Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (11 page)

Abruptly, he heard loud voices. Someone was yelling in his ear. He tried to shout, “Shut up,” but his throat wouldn’t open. Dispassionately, he thought he sounded like a strangled pig.

Then a large quantity of icy water dumped over him and the shock made him yell. He opened his eyes and found both Rienne and Cal staring down at him, she with an empty bucket in her hands.

“That’s better,” he heard Cal say. “I think he’s coming back.”

Rienne said, “Thank the gods. I really didn’t know what else to do.”

The words had no impact on Taran. His head was ringing and his ears were full of water. He tried to rise and felt Rienne holding him up.

“Taran, can you hear me?” he heard her ask. He considered that, not really sure what it meant.

“He’s not fully conscious,” she said, her voice sounding oddly muffled. “Get him into bed, Cal, and get these wet things off him. I’ll give him something to help him sleep and perhaps he’ll be better when he wakes.”

Taran was aware of being carried to his room and couldn’t help wondering why Cal had turned white. His skin, hair, clothes, even his eyelashes were white. Considering how dark the young man’s skin usually was, this struck Taran as irresistibly funny. He tried to laugh, the strangled pig sounding even worse. But the effort was too much and he slipped into darkness.

Cal helped Rienne strip Taran’s clothing. The healer wrapped Taran in the coverlet and gathered his sodden clothes, which were as smothered in white plaster dust as Cal was.

“Here,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take these to the scullery.”

Cal took the sopping bundle and walked unsteadily out of the room. Rienne stayed a moment, looking down at Taran. She was genuinely fond of him and hated seeing him like this.

Sighing, she left him and made her way to the scullery. The last thing she wanted to do today was wash a load of chalky clothes, but it seemed she had little choice. On the way, she passed the door to the collapsed and ruined cellar where Cal and Taran had been trapped for two hours. Her lips pursed as she thought how fortunate the two men had been in their escape.

When she entered the tiny scullery, she saw Cal slumped in a heap on the floor, tears welling from his eyes.

“Oh, Cal.” She flew to his side, holding him quietly until the tears subsided. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her.

“This has gone far enough, do you hear? If the Hodgekisses next door hadn’t heard that ceiling come down, I don’t know what might have happened to you. Paulus had to break the door down. The cellar’s a ruin and the floor up here’s none too safe, either. What on Earth did you think you were doing?”

“Trying to move the Staff,” mumbled Cal. “We were going to take it to the garrison.”

“Oh, you’re going then, are you? Well, for one thing, that damned Staff isn’t going anywhere, it’s totally buried. And for another, the two of you are going nowhere without me. Not that either of you is fit to travel at the moment. Look at you, you’re covered in plaster dust. I’d better heat some water for a bath.”

She bustled off, leaving Cal in a heap. How, she wondered in exasperation, had they gotten themselves into this?

Later that evening, Taran woke from his drugged sleep. As he came to, it struck him that these disasters were happening far too frequently. Enveloped in shame, he decided enough was enough.

Tears formed in his eyes—he had put his friends in terrible danger. Before, he’d been a fool and failure. Now he was also a murderer, and his remorse over the noble’s killing was becoming inextricably linked to how he felt about his powers. It seemed that every time he tried to increase his knowledge, he made more disastrous mistakes. Break his heart though it might, those around him would be better off if he renounced his Artesan powers altogether.

And there was still the frightening and very real possibility that he was personally responsible for the resurgence of outlander raids, whether in retaliation for the noble’s death or in response to the theft of the Staff. Probably both. Taran’s heart raced in fear as images of dreadful repercussions crashed around his aching skull.

He was still wallowing in the depths of self-pity when Rienne came softly into the room, carrying a bowl of something hot and savory. She saw the look in his eyes and gave a low cry.

“Oh, Taran, are you in pain?”

“It’s only my pride that hurts,” he muttered, his voice still scratchy with dust. He coughed and she brought the bowl of soup to him. She helped him sit up and passed him the bowl and spoon.

Cal followed her in and sat with him while he ate. “We’ve got to go to the military now, Taran.”

The Journeyman nodded, although he had no hope of finding help.

“I’m sorry I got you both into this,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted nothing more to do with me after that last little fiasco.”

“Little?” snorted Rienne. “You call a collapsed cellar little?”

Taran stared at her. “Collapsed? What, completely? What about the Staff?”

