The colt sniffed at the straw at his feet.
“Thankee, Brodie,” Geof Larimar said, abandoning his pretense at calm. “When I found 'im, allus I could think of was that 'is dam's over twenty, an' what was I gonna do come spring if she failed on me? I 'predate your comin' out in th' middle of th' night an' all.”
“I appreciate the ham -” Brodie replied, scratching the colt's ears, “and I'd rather you called me when the injuries are fresh, it's easier to treat 'em that way.”
“I coulda swore that leg was broke, though,” Geof went on inexorably, and Brodie went cold all over. “He couldn't put a hair worth o' weight on it -”
“Bad light and being hailed out of bed are enough to fool any man,” Brodie interrupted. “Here - feel the swelling?” he guided the farmer's hand to the area he'd just treated, still swollen and hot to the touch from the increased blood flow he'd forced there. “Dislocation, and a hell of a lot easier to put back in when it's just happened than if he'd had it stiffen overnight.”
“Ah,” the farmer said, nodding sagely. “That'd be why 'e couldn't put weight on it.”
“Exactly.” Brodie relaxed; once again he'd managed to keep someone off the track. He yawned hugely. “Well, I'd best be on my way. Could stand a bit more sleep.”
Geof showed him out and walked with him as far as the gate. From there Brodie took the lonely little path through the creek-bottom to his isolated hut.
Not isolated enough, he brooded. That Dark bastard managed to find me. . . .
For he hadn't been able to keep his secret from everyone. Three years ago, a handsome young man had come strolling up to his very door and proceeded to tell him, with an amused expression, everything he didn't want anyone to know. Then informed him that he would make all this public - unless Brodie agreed to “do him a favor now and again.”
The “favors” turned out to be Healing an endless stream of ruffians and bandits who came to his door by night, each bearing “Master Dark's” token. Their injuries were always the kind gotten in combat - Brodie asked no questions, and they never said anything. But after the first two, when it became evident that these patients were never better, than thieves and often worse, Brodie began taking a twisted sort of satisfaction in his lack of skill where they were concerned. It only seemed right that in order to be Healed these cutthroats suffered twice the pain they would have if they'd recovered naturally.
Brodie was altogether glad that it was the dead of winter. He seldom saw more than two or three of them during the coldest months. ...
He squinted up at the sky; first quarter moon, and the sky as clear as crystal. It would be much colder, come dawn.
He heaved himself up the steep, slippery side of the cut, and onto the path that led to his hut.
And froze at the sound of a voice.
“About time, ye ol' bastid,” growled a shadow that separated itself from a tree trunk and strode ruthlessly toward him. “Time t' pay yer rent agin. Th' Master needs ye.”
Eighteen
“What in Kernos' name did you do to him?” Brodie spluttered, white and incoherent with rage. Having to patch up one of these bastards was bad enough - but being called on to save one of their half-dead victims, presumably so that they could deliver similar treatment to him again - it was more than Brodie was willing to take silently.
The man was catatonic and just barely alive. Raped, beaten to unconsciousness, a cursory examination told Brodie he was bleeding internally in a dozen places, and only a wiry toughness that gave the lie to his fragile appearance had saved him from death before Brodie ever got there.
The so-called “Lord” Rendan shrugged. “It's none of your concern, Healer,” he growled. “Master Dark wants this man, and he wants him alive and able to talk. You Heal him; that's all you need to know. You'd better do a good job, too, or else. . . .”
Rendan smirked, showing a set of teeth as rotten as his soul, and his less-than-subtle threat chilled Brodie's heart. This was more than simple risk of exposure, then, this was his life that was in danger now.
But if he showed his fear . . . working with beasts had taught him that displaying fear only makes the aggressor more inclined to attack.
“Get out of here, and let me work in peace,” he growled, hoping the flickering of the single candle Rendan had brought into the storeroom hid the shaking of his hands. “Animals, the lot of you. Worse than animals, not even a rabid pig would do something like this! Go on, get out, and I'll see if anything can be done. And leave the damned candle! You think I'm an owl? And send in the boy - I may need him. He's practically useless, but the rest of you are worse.”
Rendan lost his smirk, confronted by defiance where he didn't expect it, demands where he expected acquiescence, and reluctantly sidled out, leaving Brodie alone with his desperate work.
Gods of light - Brodie didn't have to touch the man to know that it was a good thing he was unconscious. Every nerve was afire with pain. Brodie removed the heap of rags covering him carefully, all too aware of how the least little movement would make what was agony into torture for both of them.
The man was already a strange one; hair streaked with silver as any old gaffer, yet plainly much younger, and under the bruises was a face that would set maidens swooning. When Brodie got down to his clothing he frowned, trying to remember where he'd heard of white garments like this man wore.
Something out of Valdemar wasn't it? Kingsmen of some kind. Not Harpers-Heralds? What's a Kingsman of Valdemar doing outside his borders?
Well, it didn't much matter; the man's labored breathing told Brodie that if he didn't do something quickly, this particular Kingsman would be serving from under the sod.
All right, you poor lad, Brodie thought, nerving himself for the plunge. Let's see how bad you really are. . . .
Stef's throat was raw, and his eyes swollen when he finally got control of himself again. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, and carefully slowed his breathing.
Oh, gods, control yourself. Look at the facts, Stef; Van's gone. This isn't doing anybody any good. He's not dead, or there'd be a body. Besides, I'd know if he was dead. That means they took him away somewhere. They left a trail even I can follow, which means wherever they took him, I can find him. And if I can find him, maybe I can get him loose.
He took steady, deep breaths of air so cold it made his lungs ache, and looked up at the dark, star-strewn sky. Night had fallen while he'd cried himself senseless; there was a clear quarter-moon, so he should have no trouble reading the trail the ambushers had left. The moon was amazingly bright for the first quarter; so bright he had no trouble making out little details, like the drops of blood slowly oozing from the stump where poor Yfandes' tail had been chopped off -