Ten sweaty staggering minutes later, he laid the stranger out on the tiles in front of the kitchen fire. He left him there and went to fetch in the gear and other supplies from the dulic, piled the pouches and blanket roll on the table and went back for a second load. There was more baggage than he’d expected, this was no wandering beggar, whatever else he was.
When the last load was in and piled on the table, he went to look at his patient. The man hadn’t changed position and wasn’t showing any signs of waking. Simms touched his brow. No fever. He was still cold but not quite so deathly chill. You’ll do for a while. I sh’d get those wet clothes off, but that can wait. Dulic first, then I deal with the door an’ take care of the stock, then it’s your turn, friend. Plenty of time for you. I be glad, though, when you wake and tell me what in u’ffren you’re doin’ out here. Wonderin’ makes me itch.
After he pulled the dulic back of the house and rolled it into a shed, he inspected the door he’d knocked down; he and Neddio had tramped back and forth across it dozens of times but even Neddio’s iron shoes had done little to mark the massive planks of mountain oak, glued together and further reinforced by horizontal and diagonal two-by-fours of the same oak nailed onto the planks with hand-forged iron nails. He muscled the door into the opening, propped it against the jamb, walked one of the jars against it to keep the wind from blowing it down again.
The two mules were tail switching and fratchetty, they kicked at Neddio if he went too close to them, nipped at Simms when he shifted some of the straw into another corner for his horse, even followed him, long yellow teeth reaching for arms and legs or a handy buttock, when he went to lay a fire in the parlor fireplace, though they didn’t like the fire much and retreated to their corner when it started crackling briskly. Keeping a wary eye on them, he dragged one of the parlor benches to the hearth and spread corn along it from a corn jar in the foyer. He rolled an ancient crock from the kitchen, filled it with water, took a look round and was satisfied he’d done what he could to make the beasts comfortable.
In the kitchen, he filled the tin tank in the brick stove and kindled a fire under it so he’d have hot water to bathe his patient; he laid another fire in the stoke hole, filled one of the stranger’s pots from the spring, dropped in dried meat from his own stores and lentils and barley from jars in the parlor, along with some of the tubers and herbs from the garden and set it simmering on the grate. He put teawater to heating beside the stew and went to inspect the stranger.
He was a long man, six foot five, six, maybe even seven with shoulders of a size to match his length. He had been a heavy man, big muscles with a layer of fat; he’d lost the fat and some of the muscle, his skin hung loose around him. He w’d make a han’some skel’ton. Simms smiled at the thought and drew his fingers over the prominent bones of the man’s face. Beautiful man. Thick coarse gray hair in a braid that vanished down the cloak. Brows dark, with only a hair or two gone gray. Eyelashes long and sooty, resting in a graceful arc on the dark poreless skin stretched over his cheekbones. Big, powerful man, but Simms got a feeling of fragility from him, as if the size and strength were illusions painted over emptiness. Beautiful shell, but only a shell.
He turned the stranger onto his stomach, eased his head around so his damp hair was turned to the fire and began stripping the sodden clothing off him, boots first, boot liners, knitted stockings, two pairs, wool and silk with the silk next to the silk. Gloves, fur lined. Silk glove liners. Fur-lined cloak. Silk-lined woolen undercloak. Wool robe, heavily embroidered over the chest, around the hem and sleeve cuffs. Silk under-robe. Wool trousers. Silk underwear. Whoever he was, he was a man of wealth and importance. What he was doing crossing the Grass in winter, alone… itch itch, wake up an’ talk t’ me, man, ‘fore my head explode.
He fetched the water from the tank and began bathing the stranger, concentrating at first on his hands and feet, check-
ing carefully for any signs of frostbite, pleased to see there were none. He didn’t understand why the man didn’t wake up, worried about it and was frustrated by his own ignorance. If his family hadn’t been so opposed to anything that smelled of witchery, if he’d had the drive and intelligence to go out and get training, beyond the little he picked up from his grandmer, if and if and if… Beautiful beautiful man, if he die, it’s my fault, my ignorance that kill ‘im. He dried the man, rubbing and rubbing with the soft nubby towel he’d found in one of the pouches, and still he didn’t wake, he yielded to Simms’ manipulations like a big cat to a stroking hand, it was almost as if his body recognized Simms and cooperated as much as an unminded body could.
He folded the towel, put it under the man’s head. I need clothes for you. I hope you don’ mind, I been goin’ through your stuff. He touched the man’s face, drew his forefinger along the elegant lips. Wake up, wake up, wake… He sighed and got to his feet.
The table was spread with the pouches and things he’d already pulled from them. He unbuckled the pouch that held the man’s spare clothing. Robes, rolled in neat, tight cylinders. He shook them out, chose one and set it aside. The blankets, I’d better have them. Another pouch. Meat, apples, trailbars wrapped in oiled silk-he set those aside as he came on them. A large leather wallet with papers inside. He tossed that down without exploring it, none of his business, at the moment anyway. A plump, clunk-clanking purse. He opened it. Jaraufs and takks, Jorpashil coin. Another towel, in an oiled silk sac along with bars of soap and a squeeze tube with an herb-scented lotion inside.
He gave over his explorations, carried the robe and lotion back to the man. Kneeling beside him, he rubbed the lotion all over him, enjoying the feel of him, the brisk green smell of the lotion. Y’ walk in circles I can’t even sniff at, everythin’ say it. He felt a pleasant melancholy as he contemplated the probable impossibility of what he wanted. When he was finished with the rubdown, he rolled the sleeper over, spread one of the blankets on the hearth; after sweat and swearing and frustration, he finally got the dry robe on him and shifted him bit by bit onto the blanket.
Weary beyond exhaustion, weary to the bone, Simms got heavily to his feet. The soup was sending out a pleasant smell, filling the kitchen with it, making it feel homier than any place he’d been in for years. He stirred the thick, gummy liquid, tasted it, smiled and shifted it from the grate to the sand bed where it could simmer away without burning. The tea water was boiling; he dropped in a big pinch of tea leaves, stirred them with a whisk and set the pot on the sand to let the leaves settle out. He picked up the wet, discarded clothing, hung it on pegs beside the fireplace to dry out and went into the parlor to check on the horses. The water in the crock was low; he emptied what was left onto the floor and fetched more from the kitchen. Neddio was sleeping in one corner, the mules were dozing in another. The truce seemed to be holding. He put out more grain, thinking: feed ‘em well while I got it and hope the storm blow out before we in trouble for food. He checked the fire, threw a chunk of fence post on and left it to catch on its own.
Back in the kitchen he stripped and straddled the waste channel, scooped up water and poured it over himself, shuddering at the bite of that icemelt, feeling a temporary burst of vigor as he rubbed himself dry on his visitor’s towel. He hung it on a peg, pulled on his trousers, turned to pick up his shirt and saw the man watching him.