Tyrant Trouble (Mudflat Magic) (32 page)

Closer
to the wall and to us were several tall jars.

From
somewhere past the guard and the courtyard's outer gate, we heard the low buzz
of talk.

“What's
in the pan?” I whispered.

“Drippings,
probably. To dip bread.”

“And
in the jars?”

“Mead,
I should guess.”

I
yanked him back around the corner and out of sight of the guard. “I don't know
what heat will do to the powder. Will they heat the mead?”

“Shouldn't
think so. That mutton is about ready. They'll want to eat.”

“All
right. I'll empty the box into the mead. Might not be enough to knock out
anyone, but if it makes them at all ill, that'll do.”

“Ill?
Why?”

“I
told Erlan there'd been a plague. Everyone left to avoid the spread.”

“He
believed that?”

“Also
told him the fires were funeral pyres. Nance and Lor torched the far
hillsides.”

“We
saw the smoke last night. You must be magic if he believed you.”

I
didn't explain about Nance's glider. That was her secret. And I certainly
wasn't going to tell him that I had puked on his uncle's feet.

“Give
me the box,” he whispered.

“No,
I'm darker than you. Less apt to be seen in the shadows.” He opened his mouth
to argue and I pressed my fingertips against his lips. “Tarvik, listen. They
know I am here. If they catch me, they won't look for you.”

“No,
I won't let you.”

“I'm
not playing hero, honestly. They think I'm sick and have a deadly fever. None
of them want to get near me. You need to go back to your camp so you can lead
the fight against your uncle, in case this doesn't work.”

And
while he stared at me, trying to come up with an argument, I ducked away from
him and slipped around the wall.

The
guard was half asleep, squatted on his heels by the fire. I watched him breathe
in that slow rhythm, his eyes almost closed, his soldier body used to grabbing
rest without quite losing consciousness. His clothes were shabby, battle-worn.
In the dim light I could see raw scrapes on his face and hands.

I
moved silently a half step at a time, barely lifting my feet, one hand against
the wall to steady myself. Nearby voices mixed with the low whistle of wind.
With that thin background of sound, I took the little metal box out of my
pocket. If it held nothing more than face powder, I'd made a bum choice.

When
I reached the first jar, I emptied the contents of the box into it. So that was
done. It either had an effect or it didn't. For a moment I thought about the
vial of liquid. Should I add it also? I put my hand back into my pocket,
dropped the box and felt around for the vial.

“Ho!
You!”

I
froze. I could not even turn my head to look at him.

Flattening
myself to the wall, I pressed my hands against it. My feet wouldn't move, but
what of it? There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and I had to hope Tarvik
had the sense to get back to the secret passageway and close the door. I could
perhaps stay alive for a while with chants and lies and who knew what. I could
froth at the mouth and fall at their feet and pretend to be dying of fever.

Does
that sound brave? Hope so, because it's noble to go out like a hero, but the
truth was, I had no choice. I could not possibly outrun the guard and if I did,
there was an army of them in the outer yard.

I
felt him and smelled him as he leaned closer. I tried to roll my eyes, to look
ill and contagious, and let my head fall sideways. I made some really
disgusting sounds and if he came closer, fear and nausea would empty what was
left in my stomach and the sounds would be real.

He
looked like every soldier, dirty, weary, frightened, his face slick with
nervous sweat. He held his dagger a breath away from my throat. Questions slid
across his face as he stared at me.

“You,”
he mumbled, his eyes unfocused. “Templekeeper.”

The
guard threw his weight against me, crashing me against the stone wall. My body
screamed while I managed to choke back sound. I tried to break the impact,
threw my arms behind me, felt a sharp pain slightly dulled by shock. He caught
my hair and pulled it up until I thought my neck would snap, then swung me away
from the wall toward the fire. My vision blurred.

He
opened his mouth to shout to his fellow guards and I knew my luck was over.
Erlan was stupid, but not mindless. He would search my pockets and guess what I
had done.

The
man's voice broke in a ragged gurgle of sound that died on the edge of a cry.

