Day 9. Bandages and Bards

Chapter 21. 

      For two days all of Kit’s time seemed spent in the throne room, dealing with cases from across the town and across the kingdom. There were bandit attacks near a small milling town in the north, a land dispute between two builders in the west, soldiers who needed trial for stealing pigs, a man claiming he saw the sun darken for two hours and wanted Kit to do something about it, and host of other things, some of them necessary, some of them as nonsensical as a man eating enhanced skunk meat and thinking the sun had disappeared. 

   Rogo was at his side through all of it, giving advice, sometimes openly and sometimes in secret with either a brief nod or gesture, or a clever word written on a pad of parchment handed to Kit as if it were notes about the case and not just the answer to how to solve it. Percho and Lavnan, the Spokesmen, were about for much of the hearings as well, though they imparted little knowledge. They spoke with Kit afterward, giving him notes on the things he did well and those he messed up. Kit found there to be more notes of the latter. 

   He was sparring on the third day out from Valia’s departure, in his private combat room with The Ox, a man he had come to enjoy the company of, when a messenger came with news of Rusk. The man was speaking. 

   Kit ended the bout with The Ox, a man he had come to enjoy the company of and one he found trusting more and more, and hurried after the messenger to the carriage waiting in the courtyard. 

   Fox sat on the inside, the man as hooded as he had been that night underground, but he smiled at Kit and waited to speak until the door was closed and the wheels were rolling. 

   “He wanted to speak with you,” Fox said. “It was in the sentence of his first words.” 

   “He blames me, I assume.” 

   Fox shook his head and folded his hands over his lap. “He holds no ill will toward you or the man who broke him. Resentment is not the way of water, not the way of Olereon. Water washes that all away.” 

  Kit shook his head. “If your man heals before I decide to hang Borneld, he will be given the chance for retribution, as is the custom.” 

   “It is your custom,” said Fox with a smile, “not ours. We forgive.” 

   Kit sat back and stared at the hooded figure, wary of this idea. Somehow, it sounded like a thing Eadric would say, though his friend held no religious affiliation. 

   “You don’t have to,” said Kit. “Justice should be served, we cannot allow evil men to persist.” 

   “What is evil?” asked Fox. He shook his head, the smile washing away. “No, there is evil, of course, but is there not a greater force than punishment?” 

   “Forgiveness?” Kit asked. He shook his head and glanced out the window as they rounded a turn and continued down the bluff switchbacks.

   “You forgave the Spokesmen who killed your friend,” Fox said. 

   Kit’s eyes snapped back to the hooded figure and they narrowed with anger. “I did not forgive, I killed him!” 

   “Not the individual, the group,” corrected the man. “You gave out your justice, sure, but you did not pursue the rest of the band. They could be seen as complicit as the one who touched the usurper. It is what Godsmar would have done.” 

   “You would compare me to the tyrant king now?” 

   The man shook his head and held up hands to resist. “I am only stating that you held your sword when you did not have to. Is that not a sign of something?” 

   Kit thought about it for a moment, trying to dissect the man’s words. Finally, he said, “I won’t submit to your beliefs, monk. No matter how much you preach.” 

   Fox settled into his seat and seemed as comfortable as possible. “I have yet to begin preaching. Trust me, my liege, you would know.” 

   They traveled the rest of the way in silence, Kit content to watch the streets pass by from the window, and Fox apparently content to sleep, for the man’s breathing slowed greatly and fell to a steady rhythm. 

   The carriage bounced into the eastern quarter and the city changed to a place of luxury and excess. Kit saw men and women walking about arm in arm, looking in at shop windows and laughing about whatever caught their fancy. Children raced about chasing hoops and balls or dogs and cats, all of them dressed in fine trousers and jerkins, the girls in expensive dresses or skirts. Musicians played on street corners but had no box or cap with which to catch coins, and Kit wondered if they weren’t paid by the quarter to add entertainment. They certainly were dressed better than the buskers in the other sections of the town. It was another place entirely. 

