"Now I need a cloth of some kind."
He didn't ask questions, just dug in the box until he found an old pair of—until he found some cloth. I couldn't be picky at that point. I poured a little dab on the cloth and applied it as best I could, wiping the excess carefully from my mustache.
"Dammit, Loiosh. I wish I had a glass. How does it look?"
"Compared to what?"
"Never mind. It'll have to do. Get rid of this cloth. Put it back in the box and bury it."
"With pleasure."
"And never mind the wisecracks."
I lay back on the bed and spent some time recovering my breath and remembering not to lick my lips. "Can you put the bottle back in the box too?"
"Boss, have you gone nuts?"
"Do not mock the afflicted, Loiosh. Not only am I a wreck, but as you can see, I've just been attacked by a witch."
"You've—"
"See? Red lips? Witch's mark?"
"Uh, who are you trying to convince?"
"Sit back and wait. All will be made clear."
When Meehayi came in with my lunch, I was lying on the bed, either barely breathing, or not breathing at all. If you're curious, you breathe only through your nose, into your chest, quick short breaths; and you can do it forever, though it takes some practice to just breathe into your upper chest. Oh, and my lips, of course, had a pronounced reddish tinge.
Meehayi dropped the bowl of stew (which was, as far as Loiosh and Rocza were concerned, either an unexpected bonus, or the only value the plan had in the first place), gave a high-pitched sort of scream, and bolted out the door.
I relaxed and waited off-stage for the next act in which I would be needed, like the ubiquitous merchant in a mannerist murder comedy. What I liked about this was that, if it didn't work, there was no risk—what had I done? Why, I'd taken a backache remedy and then had a nap; everything else had just been an over-reaction by a superstitious peasant boy.
Unless, by some fluke, Orbahn happened to hear about it too soon, and figured out it was a fake; in that case I was dead meat. But you need to accept some risks. It was much more likely that he'd hear about it later, and either manage to put only part of it together, or else figure out the whole thing and not care. Either way, I was good.
The first to arrive was Aybrahmis, with a look of mixed anxiety and rage on his features. That was odd, I have to admit. I'd expected him to show up; he was, after all, a professional; I hadn't expected him to take it personally.
The first thing he did was hold a looking glass to my lips. Through lidded eyes, I decided I hadn't done a half-bad job. I said, "Physicker?" My voice was weak, pitiful, a man just barely on this side of the Great Night. Heh. I missed my calling. I wonder if Miersen would cast me as First Student.
"Lord Merss!" he said. "I thought you—are you all right?"
"What...happened?" I managed to whisper through my barely moving lips.
"What happened?" he directed back at me.
"I don't..."
"Lord Merss?"
I opened my eyes again. "I was lying here. Then I, I couldn't breathe. That's all I remember."
Fenarian, my grandfather told me, is a language rich in curses that don't translate well. Yes, indeed it is.
I managed, "What...?"
"Witchcraft," he said grimly. "Someone made an attempt on your life."
I shook my head. "Can't. Immune. Natural—"
"It's witchcraft," he said firmly.
If you want to convince someone of something that is related to his field, but still outside it, first, plant the suspicion in his mind, then deny it is a possibility for an unconvincing reason.
"Boss? You know this won't hold up to scrutiny by a witch.”
"I know. That's the beauty of it."
The witch he'd been working with (I never did catch his name) came in around then, and started to examine me, but Aybrahmis started in on him before he had the chance, glaring and hissing whispers as he took him by the arm and spoke to him in a corner. The witch kept shaking his head and making gestures of denial with his arms.
He attempted twice more to examine me, but Aybrahmis wasn't letting him near. Reasonable: It looked like the Coven had just tried to kill me. It appeared that the disagreement might get physical. My money was on the witch, but my concern was that they not fall on top of the sick guy.
I admit I felt a tiny bit sorry for the poor witch; he'd done his best to heal me, after all. But those infusions had tasted terrible, so I didn't feel all that bad.
Besides, I didn't have a lot of room in me for feeling anything at that point—that is anything except the need to get the job done and be away from there.
The witch left, saying loudly that he would speak with his superiors, and the physicker would hear from them. And there went the leg.
Aybrahmis came back, and listened to my chest with a device that fitted into his ears and made him look like an elephant. He said, "How are you feeling?"
"Better," I managed weakly. "Breathing...easier."
He nodded. "Your immunity is a resistance, not a full immunity, as such things usually are," he explained. I love it when they get pedantic about things they don't know. "And this time," he added, "it saved your life. They attempted to strangle you from a distance. I am going now to see to it that no such attempt is made again."
I moaned and tried a couple of times to speak, eventually succeeded. "In case you . . . fail."
"Hmm? Yes?"
"Wish to see ... Father Noij."
He gave me an understanding nod. "Of course," he said. "I'll have him sent for."
When he had left, Loiosh said, "Well, Boss, if that was an elaborate method to see the priest, it worked, but wouldn't it have been easier—"
"Wait and see," I told him.
"You think this will make the Count attack the Coven?"
"Not exactly. It's a bit more, ah, complex than that."
Aybrahmis was as good as his word: Father Noij appeared in less than half an hour. His expression was reserved and distant; he looked the way you'd look if you were to offer condolences to a dying or possibly dying man. He came up to the bed, and I don't know what he was about to say, because I cut it off with, "In the sacred name of Verra, the Demon Goddess who owns my soul according to the ancient pacts, I demand sanctuary."
When he could talk again, he said, "I thought—"
"Yeah. I'm not actually dying, as it were. Just a simple misunderstanding. Well?"
"Sanctuary?"
"That's right."
He looked uncomfortable. "My home is small, but—"
"But I wouldn't last sixty hours in it. And you'd probably go down with me, not that that takes up a big part in my calculations, to be honest."
"Then—"
"I need to get out of town, out of the county, to a safe place, and I need you to arrange it. In secrecy. Because, I swear to you in Verra's name, if word gets to the right ears that you even know where I am, they will kill you on the way to getting to me. And don't try to get it to them, because you don't have a clue who they are. And if you even think of crossing me, I will kill you, and do not for a minute imagine that I can't. If I am dead, my jhereg will eat your corpse. Are you clear on this?"
His lips worked, then he nodded. "Threats are not necessary, Lord Merss. You have invoked sanctuary in the name of the Goddess"—he made a sign here with his hand; maybe it's a priest thing— "and that is sufficient. Of course I will aid you with everything in my power. The first question is, where should you go?"
"Fenario."