“Thank God,” said IdrisPukke to himself, letting the bow sink downward and easing the bowstring.
There was a good deal of clumsy rustling and then Cale emerged in front of him.
IdrisPukke sat down, let out a long deep breath and started fiddling inside his pocket for his tobacco.
“I thought you might be dead.”
“No,” replied Cale.
“What about the guard?”
“He’s dead, yes.”
There was a grim laugh from IdrisPukke.
“You’re a caution, and no mistake.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Never mind.” IdrisPukke finished rolling his tobacco and lit up.
“Do you want one?” he said, gesturing with the cigarillo.
“To be honest,” said Cale, “I don’t feel very well.” And with that he slumped forward in a dead faint.
Cale did not wake up for another three weeks, during which time he came close to death on more than one occasion. Partly this was due to an infection caused by the arrowhead that had lodged in his shoulder, but mostly it was because of the medical treatment given him by the expensive physicians who had tended him night and day and whose ruinously stupid methods (bleeding, scraping and defusculating) had very nearly achieved what a lifetime of brutality at the Sanctuary had failed to do. And they would have succeeded if a temporary easing of his fever had not allowed Cale to recover consciousness for a few hours. Confused and disorientated on opening his eyes, Cale found himself staring at an old man in a red skullcap gazing down at him.
“Who are you?”
“I am Dr. Dee,” said the old man, who went back to placing a sharp and not especially clean knife to a vein in Cale’s forearm.
“What are you doing?” said Cale, pulling his arm away.
“Be calm,” said the old man reassuringly. “You have a bad wound in the shoulder and it has become infected. You need to be bled to let the poison out.” He took hold of Cale’s arm and tried to hold it still.
“Let go of me, you bloody old lunatic!” shouted Cale, though he was so weak it came out not much more than a whisper.
“Hold still, damn you!” shouted the doctor, and fortunately it was this that carried through the door and alerted IdrisPukke.
“What’s the matter?” he said from the doorway. Then, seeing Cale was awake, “Thank God!” He came to the bed and bent down low over the boy. “I’m glad to see you.”
“Tell this old fool to go away.”
“He’s your doctor-he’s here to help.”
Cale pulled his arm free again. Then winced at the pain in his shoulder.
“Get him away from me,” said Cale. “Or by God I’ll cut the old bastard’s throat.”
IdrisPukke signaled the doctor to leave, something he did with considerable show of hurt dignity.
“I want you to look at the wound.”
“I don’t know anything about medicine. Let the doctor come and look at you.”
“Did I lose much blood?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t need some half-wit to help me lose any more.” He rolled onto his right side. “Tell me what color it is.”
Gently, though not without causing Cale considerable pain, IdrisPukke eased back the stained and grubby-looking bandage.
“Its got a lot of pus-pale green-and the edges are red.” His face was grim now; he had seen killing wounds like this before.
Cale sighed.
“I need maggots.”
“What?”
“Maggots. I know what I’m doing. I need about twenty. Wash them five times in clean water, drinking water, and bring them to me.”
“Let me fetch another doctor.”
“Please, IdrisPukke. If you don’t do this for me, I’m finished. Please.”
And so twenty minutes later, full of misgiving, IdrisPukke returned with twenty carefully washed maggots skimmed from a dead crow found in a ditch outside. With the help of a maid he followed Cale’s detailed instructions: “Wash your hands clean, then wash with boiled water… Pour the maggots over the wound. Use a clean bandage and make the edges fast to the skin… Make sure to keep me on my stomach. Get as much water into me as you can…” With that, he lost consciousness again and did not wake up for another four days.
When he opened his eyes again, a relieved IdrisPukke was by his bed.
“How are you?”
Cale took in a few deep breaths.
“Not bad. Am I hot?”
IdrisPukke put his hand to his forehead.
“Not too bad. For the first two days you were burning.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Four days-though you weren’t resting for much of it. You were making a lot of noise. It was hard to keep you on your front.”
“Have a look under the bandage. It’s itching.”
Somewhat uncertainly IdrisPukke eased back the edge of the bandage, his nose twitching in disgusted anticipation of what he would find. He grunted in distaste.
“Is it bad?” asked an anxious Cale.
“Good God!”
“What?”
“The pus has gone-and the redness too-most of it, anyway.” He eased the bandage back more, though this time the now fat maggots dropped in twos and threes into the bedding. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Cale sighed-immense relief.
“Get rid of them-the maggots-then bring me some more. Same again.” And with that he fell into a deep sleep.
22
Three weeks later IdrisPukke and a still yellow-looking Cale made their way up to the great keep of Memphis.
Secretly Cale had expected some sort of official welcome and-though he denied this to himself-he wanted one. He had, after all, killed eight men single-handed and saved Arbell Swan-Neck from a hideous death. It was not that he required much for enduring such dangers: a parade of several thousands throwing flowers and cheering his name, capped off by the tearful welcome of the beautiful Arbell, standing on a dais decorated in silk and beside a desperately grateful father so overcome with emotion that he could not speak would be enough.
Instead there was nothing, just Memphis going about its relentless pursuit of making and spending money-today under looming skies as a thunderstorm approached. As they were about to enter through the great gates of the keep, Cale’s heart leapt as a sudden loud peal of bells rang out from the great cathedral, which was caught up in a wonderful ringing echo across the great city as the other churches followed suit. But his hopes were dashed by IdrisPukke.
“They ring the bells,” he said, nodding at the approaching storm, “to keep the lightning away.”
Ten minutes later and they were dismounting at Lord Vipond’s manor house. A single servant was there to greet them.
“Hello, Stillnoch,” said IdrisPukke to the servant.
“Welcome back, sir,” said Stillnoch, a man whose face was so deeply lined and creviced that it reminded Cale of an old man’s testicles. IdrisPukke turned to the exhausted but deeply disgruntled boy. “I’ll have to go and see Vipond. Stillnoch will take you to your room. We’ll have dinner tonight. I’ll see you then.” And with that he walked over to the main door. Stillnoch motioned Cale toward a smaller door at the far end of the manor.
Some stinking hovel, thought Cale to himself as his resentment blossomed.
But in fact his room, or rooms, turned out to be extremely pleasant. There was a sitting area with a soft couch and an oak dining table, a bathroom with its own jakes, something he had heard about but dismissed as a wild fantasy. And, of course, a bedroom with a large bed and a mattress stuffed with feathers.
“Would you care for luncheon, sir?” asked Stillnoch.
“Yes,” said Cale, on the basis that it sounded as if it might be food. Stillnoch bowed. When he came back twenty minutes later with a tray of beer, pork pie, boiled egg and fried potatoes, Cale was asleep on the bed.
Stillnoch had heard the rumors. He put down the tray and looked the sleeping boy over carefully. With his yellow skin and drawn features caused by the infection that had so nearly killed him, he did not, thought Stillnoch, look up to much. But if he had given that cocky little bastard Conn Materazzi a bloody good hiding, then he deserved respect and admiration. And on this thought he drew the covers up over the sleeping boy, closed the curtains and left.