Deveren reached for her hand, squeezed it. "You look exhausted."
"I am."
He voiced the question she was thinking but did not dare articulate. "Vervain… if one healing does this to you… how can you expect to cure a whole city?"
She closed her eyes, opened them. "I can't. Not with heart magic alone. But there may be something else… perhaps I can come up with an herbal substitute. I have been able to do that on occasion for people who are too ill to come to me themselves, or too far away for a Healer to reach." She forestalled Deveren's exclamation of relief with a wave of a weary hand. "It won't be easy. And truthfully, I am not hopeful. Even if I am successful, it will take time to create… and the victims must be cured one by one.
Her body ached. She rubbed her stiff neck absently as she added soberly, "And such a struggle of the soul… the cure could even be fatal to some."
They sat for a few moments, weighted down with the new, dreadful knowledge, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the slumbering child and the crackling of the fire. At last Vervain struggled to her feet. "We must finish burning the clothing. Then Allika must be bathed."
At the sound of her name, the child roused, groped sleepily. "Where's Miss Lally?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"Here she is, honey," Deveren replied swiftly, reaching to pick up the rag doll from the floor where she had fallen during Allika's struggles.
"No!" Vervain's voice was sharp.
"But…?" Deveren was confused. Allika sat up, sensing trouble.
"The doll is as contaminated as her clothing. Perhaps more so," replied Vervain. "I'm sorry, Allika. But…" she glanced helplessly over at Deveren. "We have to burn her."
"B-burn her?" Allika's lower lip trembled. "But you can't! She's my baby! I have to take good care of her!"
The tone in her voice was different. Vervain noticed it immediately. This was not the wild Allika, enjoying being spiteful. These were the words of a hurt child, crying out for the thing she loved. If Deveren was right, and she was a thief, familial love must not be easy for her to come by.
But even as Vervain gazed at the doll, she saw a small insect crawling over its faded, painted face. She shuddered. It had to be destroyed.
"Allika," she said gently as Deveren still clutched the doll, "Remember how sick you were just now?" The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. "Well, Miss Lally's sick, too. But I can't heal her. And unless we put her in the fire, she'll make you sick again."
"But… Miss Lally's never gotten sick. Not even…" Allika gasped. "I made her sick! I made her sick! I make everyone sick, and then they have to get burned, just like on the ship!" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
"Dear gods," said Vervain, her face going white. "She must have been on the Death Ship." What a dreadful thing that had been. She had fought to be permitted to go aboard, to try to Heal the sick, but had been denied.
"But there were no survivors," said Deveren.
'That we knew of," amended Vervain. "Allika, do you think you killed all those people? Made them sick?"
The little girl nodded wretchedly. Vervain's heart went out to her. "Oh, honey, you had nothing to do with that. And Miss Lally didn't get sick because of you, either."
"But… I saw them burn…" She turned brimming eyes toward Vervain. "I don't want to make you or Fox sick."
"You won't," Deveren replied swiftly. "We'll be just fine."
"But…" Allika paused, wiped an arm across her streaming nose, and said softly, "Miss Lally makes me brave. She got me through that night when the, the black-soot men came, and when I found the rat…"
Deveren picked up Allika, blankets and all, and sat down with her in his lap. "Allika, you've got it backwards. You made Miss Lally brave. And now you have to make her brave enough to go into the fire so that she won't make you sick again. You know she wouldn't want that."
Allika's eyes searched Deveren's. Vervain watched them both closely. Neither spoke for a long time, but neither had to. She wondered if Deveren could see the aching need for love in the child's small face; wondered if he realized how his own softened and brightened when he was with the little girl. Somehow, sadly, she doubted it.
At last, Allika spoke, with a voice as small as the littlest breeze. "Hold her up, please, Fox." Deveren did so, taking care that the girl did not come in direct contact with the soiled, ratty doll. Allika gulped.
"Miss Lally," she said, "you're going to have to go into the fire."
"But Allika," she said again, pitching her voice high, "I don't want to."
"I don't either," sobbed the girl in her own voice, "but Fox says you're sick. And it's the only way we can both get better."
"Oh," came the higher voice of Miss Lally. "Remember what I said to you that night? They can't hurt me!"
"I love you, Miss Lally." The voice was a whisper. Allika buried her head in Deveren's chest, fighting back tears. "You can put her in the fire now, Fox. It's all right."
Gently, Deveren leaned forward, keeping a firm grip on Allika as he tossed the rag doll into the flames. It caught at once, and Miss Lally seemed to writhe as she was blackened and consumed. Allika didn't watch. She clung to Deveren as if he were life itself, and the nobleman's arms went around her to hug her just as tightly.
Vervain turned her eyes toward the burning toy, but in her mind's eye, she saw the Death Ship that Allika had escaped. She said a silent prayer to her goddess that she would be able to find a cure, and soon, else all of Braedon-perhaps all of Byrn-would only find purification through the leaping orange tongues of flame.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She may be no beauty, no goddess is she,
And all of her charms can be had for a fee;
But although her body can be bought and sold,
She's surely a whore with a heart of pure gold.
Castyll had no idea that the majority of the people he ruled smelled quite so bad. The odor of unwashed bodies vied with the reek of meat that had turned, the choking smoke of dozens of pipes and, most unpleasant of all to the young king's innocent nose, the cloying, almost overwhelming perfumes that the prostitutes used to disguise their lack of hygiene.
Castyll had never been in better spirits.
He had to nearly shout to be heard over the hubbub of laughter, chatter, and off-key music that filled the "house."
"I hardly picture you being at home among such company," he said to Damir.
The other man smiled slightly. "I'm able to blend in where I must," he replied. "As are my men," he added with a smile. The men who had helped Castyll escape had accompanied them, and presently, with their lewd talk and loud laughter, the formerly silent killers were indistinguishable from the regulars.
"Are all these women spies?" Castyll asked, looking from one painted face to another. Some of the women were in various stages of undress, as their clients examined what they'd be paying for, and Castyll felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. He hastily returned his attention to his friend.
"Every last one, gods bless them. A few are professional spies and turned their, er, hands to this as readily as posing as lost nobility in a king's court. Others were working here before and proved to be easily bought."
"Are they… can you trust them? And what about the men who… their…"
"Their clients?" finished Damir, chuckling a little. "I think it's rather clear that they are not interested in espionage at the moment; and even if they were, they are too far away to hear our conversation. All the whores are loyal to me-and therefore to you. This is probably the safest place in Your Majesty's entire kingdom." He raised his frothing mug of beer in a salute.