before the lie could sound in his voice. With an effort he managed to meet Narsi’s gaze. “My visitor brought news, which requires me to return to the duke’s residence.”
“Will anyone there even be awake at this hour?” Narsi appeared rightly skeptical.
“If you want to stay and sleep, you can.” Atreau pulled on his boots. “Just lock the doors behind you when you leave in the morning. And try not to let anyone see you exit this particular building.”
“I appreciate the offer, my lord, but I rather think you overestimate the allure of your aged and empty bed. And I’m already awake, I might as well ride along with you,” Narsi replied. Then he swept up his own clothes.
In a matter of minutes the two of them left the building and found their horses in Spider’s stables. The mounts were far less genial about being roused than Narsi had been, but soon enough they were out on the streets.
Even in the dark they rode roundabout to the Gado Bridge. Atreau watched for the flutter of violet silk or the silhouette of any masked figure following their progress. They encountered neither. On the resplendent avenues of the north side, they passed numerous mansions where perfumed lamps lit golden interiors and shadowy figures. Atreau thought he recognized a few of the figures. His eldest brother, Lliro, laughed from up on a minister’s balcony.
Then the glossy black gates of Fedeles’s home came into sight. Atreau slowed his horse and drew nearer to Narsi.
“If we undertake further excursions,” Atreau said quietly, “we should agree now that if we’re separated as we were today then we’ll meet up either in the Fat Goose or my more private rooms.”
“I will look forward to it,” Narsi replied with a rather dashing smile.
The guards at the gates provided them with a lamp to light their way and the two of them continued on together. Narsi yawned. Atreau resisted the need to do the same and then failed. Narsi laughed and, for no reason he could name beyond sleep-deprived delirium, Atreau, too, suddenly found their exchange amusing.
They walked side by side from the stables to the walled garden that opened to Narsi’s rooms. Atreau wondered if Narsi would invite him in, and if not, how best to request the stone of passage from his medical satchel.
Then, just ahead, a long shadow bounded from the path and up into the dark branches of a tree. The figure moved with such speed and so silently that Atreau thought it a figment of his exhausted imagination, until a moment later when he saw the body sprawled across the flagstones.
All at once he was wide awake.
“Assassin!” Atreau shouted. “Assassin on the grounds!”
As Atreau raised the alarm, Narsi raced ahead and knelt beside the supine man. With a flick of his belt knife he opened the man’s shirt, revealing a deep puncture wound, still wet with hot, dark blood.
Lamps in the windows of the mansion and distant outbuildings lit up. Dozens of voices rose in a cacophony of groggy confusion and alarm. Dogs barked, geese honked and someone back near the ovens seemed to think something had caught fire. Master Narsi gave no sign of noticing any of it as he leaned in over the fallen man’s chest, attempting to stanch the flood of scarlet blood.
The cloying iron odor of the open wound washed over Atreau and he knew that Narsi wasn’t likely to succeed. No minor injury filled the air so distinctly; that was the pungent stench of a mortal wound, gushing up life’s blood. Atreau remembered the smell hanging over the red muck of battlefields. And washing across polished floorboards of his rented room. As long as he lived he didn’t think he’d ever forget that scent.
“Murder!” Atreau bellowed.
He heard guards racing toward them across the pebble path. When they arrived, Master Narsi would still be here to tell them what had happened, Atreau decided. But he was wasting time waiting for them—standing here filling his lungs with the stink of death.
He dashed across the pebble path after the shadowy figure fleeing through the trees. Delicate branches laden with dewy flowers slapped at his face. His lamp swung in his hand, throwing out flashes of brilliant illumination all around. Tree trunks flared into view. A rabbit bolted. Atreau thought he glimpsed a man’s figure just ahead of him—very broad shoulders filled out a dark cloak. But an instant later the lamp revealed only the crooked branches of an apple tree. The assassin seemed to melt away in the darkness.
When Atreau burst from the cover of trunks and limbs, he found the open grounds ahead of him standing empty and calm in the moonlight. Had the bastard crossed the grounds in seconds? No, not even a mounted rider could have managed that. So either the assassin had veered off to the duchess’s wing of the mansion—where a small army of guards roamed the halls—or he’d doubled back. That would put Master Narsi and his patient in the murderer’s path, Atreau realized.
Could this damned day get any more tiring?
He spun around and charged back the way he’d come. His heart hammered in his chest as much from fear as exertion. If this was one of the assassins who’d murdered Ciceron, then Atreau would be in for a hell of a fight. He gripped the hilt of his sword as he bounded out from the trees.
But all he found was Master Narsi still kneeling beside a dying man. An odd mix of both disappointment and relief washed over Atreau as he realized that the assassin had eluded him. He shook his head at his own foolish impulse to give chase. I’m acting like a fisherman who thinks he can land a whale. He glanced again to Master Narsi, and it occurred to him that the flattering quality of the young man’s company might have swayed him to emulate the heroic men whose feats filled his books. It took him aback to realize how fond he’d already grown of the other fellow.
