The Book of Athyra Page 22

  On seeing that Savn was looking at him, the Master spoke, his voice only the barest whisper, as Vlad’s had been after the first fever had broken, but he spoke very clearly, as if he was taking great care with each word. “Have you any dreamgrass?”

  Savn had to think for a moment before replying. “Yes, Master. It’s in my pouch.”

  “Fetch some out. We have no food, but they’ve left us water and a mug, over in the corner. I haven’t been able to move to get it.”

  Savn got the mug of water and brought it back to the Master. He gave him a drink of plain water first, then mixed the dreamgrass into it as best he could without a mortar and pestle. “That’s good enough,” whispered the Master. “I’ll swallow it whole. You’ll have to help me, though. My arms—”

  “Yes, Master.” Savn helped him to drink again and to swallow the dreamgrass.

  The Master nodded, took a deep breath, and shuddered with his whole body. He said, “You’re going to have to straighten out my legs and arms. Can you do it?”

  “What’s broken, Master?”

  “Both legs, both arms. My left arm both above and below the elbow. Can you straighten them?”

  “I remember the Nine Bracings, Master, but what can we splint them with?”

  “Never mind that, just get them straightened. One thing at a time. I don’t wish to go through life a cripple. Am I feverish?”

  Savn felt his forehead. “No.”

  “Good. When the pain dulls a bit, you can begin.”

  “I . . . very well, Master. I can do it, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Have some more water, Master. How does the room look? Does your face feel heavy?”

  The Master snorted and whispered, “I know how to tell when the dreamgrass takes effect. For one thing, there will be less pain. Oh, and have you any eddiberries?”

  Savn looked in his pouch, but had none and said so.

  “Very well, I’ll get by without them. Now . . . hmmm. I’m starting to feel distant. Good. The pain is receding. Are you certain you know what to do?”

  “Yes, Master,” said Savn. “Who did this to you?”

  His eyes flickered, and he spoke even more softly. “His Lordship had it done by a couple of his warriors, with help from . . . There is a Jhereg here—”

  “I saw him.”

  “Yes. They tied me into a chair and . . . they wanted me to tell them where the Easterner was.”

  “Oh. Did you tell them?”

  The Master’s eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Eventually,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Savn. The importance of this sank in gradually. He imagined Vlad, lying quietly in the cave with no way of knowing he’d been betrayed. “I wish there was some way to warn him.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “I know.” But the Easterner had means of receiving a warning. Maybe he’d escape after all. But he’d think that Savn, who had vanished, had been the betrayer. Savn shook his head. It was petty of him to worry about that when Vlad’s life was in danger, and pointless to worry about Vlad’s life when Master Wag was in pain that Savn could do something about. “Can we get more light in here?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” Savn took a deep breath. “I’m going to undress you now.”

  “Of course. Be careful.”

  “Then I will—”

  “I know what you’re going to do.”

  “Do you need more dreamgrass?”

  “No.” The Master’s voice was almost inaudible now. He said, “Carry on, Savn.”

  “Yes. It is true and it is not true that once there was a village that grew up at a place where two rivers came together. Now, one river was wide, so that one—”

  “Shallow and wide.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Shallow and wide, so that one could walk across the entire length and still be dry from the knees up. The—”

  Master Wag winced.

  “—other was very fast, and full—I mean, fast and deep, and full of foamy rapids, whirlpools, rocks, and twisting currents, so that it wasn’t safe even to boat on. After the rivers came togeth—”

  The Master gasped.

  “—er, the river, which they called Bigriver, became large, deep, fast, but tame, which allowed them to travel down it to their neighbors, then back up, by means of—”

  The Master began moaning steadily.

  “—clever poles devised for this purpose. And they could also travel up and down the wide, slow river. But no one could travel on the fast, dangerous river. So, as time went on—”

  The moans abruptly turned to screams.

