The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (18 page)

“No one in there,” the horse doctor said. “One horse with a cough, nothing else.”

Trenan backed Dansil off with a look and crept through the doorway, the muscles in his sword arm tight and ready, his breathing smooth and controlled. Sunlight shone in through a window in a door set in the back wall, illuminating three empty stalls and one in which stood a medium-sized horse, chestnut in color. The horse raised its snout from munching on a pile of straw, regarded the intruder with a disinterested gaze, then returned to its meal. The master swordsman went past the horse’s stall and peered into the others, aware of Dansil’s footsteps close behind him.

Empty.

He surveyed the exit, noticed a fastened padlock on the inside. If anyone stole out the back when they entered, they’d have needed someone to lock it behind them.

“What’s through there?” Dansil demanded.

“It leads to the alley behind the shop,” Enin answered. His voice cracked with apprehension.

The big guard reached back and grabbed the horse doctor by his sleeve, shoved him toward the door. Enin stumbled and sprawled on the straw-covered floor, his long arms and legs tangling. With a shake of his head and a disapproving look to his companion, Trenan released his sword’s hilt and offered his hand to help the man up. Enin gripped the master swordsman’s hand in his own; the horse doctor’s palm was moist with sweat.

“Sorry, I must have stumbled,” Enin said with a nervous titter. “Thank you for your help, Sir Trenan.”

Trenan nodded. “Open the door, please.”

“Of course.”

Enin fished in his pocket and pulled out a key ring, the three iron keys on it jingling discordantly. They all appeared the same, but he selected one confidently and unlocked the rear door, throwing it open and stepping aside for the two soldiers to move past.

As he’d said, the portal opened onto a narrow alley cutting behind the shops of this street and the next. Garbage and refuse clogged most of it—including a large pile of manure stacked beside the horse doctor’s door. The stink made Trenan’s nostrils flare.

Dansil pushed through beside the master swordsman, glanced one way up the lane, then the other. Satisfied there was no one there, he retreated inside. Trenan followed.

“Looks like you’re clean,” Dansil said leaning his axe against his shoulder. “But you’ll tell us if you see anyone.”

The horse doctor raised his brow. “And how will I do that?”

“Go to the barracks. Tell anyone.” Dansil scowled hard. “Don’t fuck with me, horse doctor, or you’ll regret it.”

“Of course, I beg your pardon.”

Enin bowed deferentially, and Trenan shot Dansil another disapproving look. The big guard cracked a brief smile, then returned the scowl to his lips before the horse doctor raised his head.

“Anything else I can do you for you, gentlemen?” Enin asked, his gaze darting between the two armed men. “Perhaps a check up for your horses?”

“Won’t be necessary,” Trenan replied. Dansil had already stalked through the door into the horse doctor’s shop. “Let us know if you hear anything.”

Enin nodded, then followed the master swordsman past the paddock’s lone resident and through the door. He hurried ahead, opening the outside door for them and bowing shallowly at the waist. Dansil swept past and into the street without a sideways glance, but Trenan hesitated at the doorway, looking at the tall, gaunt man; Enin didn’t raise his gaze.

When the master swordsman’s boot heels hit the street’s cobblestones, the horse doctor shut the door without so much as a word or a peek. Trenan paused and looked back at the shop, a sliver of suspicion niggling in his gut.

“Something wasn’t right about that man,” he said.

“Nothing a few good meals wouldn’t fix. Have you ever seen a man so tall and bony?”

“That’s not what I mean. Didn’t he appear nervous to you?”

“Downright scared shitless.” Dansil laughed and patted his hand on the side of his axe’s polished head. “Can’t say I blame him with me in the room. Maybe you should do the next place by yerself so the shop keep don’t get so frightened.”

Frowning, Trenan ignored the big guard’s jab and followed his companion to the next door. The feeling of something more going on with the horse doctor than what they saw gnawed at his gut.

XVII Teryk - Stirk’s Hand

Stirk sat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, the stump where his left hand had been the day before hanging in the air before his eyes. He didn’t blink, just stared at it as though doing so might cause his missing appendage to grow back.

The stink of burning flesh had dissipated, replaced by the usual vile odors seeping through the cellar from the tannery. Bieta shifted where she sat on the floor beside the prince, watching her son, a sliver of guilt poking her heart the way her tongue poked at her empty gums.

