Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (17 page)

“Someone ought to!"

“Maybe when the lad is up and about."

“Aye! He should be the one to punish her!"

Genny rushed into her hut and slammed the flimsy door behind her, throwing the bolt used during

inclement weather to lock it. Standing in the middle of the room, she brought up her hands and covered

her face, and the tears began in earnest.

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“How is he?"

Patrick Kasella ran a weary hand over his tired eyes and sighed. “The fever broke early this morning,

but he hasn't awakened yet."

Weir looked at his friend. “Have you had any sleep, Paddy?"

Paddy shrugged. “There'll be time to sleep when I know he's going to be all right.” He leaned back in his

chair and shot out his long legs. “I'm not going anywhere."

A crooked smile twitched over Weir's lips. “Wasn't asking you to,” he quipped. He drew up a

straw-back chair and straddled it, leaned his arms over its back. “I'll just sit a spell if that's all right with

you."

Paddy glanced at him and a rueful grin spread over his chiseled lips. “Maybe I can tolerate your

company, Saur."

“As long as I can tolerate yours,” Weir chuckled.

Late into the afternoon, a small groan came from the man lying on his stomach on the cot. Both Weir and

Paddy stood as Tarnes bent over the bed and laid a gentle hand on Syn-Jern Sorn's shoulder, holding

their breath as the old tar spoke in a quiet, soft voice.

“Syn-Jern? Can you hear me, son?” Another muffled grunt came from bed and Tarnes lowered his head

to the young man's parted lips. “What do you need, son?"

“W ... a ... t ... e ... r."

Tarnes straightened and took the tumbler of cool water Paddy had thrust out at him. Very gently, he

lifted Syn-Jern's head and put the rim of the tumbler to lips parched and cracked with the fever that had

ridden him for days.

“Not much now,” Tarnes warned. “Just a little at first."

Weir glanced at Patrick Kasella's face and saw tears. He looked away.

“That's enough for now.” Tarnes handed the tumbler back to Paddy and eased Syn-Jern's head back

down on the cot. He smoothed a recalcitrant lock of lank hair from Syn-Jern's moist brow. “Maybe you

can stomach a wee bit of broth in awhile, eh?"

“You're going to be fine,” Paddy said as he bent over to lay a hand on Syn-Jern's leg. “Just fine.” As

Tarnes moved out of the way, he eased up along the cot and laid a trembling hand on Syn-Jern's cheek.

“We'll see to that, my friend."

Weir jerked his chin in the direction of the door and Tarnes nodded, casting one final look at his patient.

He glanced at Paddy, watched the young man settle once more into the chair placed beside Syn-Jern's

cot. He sighed. “You need rest, Patrick,” he warned.

Paddy nodded. “I'll let you know when he wakes up again."

Outside in the muted rose light of sunset, Tarnes let out another ragged sigh. “He's going to make his

own self sick if he don't watch it."

“A battalion of Temple guards couldn't drag him away from Syn-Jern right now,” Weir pointed out. He

thrust his hands into the pockets of his cords and looked out over the silver gleam of water. “Has there

been talk?"

“About what?"

Weir looked back at the old sailor.

Tarnes shrugged. “Most of the men on Montyne Cay don't give a damn about that sort of thing,” he

reminded Weir, “and those that do, wouldn't open their traps about it.” The rheumy eyes narrowed.

“Least ways, they'd better not."

“I never would have guessed it about him, Tarnes,” Weir said. “Genny's been running after him since she

was old enough to know there was a difference between men and women."

Tarnes nodded. “That should have told you something right there, lad.” He saw Weir flinch. “You ever

see Paddy with a women?"

Weir shook his head in denial."

“Didn't you ever wonder why?"

Weir lifted one shoulder. “I just thought he was being discreet. That he didn't want his private life held up

for public consumption."

“I had my suspicions, you see,” Tarnes explained, digging into his pocket for the pipe he was rarely

without. He stuck the steam between his teeth. “Not that it matters all that much to me. What Paddy

does is his own business, but—"

“But, what?"

Tarnes shook his head. “That lad lying in there ain't of the same bent.” He took the pipe from his mouth

and pointed the stem toward the medical hut. “That lad is in love with your sister."