  “—the people of the village began to wonder what lay along that length, and talk about—”

  The screams grew louder.

  “—how they might find a way to travel up the river in spite of the dangerous rapids and the swiftness of the current. Some spoke of using the wind, but . . .”

  Soon Savn no longer heard either his own voice or the Master’s cries, except as a distant drone. His attention was concentrated on straightening the bones, and remembering everything his Master had taught him about using firm, consistent pressure and an even grip with his hands, being certain that no finger pressed against the bone harder or softer than it should, which would cause the patient unnecessary pain. His fingers felt the bones grinding against one another, and he could hear the sounds they made, even through the drone of his own voice, and his eyes showed him the Master turn grey with the pain, in spite of the dreamgrass, but he neither stopped nor slowed in his work. He thought the Master—the real Master, not this wrecked and broken old man he was physicking—would be proud of him.

  The story told itself, and he worked against its rhythm, so that the rise in his voice and the most exciting parts of the story came when his hands were busiest, and the patient most needed to be distracted. Master Wag turned out to be a good patient, which was fortunate, because there was no way to render him immobile.

  But it seemed to take a very long time.

  * * *

  SAVN LOOKED AT HIS Master, who lay back moaning, his ankles cross-bound with strips of his own clothing and his face covered with sweat. Savn’s own face felt as damp as the Master’s looked. Savn started to take a drink of water, saw how much was left, and offered it to the Master along with more dreamgrass. Master Wag accepted wordlessly.

  As Savn helped the Master eat and drink, he noticed that his own hands were shaking. Well, better now than while he’d been working. He hoped he’d done an adequate job. The Master opened his eyes and said, “They were about to start on my fingers. I couldn’t let them—”

  “I understand, Master. I think I would have told them right away.”

  “I doubt that very much,” said the Master, and closed his eyes. Savn moved back against the wall to relax, and, when he tried to lean against it, found that there was something digging into his back. He felt around behind himself, and discovered a bundle jammed into the back of his pants. It took him a moment to recognize it as the good kitchen knife, all wrapped up in a towel.

  He unwrapped it, took it into his hand, and stared at it. He had cleaned it carefully after cutting the norska to make the stew for Vlad, so it gleamed even in the feeble light of the cell. The blade was ten inches long, wide near the handle, narrowing down toward the point, with an edge that was fine enough to slice the tenderest bluefish, but a point that was no better than it had to be to pry kethna muscle from the bone. As he looked, he wondered, and his hands started shaking harder than ever.

  He imagined himself holding the knife and fighting his way past all of His Lordship’s guards, then rescuing Vlad at the last minute. He knew this was impossible, but the thought wouldn’t go away. How would he feel, he wondered, if he allowed the Easterner to be killed, and maybe Master Wag as well, when he had a knife with him and he never tried to use it? What would he say to himself when he was an old man, who claimed to be a physicker, yet he had let two people in his care die without making any effort to
stop it? Or, if he left home, he would spend his life thinking he was running away from his own cowardice. It wasn’t fair that this decision, which had become so important, should be taken away by something that wasn’t his fault.

  He turned the knife this way and that in his hand, knowing how futile it would be to challenge a warrior with a sword when he had nothing but a cooking knife, and had, furthermore, never been in a knife fight in his life. He had seen Vlad fighting some of His Lordship’s soldiers, and couldn’t imagine himself doing that to someone, no matter how much he wanted to.

  He shook his head and stared at the knife, as if it could give him answers.

  He was still staring at it some half an hour later, when there came a rattling at the door, which he recognized as the opening of the lock and removal of the bar. He stood up and leaned against the wall, the knife down by his side. A guard came into the room and, without a glance at Savn or Master Wag, slopped some water into the mug.

  He seemed very big, very strong, very graceful, and very dangerous.