   Kit could hear the driver call out to the horses and snap his whip over their heads as they slowed to a stop outside a narrow building built among a row of others, all with different signs hanging over their doors. The one they stopped outside, read ‘physicker’. 

   “After you,” said Fox, and gestured a hand to the open door, held so by the driver who had leaped down to assist them. 

   Kit climbed out and found the street mostly empty, though the people who were there all bowed or curtseyed, clearly each of them recognizing the royal carriage even if they didn’t recognize Kit by face alone. He thanked the driver and then walked around to the physickers shop, pushing into the door and stepping into the strangest smelling place he had ever been. 

   There were healers in the forest and in small hamlets on either side that Kit had gone to in the past, broken bones and wounds from excursions sometimes needing attention, but they were usually old women with steady hands and a few goats living in their house, and it smelled more of animal than it did of chemical. Kit wished there was more animal. 

   He held his breath, unsure of what it was he could be breathing for no smell had met his nose quite like what buffeted him, but he raised his chest and strode forward. Curiously, the smell made him wish he had Bloodswill with him, for though he didn’t anticipate any danger in the shop of a doctor, he thought it must smell similar in the Pits of Lorn, and surely there were monsters lurking in that wretched place of legend. 

   “Come to the back, come to the back!” cried the voice of an old woman. Kit was acutely aware that he had made no sound upon entering, and found the woman’s knowledge of him a bit unsettling.

   “Hef?” asked Fox behind Kit, and he spun around to see the man standing there just inside the doorway, his nose barely visible beneath his hood, but scrunched up against the smell as much as Kit’s must have been. 

   “I don’t think it lets you see through walls,” Kit whispered back, and then strode through the room toward the door at the back. 

   There were shelves along the walls and two in the center of the room, all filled with pouches and bottles and boxes, all of various sizes, some marked with labels in a language Kit couldn’t read, and some unmarked entirely. Hanging from strings all along the ceiling were dried flowers and boughs of trees and even what appeared to be dried insides of animals. There was a counter at the back with a parchment pad lined with sums and totals, and behind this was the door the woman had called through, sitting open just a crack. 

   Kit and Fox went around the counter and through the doorway, into a tight hallway lined with two doors on each side. 

   “Second on the left!” called the woman again, and Kit gave Fox a wary look before walking down the hall to the mentioned door and looking in. 

   Valia had tried to explain how beaten the monk had been, but even after three days of healing, Kit couldn’t believe how wretched the man looked. His eyes were dark circles of swollen flesh, bandages wrapped around his forehead and chin, his nose was set with what looked to be two flat pieces of wood held together by some sort of tape or glue, and the rest of his body was in similar state, bandaged in some places, bruised in others. Only his loins were completely wrapped and those more for privacy than wound, at least Kit hoped so with a terrible twist to his stomach. 

   A woman sat on a stool beside Rusk, dipping a wet sponge into a bucket of steaming water as she worked at changing the bandages on his left hand. She wore gray clothes with a dirty white apron over it, and had gray hair streaked with shiny silver tied back in a single braid. She looked up with the most startling blue eyes Kit had ever seen and a smile so full of white teeth that he thought for a moment she couldn’t be as old as her voice and hair portrayed. But her smile widened just a touch and the wrinkles showed, and she was an old woman. 

   “Welcome to the hall of life,” said the woman happily. “No death here, no chance.” 

   Kit moved to the open cot next to Rusk and sat down, trying to look at the man’s eyes rather than the bruises and bandages all over him. 

   “I tried to fight back,” mumbled the monk, his mouth hardly opening as he spoke, his words twisted with his missing teeth and swollen lips. It sounded like his tongue was wounded as well. 

   “Rusk,” said Fox sharply. 

   Rusk gave a little shrug and it seemed to hurt him greatly for he winced. “It hurt, what was I to do?” 

   Fox nodded and Kit looked from one man to the other. “You extend forgiveness into the midst of a fight?” he asked the standing monk. 

   Again Fox nodded, though with a grim set to his mouth. “When do you fight?” asked Kit. 

   “When we must defend those who cannot defend themselves,” said Rusk, again as mumbled as if he had filled his mouth with potatoes. 