“You okay, Stirk?”

He didn’t answer. Bieta shifted again, her gaze falling to the shiny skin stretched tight over the end of her son’s arm. She didn’t know how the healer had done it, or why, but it explained the appearance of the flesh between his/her legs.

“It’ll be worth it,” she said, facing away from Stirk’s blank stare to check on the injured lad. “Soon we’ll have enough coin to buy you a golden hand if you want.”

She touched her palm to the prince’s forehead, found it had cooled considerably since the healer’s strange visit. Though nothing appeared to have happened beyond the laying of hands upon the young man, his condition had improved markedly. It had been the same when the healer took Stirk’s hand in payment—a grip around his wrist, a bright glow, the stench of burning flesh, and the hand came free.

Bieta shuddered. Seeing the healer leave their home holding her son’s hand, fingers entwined as if lovers going for a stroll, brought nausea to her stomach then and it resurfaced as she recalled the sight. After swallowing around the sickly lump forming in her throat, she returned her attention to her son.

Stirk’s eyes moved away from the stump for the first time since he’d sank to the floor under the force of the healer’s grip. His gaze found Bieta’s.

“Why’d you let this happen to me, Ma?” he said, a quake in his quiet, accusatory tone. “I liked that hand.”

“W—we.” Saliva flooded Bieta’s mouth, spilled through the gap in her front teeth. She slurped it back. “The healer needed to be paid. The work was done.”

“Couldn’t you have paid with your hand? Or Enin’s?”

“The healer didn’t want mine or the horse doc’s.”

Stirk’s bottom lip quivered; tears shimmered in his eyes. With a creak of joints, Bieta pushed herself up from her seat and went to kneel in front of her son. Her fingers touched his forearm above the spot where his hand had been and he jerked away.

“Does it hurt?”

A tear spilled along his cheek as he shook his head without taking his eyes from hers. He shrugged his shoulder up and bent his head to the side, wiping the wet trail away.

“Feels like it’s still there,” he said, his face hardening. “Feels like I could reach out and wrap my fingers around your throat for letting this happen to me.”

A spark of fear ignited in Bieta’s chest. Stirk outweighed her and would have no problem ending her life if he decided to do so, but she was his mother. He’d do no such thing.

She reached out and grasped the smooth end of his arm in both her hands before he could move away again. He jerked, but she held on, the scar warm against her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Stirk, but what else could I have done?”

“Could’ve said no.”

Bieta shook her head. “Then we’d all be dead.”

He glared at her, his lips pressed together, the bottom one protruding, pouting the way he did as a little boy. She took one hand from his stump and brushed her fingers against his cheek, making him flinch.

“Isn’t it better to be rich with one hand than dead with both?”

“Guess so,” he said, pouting lip still extended. “Must’ve been another way, though.”

“No. The healer didn’t want these old things.” She removed her hands from Stirk’s arm and held them up for them both to see the wrinkled skin and protruding veins. “And Enin’s likely smelled too much of horse shit.”

Stirk sniggered. “Does stink a bit, don’t he?”

“What’d you expect from a man who lives in the stables?”

“Yeah. Bet his prick tastes like it, too, don’t it, Ma? Probably been sticking it in some poor horse’s arse.”

The mirth in Stirk’s eyes hardened into cruelty and Bieta saw that, despite the laugh they shared, she wasn’t forgiven. Maybe she never would be.

“That ain’t funny, Stirk.”

“Neither’s this, Ma.” He raised the stump, waggled it in front of her eye. “But don’t worry. I ain’t gonna kill you.”

“I know you won’t.”

“But that fucker…” He extended his arm, pointing the shining scar at the unconscious prince. Bieta peered back over her shoulder at their captive.

“That fucker is what’s going to get us enough gold to make losing your hand worthwhile.”

“It’s all right, Ma,” Stirk said, a devious smile creeping across his face. “I won’t kill him ‘til we get ourselves paid.”

***

The sun had mostly set by the time Enin returned. He’d been in and out a few times through the day, tending his business but always coming back to ensure they didn’t leave him without his cut of the ransom. Bieta wasn’t sure where he expected she might go with an unconscious prince and a broody, one-handed man, but his feet were doing all the extra walking, not hers.

