Kushiel's Scion

And there were still the torches.



Of all the possible dangers remaining, that was the worst. Gilot was right, the students' quarter was built of wood and clay brick, cheap and readily available. If one good blaze started, the whole thing would turn into a tinderbox.



We'd almost made our way home before the threat manifested.



I saw a pair of figures in front of the incense-maker's shop. One of them picked up Canis' abandoned barrel, hurling it at the shuttered windows; the other watched, torch in hand. With a loud crash, the shutters splintered, and an incongruous scent of sandalwood and myrrh wafted onto the street.



"Do it!" The one who had thrown the barrel laughed, drunk and reckless. "Aye, do it, Renzo! Why not? Let the merchant pay the price for his allegiance to the citizen assembly. Do you smell that? The gods never had such a tribute!"



The other cocked his arm, torch blazing. "You reckon?"



All at once, there was no time, and all the time in the world. I felt Gilot stir beneath my arm at their words, and I sensed his thoughts, clear as day. Anna. Belinda. The insula, a tinderbox. I saw Eamonn begin to move, sword naked in his hand, and knew he was too slow; too far away.



An arm; cocked. Flame and sparks, streaming into the night.



A snatch of a poet's tale, an impossible cast. There in the Temple of Asherat where my mother took sanctuary. It happened there.



Joscelin's voice, drilling me. Again. Again. Again.



"Take him!" I gasped, shoving Gilot's limp, heavy body in Lucius' direction. Already I was running, plucking the right-hand dagger from its sheath, ignoring the shattering pain with every step I took. "Eamonn!" I shouted. "Get out of the way!"



He ducked, bless him.



Whispering a prayer, I flipped the dagger in midair, catching it by its point. The steel felt slick and sweaty. I had done this before, done it a thousand times. Joscelin had taught me, had made me drill. At fifteen paces, my aim was good. This was farther. I was better at swordplay. But there was no time, no more.



The cocked arm began to describe an arc.



I threw.



It was a solid cast; a square cast. The dagger turned end over end, glinting dully in the torchlight. It pierced the back of the rioter's hand, pinning it to the wooden base of the torch. He shrieked and flailed, trying to shake himself free, flames dancing wildly around him.



"Thrice-cursed idiot!" I fell on him, wrestling him to the ground. We rolled on the cobbled streets. A searing pain lanced my shoulder, and his torch went out. A stink of scorched wool arose, and the odor of burned flesh. I could hear the pelting footsteps of his companion, beating a hasty retreat. "Do you know who I am?" I asked. "Do you?" He choked out an abject denial, weeping with fear. I wrenched the dagger out of his rigid hand, and he howled, blood welling in the deep, narrow wound. "Go," I said in disgust. "Go away."



He fled, sniveling.



I rolled onto my back and watched the others arrive. Gilot, blind and limping, leaning hard on Lucius. Brigitta, wary and sidling. Eamonn, extending a callused hand. I let him haul me to my feet.



"Right," I said, wavering. "Into the insula."



Chapter Forty-Two



Gilot was a mess.



Eamonn volunteered to take first watch at the gate, and I dispatched Brigitta to fetch Anna Marzoni from her apartment. The whole of the insula was awake and nervous, many of them hovering around the courtyard well, buckets in hand. They knew the danger of fire.



Anna came in a hurry, bringing an elderly woman who had spent years as a chirurgeon's assistant. We laid Gilot on his pallet, lighting all the oil lamps in the room. In the flickering light, they undressed him with care. His torso was a solid mass of bruises, and his right hand was growing bloated and puffy.



"Ah, Jupiter!" Lucius looked sick. "What was he doing out there?"



"Trying to protect me," I murmured.



It was an awful feeling. Anna's daughter Belinda clung to her mother's skirts, wide-eyed and terrified, her thumb in her mouth. I watched, helpless, as the old woman—Nonna was her name—washed away the crusted blood with tender care, bathing his face. She bound Gilot's ribs with strips of clean linen and lashed his broken hand to a piece of board.



" 'Tis beyond my ability to set, young lord," she said, nodding at his hand. "And I can't be sure he hasn't pierced a lung. I don't like the sound of his breathing. When it's safe, take him to the Temple of Asclepius. You know it?"