   “Don’t make the boy speak,” said the physicker, “can’t you see the state of him?” She winked as she said it and continued cleaning the wounds on his hand. 

   “I am sorry I was not more clear to my men,” said Kit. “It was not my intention to have you beaten so.” 

   “We have that in common,” said the man with a broken smile, one that instantly turned to a grimace. 

   “His jaw was shattered,” scolded the woman. “No more conversation that results in speech from this wounded lamb. Yes?” 

   Kit nodded, feeling very much like a little boy and not like the king. 

   “I had something to say,” continued the man, despite the woman’s order. Even as he spoke, he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. 

   Kit looked at the physicker but she only shook her head. He looked back at the monk and nodded. 

   The man swallowed, a great ordeal it seemed for the muscles in neck bulged and strained against the skin, but he finally opened his eyes and looked Kit full in the face. “He has a group who would kill you,” Rusk whispered through lips that had cracked and were bleeding. “Borneld. He must have thought I was sleeping, for he was speaking with a guard. I told him you couldn’t be killed, you were chosen by Olereon, the God who washes all evil. He didn’t like that, didn’t like me listening either.” 

   Rusk swallowed again with a terrible wince, his chest heaving as he gathered breath, and then once more caught Kit’s eyes. “There may be another coup, my king.” 

   Kit nodded, taking in the man’s words. Before he could respond, Rusk said one final thing. 

   “Do not hold my wounds over your own head. I forgive you.” 

   Kit wanted to say more but the old physicker put her hand up and shook her head before pointing down to the monk. He had closed his eyes and his chest rose and fell in heavy breathing, a dangerous ragged sound coming from the slit of his open mouth. 

   “Wait in the shop a moment,” said the old woman. 

   Kit and Fox left, moving in silence into the smelly shop. It was but a moment for the old woman soon followed after them. She walked well and quickly, with straight back and strong shoulders, and for all of Kit’s lack of stature, the woman was shorter still. 

   “He’ll live,” she said with confidence. “Though he is broken something awful. A fight like he had would kill most men. I’m not privy to your water god,” she said to Fox, “but I might be after seeing this. He’s alive, and healing quick. I’ve hardly fed him, just a little soup here and there through a hollow reed, but he is growing stronger almost as if he doesn’t need sustenance at all. What’s in the water where he is from?” 

   Kit could see she meant it as a joke, but Fox’s smile was genuine. “Life,” he answered. 

   The woman laughed at that and accepted Kit’s payment, the money pouch should be more than enough to pay for the healing of the woman, Kit thought, and he was happy to deliver the payment himself. Once outside, Kit faced the hooded man. 

   “That was all your friend wished to tell me? Could he not have you convey the message? That Borneld would wish to overthrow my seat seems hardly a stretch or something I have not been keeping any eye for since I threw him in the gaol.” 

   Fox shook his head, that winning smile there once more. “He wanted to offer forgiveness, to let you know that he doesn’t blame you for his wounds.” 

   “You already told me that,” Kit countered. 

   The man nodded. “Forgiveness and love are best delivered face to face.” 

   He entered the waiting carriage and Kit stood alone for a moment, pondering the man’s words. They had to have been the strangest religious order he had ever met. He climbed aboard the carriage and hoped the monk would have a quick recovery, whatever that looked like. 

Chapter 22. 

   Rogo Half-Herian walked through the dark hallways of the citadel of Taro Myule, passing through shadows cast by the infrequent oil lamps glowing faintly in braziers well above his reach. In his pockets he carried two missives, one he would read again in private and then destroy, the other he would reform and give to Kit, the boy king. He found it bad practice to give a falcon missive to the kings; they seemed to think it much too informal a way of communication. There was a courier system across the kingdoms though it was quite slow, but Rogo felt that was a better way to present royal communique. 