Atreau frowned.
The young master physician seemed oddly still. Was it possible that he’d never seen a murdered man before? Was there something unspeakably disturbing that Atreau couldn’t make out through the gloom? Ciceron had been decapitated, he remembered.
“Master Narsi?” Atreau started forward.
“Stay back!” Narsi called out. “There’s muerate poison in his wound and I think the assassin dropped a vial of the stuff. There’s a pool of it here and shards of broken glass.”
Atreau stopped immediately. Lady Hylanya’s recovery aside, muerate was not a poison to trifle with. It had been known to kill people who simply handled the stuff with their bare hands.
“He’s not breathing. I can’t feel his pulse either.” Master Narsi paused as he leaned over the man’s chest. “The wound in his chest is small, but quite deep and very precise. I believe his heart is bisected. I can’t . . . I can’t do anything for him.”
“What about you?” Atreau lifted the lamp higher and carefully walked nearer. As the lamplight fell across the prone man’s body and glassy-eyed stare, it became obvious that there was no hope for the guard. Still Master Narsi pressed his hands over the wound in the man’s chest out of some reflex. His expression was drawn, but not wild with terror. At least not yet.
As Atreau moved the lamp lower he noted, with growing horror, that the muerate poison was already blackening and inflaming the physician’s hands. His fingers looked painfully swollen and blisters bubbled up across the backs of his hands.
“I’ve definitely gotten a dose through my skin, but it’s the cut on my right hand that’s the real problem,” Master Narsi said in the slow, careful manner of a man intent upon maintaining a calm air. “I’m . . . I’m experiencing some difficulty moving. I may not remain conscious much longer. It . . . it’s important that I not be declared dead too quickly. I’m guessing—hoping—that I haven’t absorbed a fatal dose. I’m relatively large and in good health, so there’s a strong chance that I’ll regain consciousness within . . . two days. My hands and this man’s body need to be rinsed with bonechalk water before anyone handles . . .”
Narsi’s eyes rolled and he swayed, but then he took in a sharp breath and locked his gaze on to Atreau.
“Make sure you and anyone else who comes near wears oiled gloves . . . watch for the glass shards . . . and, Atreau, don’t forget your . . . stone of . . .”
He sat back, then collapsed onto his side.
An instant later two parties of household guards rushed up. Atreau could hardly tear his gaze from Narsi’s still figure to look at any of them. He’d just met the young man; and he’d truly enjoyed his company. It seemed horrific that he would die now.
“What’s happened?” One of the guards asked, while the other just stared at the bodies lying on either side of Atreau.
“An assassin has entered the duke’s house. We interrupted him only moments ago, but he already killed one man.”
Atreau couldn’t allow himself to think about Master Narsi. He forced his attention to the guards, scanning all of them quickly for any sign that one of their number had been in a scuffle before this. No, it didn’t appear that the assassin hid among them. Atreau ordered the majority of the guards to begin searching the grounds for the assassin immediately. He sent the remaining two to fetch Fedeles.
“And send someone to me with oiled gloves!” Atreau shouted.
A better man than himself would have crouched down beside Master Narsi and felt along his throat for a pulse. Most likely that better man would also get himself poisoned for his efforts. Even with that thought, Atreau stepped closer and held out the lantern. Master Narsi’s chest rose slightly and then fell. He still drew breath. But for how much longer? While the muerate remained on his hands he would be taking in more poison.
Master Narsi had mentioned chalk water, hadn’t he?
Atreau noticed the physician’s satchel laying near his right foot. He snatched it up and rifled through the contents—Hylanya’s necklace and the collection of gold coins were useless to him right now. Just as he found a jar of powdered bonechalk a large group of maids arrived—several wearing only their nightshirts. Atreau gripped the bottle of bonechalk and snapped the medical satchel shut.
Querra, the woman in charge of the kitchen gardens, and a group of strapping groundsmen charged up and nearly trampled the maids surrounding Atreau.
“Don’t touch either of them. They’ve been poisoned with muerate,” Atreau warned them all.
“That’s Dommian,” Querra commented as she took in the dead guard’s face. Atreau vaguely recalled hearing the man’s name previously, but he couldn’t recollect where exactly.
“Oh no! Not young Master Narsi as well!” The expression of sorrow in Querra’s face made Atreau think that he wasn’t the only one who’d taken an immediate liking to Master Narsi. “Oh, but the boy only just arrived.”
“He’s not dead,” Atreau assured her. She dropped down beside Master Narsi’s head and whispered something in Haldiim.
“Where are the guards?” a ruddy gardener asked. His gaze darted across the swaying shadows cast by the surrounding trees. Many of the maids appeared anxious as well.