"Yes." I remembered the island in the middle of the Tiber. "They can help him?"



She shrugged. "If anyone can. What of you?"



"I'm fine," I said.



Lucius lifted his head. "Don't be an ass, Montrève."



So I suffered Nonna to remove my shirt and probe at the burn on my shoulder, a raw, oozing patch. She swabbed it with salve and bound it with clean linen. I tried to drag the boot from my left foot, but my ankle had swollen and it wouldn't come. In the end, Lucius had to cut it off. He knelt on the floor of the apartment, cradling my foot gently, sawing at the leather with the edge of one of my daggers.



"Sorry," he murmured as I hissed with pain. One corner of his mouth quirked. "This isn't exactly how I imagined undressing you."



Despite everything, I laughed.



"There." Lucius eased the remnant of my boot away, and Nonna took his place, probing judiciously with her fingertips, turning my foot this way and that. It hurt like hell. I rolled my eyes skyward and concentrated on breathing slowly.



She grunted. "Bad, but not broken, I think."



"Imri?" On his pallet, Gilot turned his blind, swollen face in my direction. His voice was anxious. "You're all right? Tell me, please!"



"I'm fine." I heard the irritation in my tone, and softened it. Later, I'd tell him the truth. Not now. "It's nothing; just a wrenched ankle."



"Good." He sighed, the tense lines of his body relaxing. "Good."



Nonna bound my ankle, then left. Brigitta went to stand watch at Eamonn's side. Gilot drifted into a fitful sleep, with Anna curled alongside him on his pallet, drowsing and stroking his hair. Little Belinda slept soundly, nestled against her mother.



"A pretty picture," Lucius mused. "He's very loyal to you, isn't he?"



"Yes." Although it wasn't me; not really. Gilot served Montrève. Still, the burden of guilt remained. Here in Tiberium, I was Montrève, and keeping me alive appeared to be a tall order. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was growing longer; Claudia must have been pleased. I glanced sidelong at her brother. "And you, too. I owe you a debt, Lucius."



"Oh?" He arched his brows. "How so?"



"For keeping me afoot when I would have fallen," I said honestly. "Someone struck me from behind. You saved me, and you cleared a space when I needed it the most. I'd have gone down for sure if you hadn't." I paused. "How did you manage it?"



Lucius shook his head. "I didn't."



"What do you mean?" I was confused.



"'O, dear my lord'…" Head bowed, unruly locks falling over his brow, he toyed with an oil lamp, giving it a quick, secretive smile. "I wish I had. We were parted after the wineshop. All I saw was you starting to fall, and I tried to make my way there. But no. That was someone else broke up the throng and made a passage. I couldn't have gotten to you if they hadn't."



"Who?" I asked.



"I don't know," said Lucius. "But whoever it was, I think they killed to do it."



The night held no answers, only a prolonged period of fear and uncertainty. After a time, I hobbled out to spell Eamonn at watch. He and Brigitta went to catch a few well-deserved hours of sleep while Lucius kept me company. The street outside our insula was quiet. We could still hear noise elsewhere in the quarter, but here, the worst of it had passed. For the most part we stood and spoke of inconsequential matters. I wasn't ready to confide in him. Not yet. There was too much to tell. First, I needed to tend to Gilot. After that, I wanted answers from Claudia Fulvia.



The rising sun caught us yawning.



"By the Triad!" Lucius rubbed at his bleary eyes. "I'm off, Montrève. I need to catch a few hours of sleep before Deccus Fulvius summons me to give him a student's viewpoint on the rioting. Say what you will, but I don't think he anticipated this."



"No," I said, thinking about Claudia's warning. "I daresay he didn't."



Lucius left, and I went out into the city on my own, barefoot and limping, to hire a litter to transport Gilot to the isle of Asclepius. My skin prickled with wariness and I kept my hand hovering over my sword-hilt. Gilot would have had a fit had he known, but he was in no state to protest. In any case, there was no sign of would-be assassins or rioters, only the wreckage left in their wake. The city cohort was on patrol, and wary shopkeepers were assessing the damage and looting done to their businesses. In the Great Forum, I begged an uneasy cobbler to sell me a pair of crudely made rope sandals. He agreed at length, eyeing me with distrust. A subdued pall hung over the city, like the aftermath of a fete that had turned poisonous. I had to go all the way to the wharf, but there I found bearers who agreed to my terms, and I returned to the insula to await them, ignoring the steady, piercing throb in my ankle.