  Don’t be an idiot, Savn told himself. He is a warrior. He spends all of his life around weapons. The sword at his belt could slice you into pieces before you took two steps. It is insanity. It is the same as killing yourself. He had been telling himself these things already, but, now that it came to it, with the guard before him, the mad ideas in his head would neither listen to reason nor bring themselves forward as a definite intention. He hesitated, and watched the guard, and then, while the man’s back was turned, Savn inched his way closer to the door, the knife still held down by his side.

  It’s crazy, he told himself. If your knife had a good point, you could strike for his kidneys, but it doesn’t. And you aren’t tall enough to slit his throat.

  The guard finished and straightened up.

  The knife is heavy, and there is some point on it. And I’m strong.

  Still not deigning to look at Savn or Master Wag, the guard walked to the door.

  If I strike so that I can use all of my strength, and I find just the right place, then maybe . . .

  Savn was never aware of making a conscious decision, but, for just a moment, he saw an image of His Lordship standing next to the Jhereg as they broke the Master’s bones. He took a deep breath and held it.

  As the soldier reached the door, Savn stepped up behind him, picked his spot, and struck as hard as he could for a point midway down the guard’s back, next to his backbone, driving the knife in, turning it, and pulling toward the spinal cord, all with one motion. The jar of the knife against the warrior’s back was hard—shock traveled all the way up Savn’s arm, and he would have been unable to complete the stroke if he had attempted anything more complicated. But it was one motion, just as Master Wag had done once in removing a Bur-worm from Lakee’s thigh. One motion, curving in and around and out. Removing a Bur-worm, or cutting the spine, what was the difference?

  He knew where he was aiming, and exactly what it would do. The guard fell as if his legs were made of water, making only a quiet gasp as he slithered to the floor jerking the knife, which was stuck against the inside of his backbone, out of Savn’s hand. The man fell onto his left side, pinning his sword beneath him, yet, with the reflexes of a trained warrior, he reached for it anyway.

  Savn started to jump over him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. The guard seemed unable to use his legs, but he pushed himself over to the other side and again reached for his sword. Savn backed into the cell, as far away from the guard as he could get, and watched in horrified fascination as the warrior managed to draw his sword and began to pull himself toward Savn with his free hand. He had eyes only for Savn as he came, and his face was drawn into a grimace that could have been hate or pain or both. Savn tried to squeeze himself as far into the corner as he could.

  The distance between them closed terribly slowly, and Savn suddenly had the thought that he would live and grow old in a tiny corner of the cell while the guard crept toward him—an entire lifetime of anticipation, waiting for the inevitable sword thrust—all compacted into seven feet, an inch at a time.

  In fact, the warrior was a good four feet away when he gasped and lay still, breathing but unable to pull himself any further, but it seemed much closer. Savn, for his part, didn’t move either, but stared at the man whose blood was soaking through his shirt and beginning to stain the floor around him, drip by fascinating drip.

  After what was probably only a few minutes, however long it felt, he stopped breathing, but even then Savn was unable to move until his sense of cleanliness around a patient overcame his shock and led his feet across the cell to the chamber pot before his stomach emptied itself.

  When there was nothing more for him to throw up, he continued to heave for some time, until at last he stopped, shaking and exhausted. He rinsed his mouth with water the guard had brought, making sure to leave enough for Master Wag when he awoke. He didn’t know how the Master was going to drink it, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He moved it next to him, in any case, and checked the Master’s breathing and felt his forehead.

  Then he stood and gingerly made his way around the corpse. It was funny how a man’s body could be so like and yet unlike that of a dead animal. He had butchered hogs and kethna, poultry and even a goat, but he’d never killed a man. He had no idea how many dead animals he had seen, but this was only the second time he’d looked closely at a dead man.

  Yes, an animal that was dead often lay in much the same way it would as if resting, with none of its legs at odd angles, and even its head looking just like it should. And that was fine. But there ought to be something different about a dead man—there ought to be something about it that would announce to anyone looking that life, the soul, had departed from this shell. There should be, but there wasn’t.