   He passed a pair of giggling maids who quickly stopped when they saw him, both giving a little curtsey and then hurrying on, their silence carrying well after him. Rogo walked, unperturbed. He didn’t care if the servants were afraid of him or thought him a spineless hog, it did not matter to him. He didn’t even care what Kit thought of him, or any of the lower town nobles or the dukes or earls or anyone. They could think what they liked, and Rogo would grow fat in the meantime. 

   The door to his rooms was ajar and Rogo froze, his fingers inches from the knob. Bur would be in the servants quarters sleeping, he wasn’t allowed to visit his father at such a late hour, and simple and mute though the boy was, he was obedient above all. And no maids were allowed in to clean after the third hour of the afternoon, no butlers either, and he couldn’t think of any of even the most querulous servants who would break his rules. No, this surely was an intruder.  

   Rogo’s brain spun in the shadows of the hallway, the weight of the notes in his pockets felt enough to pull him down to his knees and seemed threatening to do so if he didn’t go inside and place them on his desk. He thought of who might want to break into his rooms, what he might have that could be stolen, and if anyone wished for his death. 

   He was a tortoise! He moved slow and careful in the open, gave advice to the king and kept a clean slate, and any work in the shadows he did he did without leaving a trace! He was certain of it. The only man whom he could think of who might want to take his life would be Kit, and a midnight assassination was not the method of that young man. 

   But. . . thought Rogo to himself, the dangerous question slipping in. Was it not a midnight assassination that placed him upon the throne? And then he was biting his lip and pushing the door open, bracing against a poison dart or a hidden blade, and when he found none in the first two steps inside he shut the door behind him and sighed. The lamps were lit within, and perhaps whomever had intruded had decided it not worth it and left. 

   Rogo hummed a little tune and walked through the main entrance room toward his writing room at the back. A shadow moved on the wall, cast from the writing room. 

   He felt a pinch in his bladder and thought he might lose control if things went on just a bit longer. 

   “I have nothing of value here,” he called out. They were the first words that came to his mind and he hated how weak he sounded as he spoke. 

   The shadow froze and that almost seemed worse, for he might be able to imagine that it was a shutter flapping in the wind from an open window. There were no windows in his study, of course, and he would only be able to deceive himself so long. 

   “Sneaking around,” said a deep voice accusingly from within the room. It was not a voice Rogo knew, but it was decidedly human, and that removed at least one fear from his mind. There were always stories of night creatures taking innocent victims in the dark. . . 

   “You’re sneaking around,” said Rogo, stepping cautiously down the hallway. He glanced back into the sitting room to his soft chair in the corner, the one with the swivelling base and hidden stairs. But then he was another step down the hallway and close to his writing room. 

   “Go, Rogo, go,” the voice mocked, and Rogo felt fear gripping every lumpy part of him. He would wet himself if he didn’t find out who was speaking to him. 

   He lowered his head, gathered his wits with an exhale, and stepped around the door frame and into his study to see, 

   “Hyg?” 

   The bard spread his arms wide and radiated his best court smile. He was dressed in black clothing and looked like a thief, though his hood was pulled back to reveal his blond wavy hair and a green scarf the color of a lime around his neck. 

   “Fooled!” he announced, the deep voice he had used before gone and replaced by his shrill annoying one. 

   “What are you doing here?” demanded Rogo. Then, “How are you here? You should be three days south with Valia and those Spokesmen fools.” His fear turned to shock and then fear once more in the matter of a few seconds, and he felt warmth in his heart as the little machine beat faster and faster. He was just thankful he didn’t feel the warmth in his trousers. 

   “We travel quite well,” said the bard. “Nevermind our methods, Rogsmar,” he said, making a mock of Rogo’s name, “I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

   Rogo was calming down. This was his business, favors and debts, and he felt quite comfortable trading for what he found valuable. “What is your need, my flustering fool?” 

   “Rogo once more,” the man said with a little laugh, then flopped down into Rogo’s writing chair and slid back quickly–surely making marks on the floor–and propped his feet up on the man’s desk. Thankfully Rogo kept a clean work space or the bard would have scattered papers everywhere. 

   “I won’t mince words with you, Rogo,” continued the man. “We need some sort of celebration in this place, in the coming months. You see, we’re trying to stage another coup.” 