There, everyone slept.



There were only the two pallets, meager and mean. I stood and looked. Gilot lay half on his side, his splinted hand outthrust. I could hear his labored breathing. Anna was curled against his back, Belinda's head tucked beneath her chin. And there on the other pallet was Eamonn, sprawled on his back in snoring splendor. Brigitta's head lay on one brawny shoulder, her limbs thrown carelessly over his.



I envied them. All of them.



"Gilot!" I raised my voice. "Your litter awaits."



By litter and barge, we made the journey.



The isle of Asclepius was a peaceful place; a place of healing. I felt calm descend upon me as we approached. The oarsmen dipped their oars with care, as though not to disturb their passenger. Everything was hushed; quiet. Even the barge docked in near-silence, somber attendants catching the ropes, mooring it noiselessly.



One of the priests of Asclepius glided from the temple on sandaled feet, clad in robes of fine-combed white wool. He had a short black beard and austere features; and dark eyes, as dark as those of the Cruithne, filled with wisdom and the knowledge of pain.



I stood at his approach, rocking the barge. "Please," I said humbly. "Help him."



His dark gaze rested on me. "What would you have me heal?"



I gestured to Gilot. "Him."



The priest bowed his head. "As you wish."



A strange question, I thought; Gilot's injuries were obvious. But then again, he was a priest. Mayhap he saw other wounds; deeper wounds. Of a surety, I had those. The attendants eased Gilot onto a narrow litter, and I followed as they bore him into the temple.



Inside, the priest examined Gilot, peering at his swollen face, gently probing his hand, laying his head on Gilot's chest and listening to his breathing. I stood by anxiously. At last, the priest turned to an acolyte; a grave, sweet-faced young woman. "Comfrey to bathe his eyes," he said to her. "And a tincture of opium and henbane for the pain. Once it takes effect, I will attempt to set his hand."



"Will I be able to use it?" Gilot asked through gritted teeth.



"Perhaps," said the priest. He beckoned to me. "Come."



I followed him through the temple. It was a light, airy space, unadorned save for a tile mosaic on the floor. The rear opened onto a grotto where a spring burbled, forming a natural fountain. I could see gold coins gleaming beneath the water. Behind the spring stood a statue of Asclepius, depicted as a hale, bearded figure. In one hand he bore a tall staff, with a serpent twining its length.



All around the grotto, hanging from every protrusion, were clay votive offerings; arms and legs, hands and feet, hearts, heads, eyes and ears—every portion of the human body. There was somewhat unnerving about the sight.



"Tell me," I said.



The priest faced me squarely. "I can make no promises. Many small bones are broken. He makes his living as a swordsman?"



"Yes." It seemed wrong to lie in this place. "He is sworn to the service of my foster-mother, Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève."



Whether or not that meant somewhat to him, I could not say. "You would be well-advised to make an offering to Asclepius, D'Angeline," he said. "And pray to whomever you pray." The priest paused. "There are ribs broken, and something presses upon his lungs, yet he breathes. For that, there is nothing we can do, save wait. Do you understand?"



I nodded. "Pray."



The priest inclined his head. "Even so."



I sat with Gilot while the priest set his hand, though by that time Gilot was mostly unconscious. A good thing, too. It was a delicate business. By the priest's reckoning, three fingers were broken, and a myriad of the small bones in the back of his hand. Even if it healed without complication, he'd have a hard time gripping a sword. I watched distant flickers of pain cross Gilot's battered face and thought about what a good friend and protector he'd always been to me, despite my best efforts to thwart him. Like me, he was no hero; not like Joscelin, driven by the tireless discipline of his Cassiline vow, capable of impossible feats. He was just a good man, handy with a blade, loyal to a fault. And I… I wasn't even that.



I didn't deserve him.



He didn't deserve this.



Anger stirred in me, dark and full of loathing. I thought about my unseen assailant and the men who had done this to Gilot, and the one in particular; the one I'd marked with my daggers. I wished, now, that I'd done worse. I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt Gilot.