“I… do not remember,” Dad said.
“I'm not surprised.” Doc Hand looked at Aber and me. “Lads? Any idea?”
“We weren't there,” I said.
Before I could stop him, he reached out, grabbed my right hand, and turned it over. I still had two fresh sword-cuts from my fight with Dad, one on the back of my hand, one on my forearm.
The doctor tsk-tsked. “You've been fighting, laddie. Beating up your Da, or defending him—that's the question, ayeh?”
“You have a good eye,” I said, pulling my hand back. I didn't enjoy being under the old man's exacting gaze. “But my father is the one who needs you, not me.”
“Oh, I treat all who need healing.” He chuckled. “You're next, laddie.”
I sighed. What did I expect, when I had deliberately sought a Shadow with a doctor capable of treating Dad?
“Ayeh,” said Doc Hand, grinning. He rummaged around in his black bag, pulling out needle and thread. “You need a few stitches, laddie. Your Da needs a week of bed rest. And maybe a good hot meal and a stiff drink. Not much more I can do today.”
“I told you so,” Dad grumbled.
Doc Hand carefully threaded his needle, then looked at me expectantly. Gritting my teeth, I stuck out my arm and let him stitch my cuts back together.
Once the doctor left, Aber laughed and couldn't seem to stop. I glared. Finally he managed to regain control of himself.
“You should have seen your face,” he told me.
“It's not funny,” I said. “I hate catgut stitches. The damn things always pull at me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “But… I've never seen you look so annoyed! You got it worse than Dad!”
“Feh,” I said.
“Don't pick on poor Oberon,” said Blaise. I hadn't noticed her arrival. She leaned against the doorway, looking radiant. A few drinks had done wonders to restore her self-confidence. “He meant well.”
“Enough,” said our father, climbing out of bed and looking around. “Where is my sword?”
“You heard Doc Hand,” I said. “You're due for a week of bed rest.
“I cannot rest,” he said, “until we have Freda back. I remember now. Thellops has her—and you and I are going to get her back!”
Chapter 11
“Your sword is downstairs,” I said. I didn't know much about Thellops, but already I hated him. What could he be doing with my sister?
I turned to my brother. “Aber? Would you mind getting his sword?” Considering how fast time ran in the Courts of Chaos, we needed to move quickly. Hours here might mean days or weeks of torture for Freda. “I had Jamas put it behind the bar for safekeeping.”
He rolled his eyes, but dutifully trotted out of the room and down the stairs. Much as he liked to complain, I knew I could count on him, especially when Freda's safety was at stake.
Turning back to Dad, I said, “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes. Go in fast. Take Freda. Run away before anyone can stop us.”
I snorted. Well… it had a certain elegance to its simplicity. Unfortunately, I didn't think we would be able to simply walk in.
I said as much.
“Nonsense, my boy,” he said, grinning. “You are a fair swordsman. Together, Thellops cannot stop us.”
“He stopped you already,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “He caught me by surprise. I made the mistake of trying to talk to him as a friend and an equal. We are neither.”
“Don't forget it.”
He grinned suddenly. “I still have one trick left, too. Something he has long forgotten…”
“Got it!” Aber cried, dashing in with Dad's sword. He passed it over, and Dad swiftly buckled the belt around his waist, loosening the sword in the scabbard and adjusting it to a comfortable position.
“Do you want to come?” I asked Aber. He might want to help rescue Freda.
“No!” Dad said firmly.
Aber swallowed. “Uh… not this time. I'm no fighter; I'd only be in the way. Besides, if I stay here, I can be your escape route. Call me when you need to leave and I'll bring you all back.”
“Good.” I knew I could count on him. “Then you'll definitely be staying here until you hear from us?”
He pulled a sour face. “If I have to. Any other Shadow would be a improvement over this dump, though. It doesn't even have a decent bath…”
I chuckled. “I don't care if you stay or not. Just make sure we can reach you at a moment's notice wherever you are, okay?”
He brightened. “Sure!”
Blaise appeared in the doorway. She had taken the time to wash her face, fix her hair, and change clothes. Now she wore a wine-colored blouse, leather britches, and riding boots—and she carried a bare blade: a nasty-looking shortsword with a serrated blade and a wickedly barbed point.
I raised my eyebrows. “Why the sword?” It definitely wasn't the weapon you expected to find in the hands of a beautiful woman.
“Someone has to watch your back,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “If you and Dad are going after Freda, you'll need help. There don't seem to be any other men around”—she shot Aber a pointed look—“so I have to pitch in.”
Aber said, “I'll leave the manliness up to you. You have a bigger pricker than I do, anyway.” He seemed to find that amusing and snickered a bit.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” I asked Blaise.
“Try me and see.”
I chuckled. “Aber's right, you know.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You aren't our sister. The real Blaise belongs in the afraid-of-breaking-fingernails camp.”
“There's no reason a woman can't look good and defend herself.”
I just shook my head. We definitely had interesting characters in our family. Every time I thought I had my siblings figured out, new twists in their personalities appeared. Blaise as protective warrior-beauty queen… definitely not the image I'd had of her.
Completely businesslike now, she joined our father at the bed. He had been studiously ignoring us. Dad had pulled a small pouch from some inner pocket and had emptied its contents onto the quilt—rings, bits of colored glass and stone, a few fingerbones, a large agate marble. He picked through everything and selected what looked like a small piece of charcoal.
“Do-it-yourself Trumps?” I guessed. That seemed the likeliest way into Thellops's lair.
Without a word, Dad hurried to the wall beside the door. Smooth and freshly whitewashed, it offered a clean surface ideal for drawing.
He sketched a rectangle the size of a door. Then, with a few simple lines, he added a rough representation of a workroom: a long wooden table cluttered with bottles, jars, and tubes filled with bubbling liquids; tall bookcases; and a jumble of books and papers. More than anything, it reminded me of Dad's workroom in Juniper. It just needed a few mummified cats and a selection of bizarre and complex machines to be complete.
Aber cocked his head and studied the wall critically. “That one can't possibly work,” he said. “There's no representation of the Logrus underlying it.”
“An ignorant comment based on foolish assumptions,” Dad muttered impatiently. He added a horned skull atop one bookcase and a glowing ball of light in one corner, then smiled half to himself.
“What do you mean?” Aber demanded.
“You are an idiot, my boy. The Logrus is immaterial.”
“So you're using the Pattern?”
“Of course. Not that it matters. Neither one needs to be incorporated into the drawing.”
“But it's the same idea. You need a magic underpinning to the image—” he began.
“Try telling the Logrus that. Or the Pattern. Both exist with no underpinnings whatsoever. They merely are.”