   “Another coup?” asked the advisor, taken completely by surprise by the bard's words. He tried to hide it as best he could, but the words had taken him by shock. 

   The man laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “How easy was it to turn things over to new management the first time? Godsmar ruled with fear and that fear kept anyone from attacking him and taking the throne. Then these two young wolves come slinking in and kill the king, and no one seems to mind. Actually, Rogo, they seem happy. The people enjoy this new leadership, I think they really do. Seems like he’s a wonder in court.”

   He was doing well with the appointments, Rogo had to admit if only to himself. The young king seemed to care for the people of all classes, and that meant he wasn’t biased towards anyone. His decisions were as fair as could be and he showed a mature level of patience. Though Rogo hadn’t seen it, he had to imagine the man to be taking hef, the mental enhancement meat. There was no other explanation. Not that it was forbidden, just expensive, and the royal coffers were only so deep, what with the funds sent with the relic expedition. 

   “If he’s doing so well and the people are happy, why would you remove him?” asked Rogo. Then he remembered himself. “Not that you can remove him, mind you. You and your sister are just minstrels,” he snapped. “Do not forget your place, Hyg.”

   The bard shrugged off Rogo’s correction. “If it is so easy and acceptable for a good man to take the throne, how much easier for one of evil intent? Already there are offices who would vie for power, you know this as much as I.” He had leaned forward once more and was staring at Rogo with a grave intensity. “We had no hands in the forest, and we were caught by Kit and his party unawares. I do not wish to have that happen again, no matter how good or moral the next uprising is. If we can prove how weak the kingdom is, making a coup of our own and putting up a puppet, we could establish a stronger parliamentary system, take this from a kingdom to a republic, have elected rulers who–”

   “You dream too much,” said Rogo, cutting the man off. “I have no time for high handed hopes, Hyg. No time at all.” He pulled the missives from his pockets, holding them up as if they were made of gold rather than parchment. “The Queen of Midcharia will visit by the week’s end, and the Cowl has requested a conference. I am a busy man, bard.” 

   Hyg’s feet slid off the table and he straightened up, his eyes staring from one page to the other. Without looking at Rogo he said, “You’re to meet with the Cowl?” 

   Rogo nodded, a deep swelling of pride in his belly. 

   “And the Midcharian Queen. . .” Hyg licked his lips and his eyes rolled back in his head as if he had just tasted the sweetest treat. “She’s unwed, you know?” 

   Rogo shrugged. “She wouldn’t marry a commoner like yourself,” said the advisor, moving from his place for the first time to place the missives on the desk. 

   “I’m not in that type of market!” laughed the bard. “No no, dear Rogo, I meant for our bachelor king. An alliance of kingdoms could be a very interesting story. Perhaps we won’t kill him after all. . .” 

   The bard laughed again and walked around the desk and past Rogo to the hallway. 

   “That’s it?” Rogo asked, following the man to the main sitting room. 

   Hyg had put his hood back on and closed that clasps up to his chin, hiding the lime scarf, the shadow of the hood hiding most of his face. “We are people of our whims, Rogo,” said the bard. “Don’t take our brevity as an insult to your hospitality. I much enjoy these little moments.” 

   Then he stepped away, slipping out the door and vanishing into the dim hallways of the Citadel.

   Rogo let the man go and then went back to his study to pen the missive for Kit’s eyes and write a reply for the Cowl. He slept well that night, whether from the cooler night air or from the excitement of meeting the Cowl, but he awoke feeling refreshed and renewed. The feeling faded as he was eating his morning meal and heard the serving girls talking about the upcoming ball. 

   “I’ve heard rumors the Queen from Midcharia will be invited,” said one of the girls. 

   “I thought I heard the Scaland House of Lords will be there,” said the other girl. 

   Rogo’s eggs turned to dirt in his mouth. The twins had done it again. Rumors had spread just in one night, and there was an expectation now and a buzz, and Rogo must deliver a banquet and ball by the week of the Queen of Midcharia’s arrival, or he would be the fool. He was beginning to hate them.