“They’re already hunting for the assassin.” Atreau returned his attention to Querra and Master Narsi. “We need water to wash away the poison . . . and oiled gloves.”
Querra nodded and dispatched several groundsmen. Two maids raced away with them to wake the rest of the household and further the search for the assassin.
Querra shoved her tangled silver hair back from her face. “Lift the lantern a bit higher and to the right, will you, Atreau?”
Given something to do, Atreau obeyed immediately.
“He—Master Narsi—said that he and the guard should both be washed with bonechalk water.” Atreau held out the medical jar.
“Well, young Master Narsi certainly kept his wits about him, didn’t he?” Querra nodded and took the jar. Despite her easy words, her expression turned mournful as she glanced to Narsi’s hands. The swollen flesh looked almost charred and blood seeped up from the pores of his skin. Atreau had seen far worse injuries, but still he felt horrified. A physician’s hands were his tools. He shifted his gaze to Master Narsi’s face. How tranquil and calm he looked.
“A shrewd fellow wouldn’t have endangered himself for the sake of a mere guard, but that shows you the quality of the man. Father Timoteo is right about him.” Querra spoke softly, then she craned her head back to call to the remaining maids. “We’ll need to make the master physician’s room ready for him. And we’ll need waxed cloth to carry Dommian’s body away from here.”
Atreau heard her and noted the maids rushing away, but his attention remained on Master Narsi’s slowly rising and falling chest. His own breathing felt tight, as if the guilt gripping him was an ever-tightening band of iron. If he hadn’t drawn Narsi into his plans then the young physician would never have been in this place at this hour. If he’d not brought Narsi . . .
Then no one would have woken Hylanya and Yago would have seized her. Inissa and Atreau would both have been jailed and Cadeleon would be at war with Labara in less than a week.
Even filled with regret, Atreau knew he’d made the correct decision in choosing Narsi—even if this was the cost. He had sacrificed other agents to achieve far less; he despised himself for that, but it was true.
Narsi had accomplished so much in just one day that Atreau had felt a flutter of brash confidence and optimism return to him for the first time in years. For a few hours it had seemed almost as if he’d returned to that long-ago boyhood when he’d believed that he and his friends could overthrow the cruelty and corruption of the entire world.
Now he might lose Master Narsi when they were just beginning . . .
The groundsmen returned with troughs of water and Atreau focused himself on the need to treat Narsi’s hands. Querra took a pair of oiled gloves for herself and handed another pair to Atreau.
“Strip him while I mix the water,” Querra said, and Atreau set to work at once. Fortunately a lifetime of undressing both drunks and injured men granted him an expertise in doing away with clothing in seconds. He didn’t think that Narsi had contacted the muerate anywhere but his hands. But he wouldn’t chance being wrong. And to Atreau’s eye he possessed a handsome enough figure that the guards, maids and groundsman who glimpsed it should count themselves lucky.
Years earlier Atreau imagined he would’ve indulged in a lingering perusal of the physician’s sleek muscles and comely endowment. But now his heart hammered with fear for the man’s life as he almost frantically searched every inch of Narsi’s body for a trace of burning black muerate poison. For just an instant he thought a droplet of poison had eaten through Narsi’s thin trousers to his thigh, but relief swept through him as he realized that he held his lamp up over a small bluish birthmark. Vaguely, he recalled glimpsing it earlier in the evening.
“The poison’s only on his hands,” Atreau pronounced.
Querra measured out the bonechalk, poured some into one wooden trough, and then dashed a second dose into the other. A cloudy blue froth bubbled up as she stirred the water with her arms. Atreau claimed the first trough, plunging Narsi’s arms into the cold water. Narsi’s head fell back against Atreau’s shoulder and Atreau felt the rise and fall of his slow breathing against his chest.
As he moved Narsi’s arms through the water, involuntary shudders of pain shook through Narsi’s hands. For an instant his eyes opened, and he attempted to jerk free of Atreau’s grip. Atreau held him in the water. A moment later he slumped back against Atreau. Blood and black fluid foamed up to the surface of the trough. Atreau pushed it away from Narsi’s exposed arms with his gloved hands.
Two groundsmen followed Querra’s directions and dumped the second trough of treated water over the dead guard’s bloody, blackened chest. Querra moved to Master Narsi’s side and joined Atreau, skimming the bloody foam off the water, causing a young gardener to yelp and jump back.
“The muerate is dissipated. This stuff’s no worse for you than frogspawn,” Querra snapped. “We need to clear it away so we can see our master physician’s hands.” She took up the lamp Atreau had set aside and peered into the water. Atreau noted that several of the gardeners and maids looked too.
In the yellow glow of the surrounding lamps the water took on a green tinge. Beneath that Master Narsi’s hands appeared swollen stiff and almost blue. Jet-black muerate stains discolored his nails and stretched up his fingers in long, inflamed streaks.
