“No shit,” said Calo. “In the Order of Gandolo, we got pastries and ale every second week, and a copper piece every Idler’s Day, to spend as we wished. You know, for the Lord of Coin and Commerce.”
“I’m particularly fond of our priesthood of the Benefactor,” said Locke,
“since our main duties seem to be sitting around and pretending that the Benefactor doesn’t exist. When we’re not stealing things, that is.”
“Too right,” said Galdo. “Death-priesting is for morons.”
“But still,” asked Calo, “didn’t you wonder if they might not be right?” He sipped his ale before continuing. “That you might really be fated to serve the Lady Most Kind?”
“I had a long time to think about it, on the way back to Camorr,” said Jean. “And I think they were right. Just maybe not the way they thought.”
“How do you mean?” The Sanzas spoke in unison, as they often did when true curiosity seized the pair of them at once.
In reply, Jean reached behind his back, and from out of his tunic he drew a single hatchet, a gift from Don Maranzalla. It was plain and unadorned, but well maintained and ideally balanced for someone who’d not yet come into his full growth. Jean set it on the stones of the temple roof and smiled.
“Oh,” said Calo and Galdo.
IV . DESPERATE IMPROVISATION
“I pitch like my hair’s on fire.”
Mitch Williams
CHAPTER TWELVE. THE FAT PRIEST FROM TAL VERRAR
1
WHEN LOCKE AWOKE, he was lying on his back and looking up at a fading, grime-covered mural painted on a plaster ceiling. The mural depicted carefree men and women in the robes of the Therin Throne era, gathered around a cask of wine, with cups in their hands and smiles on their rosy faces. Locke groaned and closed his eyes again.
“And here he is,” said an unfamiliar voice, “just as I said. It was the poultice that answered for him; most uncommonly good physik for the enervation of the bodily channels.”
“Who the hell might you be?” Locke found himself in a profoundly undiplomatic temper. “And where am I?”
“You’re safe, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say comfortable.” Jean Tannen rested a hand on Locke’s left shoulder and smiled down at him. Usually rather fastidious, he was now several days unshaven, and his face was streaked with dirt. “And some former patients of the renowned Master Ibelius might also take issue with my pronouncement of safety.”
Jean made a quick pair of hand gestures to Locke: We’re safe; speak freely.
“Tut, Jean, your little cuts are fine repayment for the work of the past few days.” The unfamiliar voice, it seemed, came from a wrinkled, birdlike man with skin like a weathered brown tabletop. His nervous dark eyes peeped out from behind thick optics, thicker than any Locke had ever seen. He wore a disreputable cotton tunic, spattered with what might have been dried sauces or dried blood, under a mustard-yellow waistjacket in a style twenty years out of date. His spring-coils of curly gray hair seemed to sprout straight out from the back of his head, where they were pulled into a queue. “I have navigated your friend back to the shores of consciousness.”
“Oh, for Perelandro’s sake, Ibelius, he didn’t have a crossbow quarrel in his brain. He just needed to rest.”
“His warm humors were at a singularly low ebb; the channels of his frame were entirely evacuated of vim. He was pale, unresponsive, bruised, desiccated, and malnourished.”
“Ibelius?” Locke attempted to sit up and was partially successful; Jean caught him by the back of his shoulders and helped him the rest of the way. The room spun. “Ibelius the dog-leech from the Redwater district?”
Dog-leeches were the medical counterparts of the black alchemists; without credentials or a place in the formal guilds of physikers, they treated the injuries and maladies of the Right People of Camorr. A genuine physiker might look askance at treating a patient for an axe wound at half past the second hour of the morning, and summon the city watch. A dog-leech would ask no questions, provided his fee was paid in advance.
The trouble with dog-leeches, of course, was that one took one’s chances with their abilities and credentials. Some really were trained healers, fallen on hard times or banished from the profession for crimes such as grave-robbing. Others were merely improvisers, applying years’ worth of practical knowledge acquired tending to the results of bar fights and muggings. A few were entirely mad, or homicidal, or-charmingly-both.
“My colleagues are dog-leeches,” sniffed Ibelius. “I am a physiker, Collegium-trained. Your own recovery is a testament to that.”
Locke glanced around the room. He was lying (wearing nothing but a breechclout) on a pallet in a corner of what must have been an abandoned Ashfall villa. A canvas curtain hung over the room’s only door; two orange-white alchemical lanterns filled the space with light. Locke’s throat was dry, his body still ached, and he smelled rather unpleasant-not all of it was the natural odor of an unwashed man. A strange translucent residue flaked off his stomach and sternum. He poked at it with his fingers.
“What,” said Locke, “is this crap on my chest?”
“The poultice, sir. Varagnelli’s Poultice, to be precise, though I hardly presume your familiarity with the subject. I employed it to concentrate the waning energy of your bodily channels; to confine the motion of your warm humors in the region where it would do you the most good. To wit, your abdomen. We did not want your energy to dissipate.”
“What was in it?”
“The poultice is a proprietary conglomeration, but the essence of its function is provided by the admixture of the gardener’s assistant and turpentine.”
“Gardener’s assistant?”
“Earthworms,” said Jean. “He means earthworms ground in turpentine.”
“And you let him smear it all over me?” Locke groaned and sank back down onto the pallet.
“Only your abdomen, sir-your much-abused abdomen.”
“He’s the physiker,” said Jean. “I’m only good at breaking people; I don’t put them back together.”
“What happened to me, anyway?”
“Enervation-absolute enervation, as thorough as I’ve ever seen it.” Ibelius lifted Locke’s left wrist while he spoke and felt for a pulse. “Jean told me that you took an emetic, the evening of Duke’s Day.”
“Did I ever!”
“And that you ate and drank nothing afterward. That you were then seized, and severely beaten, and nearly slain by immersion in a cask of horse urine-how fantastically vile, sir, you have my sympathies. And that you had received a deep wound to your left forearm; a wound that is now scabbing over nicely, no thanks to your ordeals. And that you remained active all evening despite your injuries and your exhaustion. And that you pursued your course with the utmost dispatch, taking no rest.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.”
“You simply collapsed, sir. In layman’s terms, your body revoked its permission for you to continue heaping abuse upon it.” Ibelius chuckled.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days and two nights,” said Jean.
“What? Gods damn me. Out cold the whole time?”
“Quite,” said Jean. “I watched you fall over; I wasn’t thirty yards away, crouched in hiding. Took me a few minutes to realize why the bearded old beggar looked familiar.”