“Why are you so interested?” she asked. “I have spoken to you only once, and the only time you spoke to Laeth was to exchange unpleasantries.”
Tris drew in a breath and spoke slowly. “I have my reasons,” he said. “I don’t think that I will tell them to you yet—but I mean no harm to you or Lord Laeth.”
Rialla eyed him warily, but followed her instinct to trust him. “I used to be a slave, owned by Winterseine. I escaped years ago, and have been training horses in Sianim. When the Spymaster needed someone to play slave and accompany Laeth here, he recruited me.”
When the healer turned to look at her, she lowered her eyes, but continued speaking. “The Spymaster had word that there was a plot against Lord Karsten. It didn’t suit his purpose that Lord Karsten be killed, so he sent Laeth and me here to prevent it. As Lord Karsten’s brother, Laeth was a perfect choice. As his slave, I was supposed to gather information on who was trying to kill Karsten and why.” She shot Tris a quick, wry look. “Unfortunately, it seems that we only made the murder easier by giving the killer the perfect suspect. Laeth has always had a questionable reputation.”
Lowering her gaze, she continued slowly, “I believe that the man who killed Karsten was his uncle, Lord Winterseine. He came here with an empathic slave, who died by her own hand the night she arrived. I can’t be certain he intended to use her as a distraction for the creature in the ballroom, as he claimed that Laeth used me—I would have thought that she was too valuable for such use. Still, he certainly knew that she could be used that way.”
She pulled the fabric of the bedcover tight and released it. “As for magic, I know that Winterseine is a mage. He makes his living as a slave trainer and trader—he was the man who enslaved me. If slavery were outlawed, as Lord Karsten proposed, it would reduce Winterseine’s income enormously. With Karsten dead and Laeth blamed for it, Winterseine inherits all of Karsten’s wealth and protects his current income as well.”
Tris said, “I thought he was not at the hold when Lord Karsten was poisoned.”
Rialla shrugged. “He wasn’t there, but his servant Tamas was. It wouldn’t have been much of a feat for him to slip poison into the food or drink. A trusted servant, even someone else’s, is close to being invisible.”
She rubbed her temples to alleviate her headache and continued, “There is also the matter of the missing dagger. Any decent mage can tell who wielded a weapon used for murder.”
He had started to say something when she heard a knock from somewhere else in the cottage. He pushed her flat on the bed and put a finger to his lips, then shut the door quietly behind him as he left the room.
She couldn’t hear what was said, but she recognized the voice. When Tris, carrying what appeared to be a pile of bandages and a cloth bag, ushered Lord Winterseine into the room, she was lying down with her eyes closed. Winterseine touched her, and she moaned, channeling the pain from her leg to him through his touch, magnified enough that he didn’t leave his hand on her for very long.
“He’s right. Father,” said a voice that she recognized as Terran’s. “She still seems to be in much pain. The spikes on the tail of the swamp creature are poisonous. We should leave her here until she’s healed or she’ll be of little use to us. What good is a crippled dancer? From what I’ve been told, the healer is the finest in Darran. If she is recoverable, he is the one to do it.”
Poisonous, thought Rialla. The healer must be pretty impressive when he can make a tainted wound feel this well in less than a night.
“Very well, Healer,” said Winterseine’s hated voice, and she felt him pull back the quilt so he could see the tight bandages on her leg. Though she was wearing the gray slave tunic, she still felt exposed without the covering to hide beneath.
“I will be back to see her tomorrow,” he continued. “Don’t worry about payment. If my nephew is not freed, I will cover the expense. She is a very valuable dancer and well worth the investment—especially if you are able to keep her leg from scarring.”
“I will do my best, but not for the sake of your investment.” Tris’s voice was cold with dislike, and Rialla remembered that Laeth had said that the healer was not overly fond of aristocrats.
“Of course not, my dear man. A healer doesn’t think of such things as money when he is curing the sick.” Lord Winterseine’s tone was amicable, disguising the dig in his words. Everyone knew that this healer was infamous for charging exorbitant rates.
Apparently the dig bothered Tris not at all. He said coolly, “My rates increase with the irritation that the case gives me. Yours have just doubled. You have seen her. The door is in the same place it was when you entered.”
Winterseine laughed, but he left all the same.
Rialla and the healer waited until they heard the outside door open and shut. Tris stuck his head into the other room to make sure that they had left, then resumed his position on the foot of the bed.
“So,” he said warmly, as if the frost in his manner had never been, “what do you plan to do now?”
“First,” she said, “I need to get Laeth out of the guard tower. I suspect that unless Lord Winterseine makes a personal confession, Laeth will hang for the death of his brother.”
“I can help with that,” said Tris. He closed his hand and then opened it to show her the yellow rose that he held. Bringing the flower to his nose, he smelled it once; then he handed it to Rialla and continued to speak. “I have talents that might prove useful.”
She looked at the rose, wondering if he used magic or sleight of hand. Deciding it didn’t matter, she granted him a tentative smile. “Thank you.”
“And after you free Laeth?” asked Tris thoughtfully.
“Gods,” she said, “don’t ask me. I’m a horse trainer, not a spy. I suppose I’ll go back to Sianim with Laeth.” Something about retreating to Sianim left a bad taste in her mouth, but she didn’t know what else to do.
Tris got to his feet. “You’re not going to be capable of anything unless your leg is ready to hold you, so let me take a look under the bandage.”
He drew a knife from a boot sheath, and pushed the blankets to one side. With a brisk efficiency that said much for the sharpness of his knife, Tris cut away the bandage on her leg.
From the looks of the wound, a spike had hit just above her knee and ripped through muscle almost to her hip. The flesh around the wound was mottled with bruises. There was a poultice over the torn area, a green mass that made the slice look even nastier than it felt, but what caught Rialla’s attention was the smell.
She grabbed her nose quickly. “What is that stuff?”
Tris looked up momentarily from his perusal of the injury, unperturbed by the foul odor. “I’m not sure exactly what kind of poison the spirit-eater uses. This dressing should have drawn out most of it. Most of the odor is the poison, though the leaves have a strong scent of their own. I’m going to put the same dressing back on until it quits smelling, then I can start your healing.”
He separated an oil-treated cloth from the rest of his pile and lay it out on the bed, then taking a small pair of pincers from the bag on the floor, he began pulling the large green leaves off her leg. Once he had most of the big pieces off, he carefully picked out the bits and pieces of greenery that remained. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and Rialla bit her lip as the gentle probing induced the pain she had expected earlier.
Tris gathered up the mess and left the room, returning shortly with two pans of steaming water which he set on the floor. He dipped a clean cloth in the water, then wrung it out and set it on her leg; he repeated his action several times as the cloth cooled down. When he was finished, the wound was clean and Rialla was trembling.