Just as desperately, the merchants here in Heredon needed to sell their own wool and linen and fine steel to the foreigners. Most of the bourgeois traders had large amounts of money that they both borrowed and loaned. If a ban were enforced, hundreds of wealthy families would go bankrupt. And it was the wealthy families of Heredon who paid taxes to support King Sylvarresta's knights.
Indeed, Sylvarresta had his hand in dozens of trading deals himself. Even he could not afford a ban.
Iome's blood felt as if it would boil. She tried to resign herself to the inevitable. Her father would be forced to release the spy, make a reconciliation. But she would not like it.
For in the long run, Iome knew full well, her family could not afford such reconciliation's: it was only a matter of time before Raj Ahten, the Wolf Lord of Indhopal, made war against the combined kingdoms of Rofehavan. Though traders from Indhopal crossed the deserts and mountains now, next year—or the year after—the trading would have to stop.
Why not stop the trading now? Iome wondered. Her father could seize the merchandise brought by the foreign caravans—starting the war he'd long hoped to avert.
But she knew he would not do it. King Jas Laren Sylvarresta would not start a war. He was too decent a man.
Poor Chemoise! Her betrothed lay near death, and would not be avenged.
The girl had no one. Chemoise's mother had died young; her father, a Knight Equitable, had been taken captive six years ago while on a quest to Aven.
“Thank you for the news,” Iome told Corporal Clewes. “I will discuss this matter with my father.”
Iome hurried up now to the knot of soldiers. Sergeant Dreys lay on a pallet in the green grass. An ivory-colored sheet lay over Dreys, pulled up almost to his throat. Blood looked as if it had been poured liberally over the sheet, and it frothed from the corner of Dreys' mouth. His pale face was covered in sweat. The slant of the morning sunlight left him in shadows.
Corporal Clewes had been right. Iome should not have seen this. All the blood, the smell of punctured guts, the impending death—all nauseated her.
A few children from the castle were up early and had gathered to witness the sight. They looked up at Iome, shock and pain in their eyes, as if hoping that she could somehow smile and set this whole tragic thing aright.
Iome rushed to one small girl of nine, Jenessee, and put an arm around the girl, then whispered, “Please, take the children away from here.”
Shaking, Jenessee hugged Iome briefly, then did as told.
A physic knelt over Dreys. Yet the physic seemed in no hurry. He merely studied the soldier. When he saw Iome, saw her questioning look, the physic just shook his head. He could do nothing
“Where is the herbalist, Binnesman?” Iome asked, for the wizard was this physic's superior in every way.
“He's gone-to the meadows, gathering costmary. He won't be back until tonight.”
Iome shook her head in dismay. It was a terrible time for her master physic to be out hunting for herbs to drive spiders from the castle. Yet she should have known. The nights were growing colder, and she herself had complained to Binnesman yesterday about spiders seeking warmth in her rooms.
“I fear there is nothing I can do,” the physic said. “I dare not move him more, for he bleeds too badly. I cannot sew the wounds, but dare not leave them open.”
“I could give him an endowment,” Chemoise whispered. “I could give him my stamina.” It was an offer made in pure love. As such, Iome would have wanted to honor it.
“And if you did, would he thank you for it?” the physic asked. “Should you die next time the fever season comes around, he'd rue the bargain.”
It was true. Chemoise was a sweet girl, but she showed no sign of having more stamina than anyone else. She got fevers in winter, bruised easily. If she gave her stamina to Sergeant Dreys, she'd be weak thereafter, more susceptible to plagues and ills. She'd never be able to bear him a child, carry it full-term.
“It's only his endowments of stamina that have kept him alive this long,” Chemoise mused. “A little more—and he might live.”
The physic shook his head. “Taking an endowment, even an endowment of stamina, gives some shock to the system. I wouldn't dare try. We can only wait and see if he strengthens...”
Chemoise nodded. She knelt, cleaned the blood bubbling from the corner of Drey's lips with the corner of her gray skirt. Dreys breathed hard, filling his lungs with air as if each breath would be his last.
Iome marveled. “Has he been gasping like this long?”
The physic shook his head, almost imperceptibly, so that Chemoise would not see him answer. Dreys was dying.
They watched over him thus for a long hour, with Dreys gasping more fiercely for each failing breath, until, finally, he opened his eyes. He looked up as if waking from a troubled sleep.
“Where?” he gasped, gazing into Chemoise's face.
“Where is the book?” one of the Castle Guard asked. “We got it—gave it to the King.”
Iome wondered what the guard was speaking about. Then blood gurgled from Dreys' mouth, and he arched his back, reaching toward Chemoise, grasping her hand.
His breathing stopped altogether.
Chemoise grabbed the sergeant's head roughly, bent low and whispered fiercely, “I wanted to come. I wanted to see you this morning...”
Then Chemoise burst into tears. The guards and physic all moved away, leaving her a few moments to speak some final words of love, in case his spirit had not yet fled the dying body. When she finished, she stood.
Only Corporal Clewes still waited at her back. He drew his battle-axe, saluted smartly, touching the cross formed by the blades to the bill of his iron cap. He did not salute to Iome, but to Chemoise.
He sheathed his axe and said softly, repeating his earlier tale, “He called for you as he fell, Chemoise.”
Chemoise startled at a thought, looked up at Corporal Clewes and said, “A small miracle—that. Most men, when so struck, only manage to gasp once before they piddle on themselves.”
She wielded the truth like an open palm, striking back at the man who had brought her the bad news. Then she added more mildly, “But thank you, Corporal Clewes, for a kind fantasy to ease a lady's pain.”
The corporal blinked twice, turned away, heading toward the Guards' Keep.
Iome put her hand on Chemoise's back. “We'll get some rags, clean him for burial.”
Chemoise stared up at her, eyes going wide, as if she'd just remembered something important. “No!” she said. “Let someone else clean him. It doesn't matter. He's—his spirit isn't in there. Come on, I know where it is!”
Chemoise raced down the street toward the King's Gate.
She led Iome and her Days downhill through the markets, then past the Outer Gate to the moat. The fields beyond the moat were already filling with traders come for the fair, Southerners in their bright silk tents of cardinal, emerald, and saffron. The Pavilions sat arrayed on the south hill, up against the edge of the forest, where thousands of mules and horses from the caravans were tethered.
Past the moat, Chemoise turned left and followed an overgrown trail beside the water to a copse on the east side of the castle. A channel had been dug from the River Wye to fill the moat; this copse sat between the channel and river.
From this little rise, one could see upstream the four remaining arches of the old stone bridge, spanning a river that glinted like beaten silver. Beyond the old bridge stood the new bridge—one whose stonework was in far better shape, but which lacked the beautiful statuary that adorned the older bridge, images of Heredon's Runelords of old, fighting great battles.