Weir flinched, again, then shuddered. “Even if he is, she's the last woman I'd let near him!"

Tarnes chuckled. “Son, I don't know of no way you can keep two lovebirds apart ‘less you ship one to

the Outer Kingdom!"

“Genny doesn't love him,” Weir snapped. “She damned near got him transported back to the

Labyrinth!"

Tarnes chuckled again. “Aye, she does.” He grinned as the young man sneered. “She don't know it yet,

but she does."

Paddy could hear their voices outside the hut for they had not walked far from the door. Even though the

words hurt him, cut into his heart like surgical steel, he knew what Tarnes said was true.

“Do you love her, Syn-Jern?” he asked the man sleeping fitfully on the cot. “Do you love Genny Saur?”

He ran the backs of his fingers down Syn-Jern's damp cheek. “If you do, I'll make sure you get her.” He

stroked the too-lean cheek. “I'll move heaven and earth to see you do."

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He lay watching a cockroach crawling up the wall of the hut. His breathing was shallow, controlled, for a

headache like none he had ever known was throbbing at his temples with a vengeance. All his life he had

suffered from such debilitating headaches, but the one he was enduring at that moment was far worse

than any other had been. The pain was excruciating, the nausea burning up his throat. He tried to

concentrate his distorted vision on the meandering insect, but the fog was already gathering at the edges

of his sight and he knew before too long the distortion of sound in his right ear would begin, as well. Then

the nausea would erupt.

Trying to lift his head, the pain intensified and he gasped, easing his head back to the flat surface of the

mattress. He gathered in two fistfuls of sheet, wincing at the pull of the wounds that were closing in his

hands. He tried to will away the awful agony in his head, but he knew he wouldn't be able to.

“Are you awake?"

He tried to focus on Norbert Tarnes’ smiling face, but the old man's features were swimming in a sea of

fog.

“Think you can eat something, lad?"

The thought of food made him gag and he swallowed convulsively to force the burning bile back down

his throat.

“You've got to eat something, Syn-Jern,” Tarnes admonished. “How about some fresh mango slices,

huh?"

He retched, hot liquid gushing from his mouth even as he tried to clamp his lips shut against the flow. His

fingers dug into the sheet and he gasped with the pain from his wounds, sucking down his windpipe some

of the noxious fluid that was in the process of escaping. He choked, coughed, trying to raise his head to

keep from suffocating.

“Stevens!” Tarnes yelled, lunging forward to lift Syn-Jern's head as more bile poured from his lips. “Get

in here!"

Jarl Stevens rushed into the hut. One look sent him hurrying to the pitcher of water on the table in front

of the window. He poured water into a bowl and grabbed a cloth from the dry sink. Hurrying to Tarnes,

he dropped the rag into the water and then set the bowl on the bedside table behind Tarnes.

“Is it your head, lad?” Stevens asked, wringing the rag out. He glanced up at Tarnes.

“The boy has headaches. He had one on ship."

Tarnes’ lips tightened. “I bet they made the most of that!” he spat.

Stevens nodded. “Them bastards liked nothing better than to torment a sick man.” He watched Tarnes

washing away the slick fluid from Syn-Jern's lips and cheek. “Want me to get some men in here to lift him

up? That cot's gonna need cleaning."

Tarnes held Syn-Jern's head up from the blotch of smelly liquid coating the mattress. “Aye. See if

someone's got some laudanum, too, while you're at it.” He turned to Syn-Jern. “Will that help, lad? The

laudanum?"

Syn-Jern tried to nod, but the pain was too much and he ground his teeth together.

“Just try to hang on,” Tarnes told him gently. “We'll get you fixed up."

Weir followed close on Stevens’ heel as the old man wobbled into the medical hut with three other

sailors.

“What happened?"

“He just got sick, is all,” Tarnes remarked. He nodded toward the men. “Ease him up, boys. He's got a

mighty bad headache.” He looked to Stevens. “Did you get the—"

“Right here,” Stevens interrupted, handing a small dark green vial toward Tarnes.