  He tried not to look at it, but Paener’s best kitchen knife—a knife Savn had handled a thousand times to cut fish and vegetables—caught his eye. He had a sudden image of Paener saying, “You left it in a man’s body, Savn? And what am I going to trade for another knife? Do you know how much a knife like that costs in money? How could you be so careless?” Savn almost started giggling, but he knew that once he started he would never stop, so he took a deep breath and jumped past the corpse, then sagged against the wall.

  Because it felt like the right thing to do, he shut the door, wondering what Master Wag would think upon waking up with a dead soldier instead of a living apprentice. He swallowed, and started down the corridor, but, before he knew it, he began to trot, and soon to run down the hallway he’d been dragged along only a few scant hours before. Was the man he’d killed the same one who’d helped to push him into the cell? He wasn’t sure.

  When he reached a place where a stairway went up while the hall sloped down, he stopped, licked his lips, and caught his breath. Think, Savn. What now? Which way?

  Upwards meant escape, but upwards was also where His Lordship was, as well as the Jhereg. The hallway could lead to almost anywhere—anywhere except back out. There was no point in going on, and he couldn’t go up. Neither could he return to his cell, because the corpse was still there, and he thought he’d go mad if he had to see it again.

  I’m trying to reason it out, he thought. What’s the point? It isn’t a reasonable situation, and I might as well admit that I don’t have the courage to go back up and risk meeting His Lordship. And they’re going to find the body. And they’ll kill me, probably in some horrible way. He thought about taking his own life, but the kitchen knife was still in the dead man’s body.

  Then he remembered the caves.

  Yes. The caves that Vlad had said must lead into the manor. If so, where in the manor would they be? Down. They could only be down.

  There was no way to go but down the sloping hall, then—perhaps, if he didn’t find a way to the caves, he’d find a place to hide, at least for a while, at least until he could think.

  * * *

  SAVN REALIZED THAT HE had been standing in darkness fo
r some few minutes. He tried to reconstruct his path, and vaguely remembered going down a long stairway to a door at the bottom, finding it open, walking through it, and, as the door closed behind him, finding there was no light.

  He had never before been in darkness so complete, and he wondered why he wasn’t panicking—it was more fascinating than frightening, and, oddly enough, peaceful. He wanted to sit right where he was and just rest.

  But he couldn’t. He had to be doing something, although he had no idea what. They would be searching for Vlad, and if they found him, he would have no choice but to risk teleporting, and he had said himself he might not—He remembered fragments of conversation.

  Unlikely, I’ve put a block up.

  Around three square miles of caves?

  Yes.

  And—

  As long as they don’t put a teleport block up over the entire area . . .

  Understanding seeped into Savn’s brain. The one chance Vlad had of escaping was gone, and he was in no condition to fight. Oh, certainly his jhereg would fight for him, but what could they do against all of His Lordship’s men?

  And, if Vlad had told the truth about the assassin, which now seemed likely, then that assassin was carrying a Morganti weapon.

  If only he could reach Vlad. But even if he could, what could he tell him?

  The way out, of course.

  Suddenly, it was just as it had been when he’d been healing the Easterner. There was a solution; there had to be a way. If only—

  Witchcraft? Speaking to Vlad mind to mind?

  But, no, Vlad had that amulet he wore, which prevented such things.

  On the other hand, there was the chance that . . .

  It was a very ugly thought, and Savn didn’t know if he was more afraid of failure or success, but it was the only chance Vlad was going to have.

  Savn sat down where he was, lost in the darkness, and took a deep breath. At first he did nothing else, just sat there thinking about breathing, and letting the tension flow out of his body. His mind didn’t want to cooperate—it kept showing him what would happen if he failed, or if he was too late. But he looked at each scene of death or torment, viewed it carefully, and set it aside, and as he did so, he told himself to relax, just as Vlad had taught him, starting at the top of his head, and working down.