This final time he entered the storeroom, he only opened the door enough to slip his slender body through quick as he could, and he banged his forehead on the way. Bieta wondered at why he acted like someone was after him.

The horse doc cursed and rubbed his head, hand still on the door handle. Bieta parted her lips to ask what was happening, but he held up a finger to silence her, then cracked the door and peeked back the way he’d come.

Bieta wedged a knuckle into her eye socket and gave it a vigorous rub. Her good eye flickered between the horse doctor peering into the alley and Stirk crouched beside the prince, staring into the lad’s face. He’d made no move on the young man, but Bieta didn’t feel confident with what might happen should Prince Teryk awaken.

Finally, Enin shut the door and shrank back into the room, rubbing the spot on his head where a bump was forming and messing his sparse hair. When he turned, Bieta saw sweat on his upper lip and staining his shirt front.

“What’s happening?”

He gulped, the pronounced man-bump in his throat bobbing. His gaze flickered from Bieta to the prince and Stirk, then back.

“They’re looking.”

Bieta scrunched up her forehead. “Who’s looking?”

“King’s men came to my shop asking questions.” Enin lowered his hand from the bump on his head and pointed at the prince. “Searching for him.”

She followed his long, crooked finger to look at the injured man. Stirk raised his head. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, no one spoke. Bieta and Enin stared at the prince; Stirk stared back at them as though assigned to do so for the lad because he was unable to stare back himself.

“What do we do?” Stirk asked finally.

His words shook Bieta out of her mild state of shock. Did she really think the prince could go missing and no one would search for him? Had she believed holding the king and queen’s son for ransom would be easy?

“How many of them?”

“I only saw a small squad—four of them. Might be others, though, searching the entire city.” His hand returned to the bump on his forehead, swiping sweat from his lip on the way past.

Bieta shook her head. “The sun’s set twice since Teth poked him,” she said, working things through in her mind. “And your place ain’t too far from where it happened. If there were lots of them, they’d have talked to you long ago.”

Enin crossed to the middle of the room and sat on the edge of the table. It creaked beneath his weight.

“You might be right.” His head-rubbing might have been to soothe the pain or a gesture of thought. “But they’ll find their way here eventually.”

“We have to move him, then,” Bieta said.

“Or kill him and dump him in the river,” Stirk added.

Bieta fixed her son with a chastising glance; he didn’t divert his gaze the way he usually did. “Do you want to have lost your hand for nothing?”

“No,” Stirk grumbled and went back to staring at the lad.

“Moving him’s not a good idea,” Enin said paying no attention to Stirk’s comment. “Don’t know where they might search. Staying here might be better. Can you trust the tanner?”

Bieta scowled. “He don’t know anything.”

Enin surveyed the room. “Does he come in here?”

“No. There’s a trap door to the cellar, but it’s the only other way in. You don’t think they’ll search down an alley, do you?”

“We have to be ready.” He lowered his hand from his head to his lips, rubbed his finger briskly across them. Bieta mimicked the action with her tongue on her gums. “I have an idea.”

“Better not mean me losing another body part,” Stirk said.

“Hush,” Bieta admonished then returned her attention to the horse doctor. “What’s your idea?”

“I’ll lock you in.”

Bieta shook her head. “Won’t work. Ain’t a lock on the door.”

“No, but I can get boards, a hammer, and nails.”

The woman frowned. “You intend to make it so they can’t get in but we can’t get out, neither?”

“They won’t search somewhere inaccessible.”

Bieta put her hand to her lips, glanced over at Stirk. He continued staring at the prince, attempting to burn holes in his flesh with his glare and ignoring the conversation.

“Suppose we can always go through the cellar if we have to,” she said. “How long will we have to stay?”

Enin shrugged. “Until they move to another part of the city. A couple of days.”

She put her thumb into her mouth, rubbed her gum, touched its pad with the tip of her tongue. Her eyes darted from Enin to Stirk to the prince. If the guards saw no way for anyone to get in or out, they’d search somewhere else. It made sense. She pulled her thumb from between her lips with a faint pop and nodded.

Enin didn’t wait for her to speak. He jumped up from the table and rushed to the door, opening it a crack and peeking through the way he did when he arrived. Satisfied the alley was empty, he ducked lower than he needed to keep from banging his head again and hurried out, slamming the door shut behind him. Bieta had time for one heavy breath before hammering began.