Weir helped the other men lift Syn-Jern from the cot, wincing as a helpless groan escaped the man's

hoarse throat. Stevens and Tarnes stripped the cot bare, rushed to wipe the mattress and then flip it over

before throwing a hastily draped sheet over the ticking.

“B ... a ... c ... k,” Syn-Jern whispered.

“Don't hurt his back!” Weir snarled, but he heard Syn-Jern's weak voice once more.

“L ... a ... y ... on ... b ... a ... c ... k."

“Son, I don't know,” Tarnes said, glancing over the barely scabbed lash marks covering the young man's

flesh.

“W ... o ... n ... ‘t ... f ... e ... e ... l."

Weir looked at Tarnes. “Tarnes?"

The old salt shook his head. “He's gonna break them scabs open, but maybe with all that scar tissue he

won't feel it.” He nodded. “Lay him on his side and then ease him over."

His gasp of pain was more from the movement the motion brought to his aching head than any physical,

bodily pain he felt, but the gentle hands on him were comforting as they eased him to his back, helped

position him on the cot.

“You want a pillow, son?” Stevens asked.

“Please."

Very slowly Tarnes raised his head and Stevens placed the thick goose-down pillow beneath his head.

“That better?” Stevens asked.

“Aye.” It was a whisper of relieved sound.

Tarnes took a tumbler of water from the bedside table and poured a measure of the laudanum into it,

swirling the liquids to mix them. He held it to Syn-Jern's lips.

“Here you go, son. Drink it all."

The bitterness of the concoction made him swallow convulsively to get it down, but almost immediately

his tongue went numb and he knew relief from the godawful agony in his head was only a few more

swallows away.

“Not the best tasting brew in the world, eh?” Stevens grinned, watching the grimace of distaste flicker

over Syn-Jern's pale face.

“My father used to have headaches,” Weir said to no one in particular. “They can be hell."

Syn-Jern sighed deeply as the lassitude of the laudanum began to take effect. He could feel it spreading

throughout his body, easing him, and numbing him to the pain in his head and the nausea in his throat. He

eased his head to the left, away from the light at the window.

“Cover that window with something!” Stevens mumbled to one of the sailors and the man hastened to

do his bidding.

“You want anything else, lad?” Tarnes asked, wiping Syn-Jern's face with a cool cloth. He nodded, no

longer feeling the pain that had been piercing his temples. “What do you need?"

The words he spoke were soft, slurred, but clear enough for every man there to hear:

“Revenge."

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“He wants to see you,” Weir informed his sister.

Genny looked down at her clenched hands. “Is he angry with me?” She looked up at her brother's

contemptuous snort.

“Don't keep him waiting. He's not well."

Genny had spent most of the time since Syn-Jern Sorn had been back sitting alone in her hut. She

thankfully accepted Tarnes’ accompanying her to and from the well, down to the common garden where

the inhabitants of Montyne Cay worked individual plots of vegetables. Tarnes provided her with salt pork

and eggs, milk from his own cow, and freshly baked bread from the lady friend with whom he kept

company. Other than Tarnes, no one had come to see her. She was being shunned as only those on

Montyne Cay, those of the pirate subculture, could shun a person who, in their eyes, had betrayed the

code of conduct that was an unwritten law on the Cay. Genny felt the loneliness almost as much as she

felt the censure and condemnation by the others. It was the loneliness that hurt most.

“The nerve of the bitch,” she had heard someone comment on the only occasion when she had asked of

Syn-Jern's health.

“As if she gives a rat's arse! He could have died for all that she-devil cared!"

Walking from her hut to the medical that morning, Genny could feel the hostility following her. She heard

whispers, sly and scornful laughs, taunting clucks of tongues, but she walked on, her face burning a dull

red in the harsh morning sun. When she at last came to the door of the medical hut, she stopped, afraid of

going in, fearful of the man's reaction to her leaving him at the mercy of the Serenian Transporters.

“Well, don't just stand there, you stupid cow!"

Genny turned to face the harsh feminine voice that had spat at her. Seeing Meggie Spaulding standing

only a foot or two away, four of her closest cronies flanking her ample bulk, brought instant alarm to