“Buried under feet of rubble,” said Cal. “It took me ages to dig you out and then we were trapped until Rienne came home and let the ladder down. The stairs are gone.”

Taran groaned—it was getting worse. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “What a mess.”

Rienne chose to take him literally. “Nothing a bolted cellar door and a good broom won’t take care of. But that’ll have to wait ’til morning. You never got my supplies either, did you Cal?”

In spite of himself, Taran chuckled. “Oh, Rienne, I can see why he loves you so much.”

She blushed. “Get away with you.” She removed the empty soup bowl. “I’ll get you some drinks.”

They spent the rest of the evening discussing their next move. Taran decided the cellar should be made as safe as possible and left locked up. It wasn’t as if the Staff was going anywhere, buried under all that rubble, and he was fairly sure the Andaryans couldn’t know exactly where it was. If he was right, the village was as safe as anywhere else at the moment.

Rienne adamantly refused to stay behind and Taran’s suggestion that she move in with a neighbor was met with a sour response. She said she would make arrangements for her patients to see one of the healers in Shenton; she had no cases that needed continuous attention.

“Besides,” she added darkly, “the way you two have been behaving lately, you’ll need me.”

Taran couldn’t dispute it and Cal’s relief was obvious.

He decided they would leave the day after next, as horses had to be purchased for Cal and Rienne. Taran had his father’s gelding stabled at the livery and it was a good beast, but it couldn’t carry all three of them. Rienne still wanted to make the trip to Shenton, both to restock her supplies and also to arrange medical coverage for the village. Cal elected to go with her, leaving Taran to organize supplies.

The Journeyman felt so much better for making a positive decision. That had always been his father’s domain and Taran missed his confident, commanding ways. Amanus hadn’t thought much of his son’s abilities—and had pointedly said so on many occasions—but he had always been there. Taran had been deeply affected by the recent disastrous events, and the mere thought of finding someone to advise him lightened his mood.

He was still apprehensive about the garrison’s reaction to his tale, but he wouldn’t look that far ahead just yet.

Despite his unease, Taran felt a certain excitement the following day. He hadn’t traveled since he met Cal a year and a half ago.

He spent the morning at the livery looking at the mounts for sale. He finally selected two that looked sturdy and biddable. Rienne was a fair rider but Cal was nervous of horses and would need a steady mount.

Using some of his small store of gold, he paid for the animals and their gear. He arranged for them to be ready, along with his own bay gelding, by mid-morning the following day. Then he strolled over to have a bite of lunch with Paulus while he waited for the mail coach’s return. As he had hoped, Paulus agreed to keep an eye on the cottage while they were gone. In return, Taran helped behind the bar.

Paulus expressed his concern over the incident with the cellar and offered to get some men together to clear it out while Taran was away.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Taran hastily. “Thanks for the offer, Paulus, I really appreciate it, but apart from the trouble you’d have convincing anyone to go in there with you, the Staff’s still buried under the rubble. I’d rather it remained undisturbed until we get back.”

“Not dangerous, is it?” asked Paulus.

“Not in itself, no,” said Taran, knowing this was probably a lie, “but it’s something that needs … careful handling by the right people, if you know what I mean.”

“Probably not, but I’ll take your word for it. Alright, I’ll see that no one disturbs anything while you’re away.”

“Thanks, Paulus. You’re a good friend and I won’t forget it.”

The mail coach passed through the village around mid-afternoon. Taran met Rienne and Cal as they jumped down from the elderly carriage and waved to the coachman. They were loaded down with bags and supplies and at Taran’s dubious look, Rienne said, “This is only essential stuff, Taran. You don’t think I’d let us go on a trip with only the clothes on our backs, do you?”

“No, of course not,” said Taran. He relieved her of a couple of bags and rolled his eyes at Cal, who grinned.

Back at the house, Rienne distributed what she had purchased. She’d bought spacious saddlebags for each of them and a spare to hold food. Taran was amazed how much she managed to fit into each bag, folding and stowing everything neatly. He and Cal let her be, as she seemed plenty competent with the piles of clothes, food and medical supplies.

Cal helped Taran prepare a meal while Rienne completed the packing. Once they had eaten, they gathered around the fire with fellan. The day had been warm and pleasant but the evenings were growing chilly. Rienne made them go over what they were each taking one last time until even she could think of nothing else they might need.