I
struggled to focus and saw an arm snaked around his neck from in back of him,
the elbow forcing up his chin. A hand wearing a lot of gold rings clamped over
his mouth.

The
man let go of me and I almost stumbled into the coals.

Blood
ran from my torn elbows, trailing down both arms. I bit back sobs, held in
tears. This sort of rough stuff, it looks good in TV action shows and maybe
people who tramp the wilderness expect some bruises, but it's not part of
normal city living, at least not for me. Whimpering was my normal reaction and
I knew that wasn't a choice. Not whimpering. Not howling.

Tarvik
hauled him toward the back wall and I saw the tracks the guard's heels made in
the dirt.

Diving
at his feet, I grabbed his ankles, lifted them. It seemed like hours but could
only have been seconds. We carried him between us, Tarvik's arms sliding around
the shoulders to take most of the weight.

“Where
is he?” a voice shouted. “He's supposed to be here, watching the fire.”

I
froze and stared into Tarvik's widened eyes.

We
were dead. They would capture both of us and take us to Erlan. He would find
the vials in my pocket, see his live and healthy nephew, and no matter how
thick and stupid his brain, he would know I'd tricked him. That would be the
end of us and the beginning of Erlan's pursuit of the missing residents of the
city.

“Looks
about done,” another voice said, and I thought he was right, we were done.

Tarvik's
mouth clamped shut and I did likewise. He jerked the shoulders of our prisoner,
lifting most of the man's weight by himself and still kept his one elbow wedged
so tightly beneath the chin that the man could only make low choking sounds. I
stumbled after, clinging to his ankles to prevent his feet from dragging.

“I'll
look around, he can't be far,” the first voice said.

His
companion said, “Gives me the creeps, fixing our food here, all those people
dead. Ever see fever spread?”

We
pulled the guard into the passageway, dropped him on the floor and closed the
door. I heard Tarvik drag the man across the floor, heard the body bumping
against the stones, and didn’t want to guess why the man made no sound.

When
Tarvik reached a doorway, he opened it, pulled his prisoner into a dim room. I
had lost any sense of direction and didn’t know where we were, other than in
one of the many bedrooms.

The
guard moaned.

“He'll
come around unless I kill him,” Tarvik said. I tried to pretend I had not heard
him.

“Could
you tie him up or something?”

“And
have him found?”

“Maybe
we could drug him. Oh. All I have left is the vial.”

“Use
it.”

“But
what if it is a poison?”

“You
can give him the vial or I can break his neck.” Tarvik smiled his wide toothy
smile at me. I must have been crazy thinking I could read his face. He could
not possibly be having smiley thoughts.

The
best I could do was hope the liquid was a sleeping potion.

The
guard's eyes opened and he struggled, half-conscious, against Tarvik's grip. He
was larger and heavier than Tarvik, his skin slick with sweat, his body twisting.
He wrenched his head sideways, gasped, went still.

Tarvik
knew exactly how to hold him. I wondered if it was one of those lessons taught
to barbarian sons along with sword fighting, how to disable and control large
smelly opponents.

Tarvik
kept his elbow under the man's chin and with his other hand, he held his nose.

I
opened the vial and poured its contents into the open mouth.

Tarvik
held him until he passed out, either from the grip on his neck or from the drug.
He went limp and slid to the floor.

Tarvik
said, “He is breathing, Stargazer, so stop worrying.”

He
caught my hand and led me into the castle hallway, which looked like every hall
I had seen and so I didn't know where we were. We ducked in and out of rooms
until we reached the one Tarvik wanted, went through it to another hidden
entrance to the passageway, felt our way through the black, exited again, this
time into a small inner courtyard with only one gate. The gate was bolted from
the inside.

“No
one comes here,” he said.

Like
all the courtyards it was depressingly bare except for a long low bench. But
there was a bit of light from the starry sky and it was warmer outdoors than
inside the stone walls.

My
teeth were chattering and I must have looked about to pass out, because Tarvik
suddenly wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a warm hug, stroked the
side of my face. Could he do that all at once? It seemed to me like he had a
couple of extra hands.

He
smoothed my hair, pressed his mouth against my ear, whispered, “He will not
die. We did not kill him. He will be fine. Please, don't cry.”

I
wasn't crying. Or I didn't know I was until he started brushing tears from my
face. It wasn't so much fear as exhaustion, I think.

With
his hand under my chin, he turned me and pressed his forehead against mine, our
eyes so close, all I could see was a blur.

“Have
you slept at all these last few nights?”

“Of
course,” I said.

“Blinked
your eyes a few times, yes?”

I
was so tired I leaned into his hug, clung to him, felt his body heat radiate
through me until I stopped shivering.

“It
must be that I am warm that you like. I'm not sticky or black or even very
soft,” he said.

I
moved far enough back from him to be able to see his face. “No. Who said you
were?”

“You
did. You called me Tarbaby once and then you said that is what a tarbaby is.
You also said a tarbaby is cute. Am I cute?”

“Good
grief!” I put my head back on his shoulder. “Do you memorize every word I say?”

“I
try to. Come on, I think you need to sleep.”

He
led me over to the bench, sat down, then pulled me down beside him. He wrapped
my robe tightly around me and even arranged the hood up over my head. If I
hadn't been so exhausted I might have argued.

Somewhere
on the trip through the passage he had snagged a jar of mead.

Now
he opened his robe and tugged out the hem of the short linen tunic he wore
above his wool pants and boots. I was too tired to think, but the sound of
ripping cloth made me watch. He tore off a strip, then dipped it in the mead.

I
couldn't even get up the strength to question him.

Next
he carefully rolled up a sleeve of my robe. My elbow was a bloody mess from its
collision with the stone wall.

He
studied it, studied me, said, “Take a drink,” and held the jar to my lips.
“Now.”

Bossy,
bossy, but I did it, drank a gulp, stared at him wondering what was next.

He
lifted my other arm, put it in front of my face, said, “Bite down on your
sleeve. No, do not bite yourself, just the sleeve,” and he all but stuffed a wad
of velvet sleeve into my mouth.

“Try
not to scream.”

I
wondered why and then he washed my elbow and I knew what he meant because, oh
God, did I want to scream. Maybe it was the mead that burned, maybe just the
cloth rubbing over the scrape.

That
fun experience was over in a minute or two and then, damned if the guy didn't
switch arms, stuff my other sleeve in my mouth and clean up the opposite elbow.

Huh.
So whether or not they knew the names for bacteria, the barbarians did know
about infection. I tried to keep my mind on all these puzzles. Better than
decking him, which I would have enjoyed doing.

When
he was satisfied with his first aid project, he pulled me into a hug, kissed my
forehead and cheeks, smoothed my hair, did a whole lot of soft murmuring about
how brave I was and kind of reminded me of my grandmother. I didn't bother to
tell him that.

“Done
torturing me?” I managed to ask.

“Hush
up,” he said and he sounded angry but I somehow got the impression he was angry
with himself, not me.

He
pushed me down until I was lying on the bench with my head pillowed on his
thigh, reached the length of me to tuck the hem of my robe in around my feet,
then leaned his back against the wall. He kept one hand on my shoulder and it
might as well have been his sword.

Ah,
not really, the sword had been heavy, sharp, threatening. The pressure of his
hand was firm and somehow comforting.

“Get
some sleep now,” he said.

“Are
you going to sleep sitting up?”

“Yes.”

With
no hope at all of sleeping, I closed my eyes, listened to his soft breathing,
tried to relax.

I
woke hours later when the sky began to gray. I was alone on the bench, my head
pillowed on something soft. When I sat up I heard myself moaning. Every surface
of my body felt bruised. The scrapes on my arms burned. I spread open the
rolled pillow and saw it was Tarvik's fur cloak.

He
was wandering around in the cold winter morning with nothing more than a
sleeveless tunic over his pants and boots.

Above
the courtyard wall the open sky turned light, and there were faint drifts of
smoke, probably from cook fires. The smell of roast meat lingered. There were
no sounds other than those of any morning, rising wind, something creaking
somewhere, chattering flocks of birds.