The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (9 page)

Ailyssa’s brow furrowed at the young woman’s choice of words, but she didn’t inquire further. The elation in her chest at having been saved, brought back into the Goddess’ arms when life appeared most bleak, made her ignore its significance. Excitement at returning to a temple, even one that wasn’t hers, set her head buzzing with possibilities. Perhaps she’d find her own Daughter, Claris, or her Mother, Pedra—if she was still alive.

Creidra led her up a gentle rise, guiding her carefully around rocks and roots, steering her away from prickle bushes and dense shrubs. As they reached the top of the hill, the nickering of a horse floated to Ailyssa’s ears; the sound made her think she might one day get her sight back.

“Where are you taking me?” Ailyssa asked as they made their way toward the woman’s wagon. “What temple do you belong to?”

“I am N’th in the Goddess’ temple of Jubha Kyna.”

Ailyssa’s feet stopped moving, nearly pulling Creidra over.

Jubha Kyna. The Goddess’ brothel.

VII Teryk - Horse Doctor

The beads of sweat on the lad’s head popped back into being as quick as Bieta wiped them away. He breathed so shallow, it forced her to lean her ear close to his lips to be sure he still drew air. Through the night and morning, it had been the same.

“This isn’t good, Stirk.”

“What’s not good, Ma?”

Bieta shook her head, partially at the state of her rescuer, partially because her son needed to ask.

“Lad might not make it ‘til we can ransom him.”

Stirk kneeled beside her and scratched the rough stubble on his chin with dirt-clogged fingernails. He tilted his head, watching the young man and pondering the situation.

“What should we do? We won’t get no gold for him if he’s dead, will we?”

“No, we won’t,” Bieta said instead of slapping him in the side of the head like she wanted—jarring his brain might knock loose whatever little sense he may yet possess inside his skull. “You need to fetch Enin.”

“Enin? The horse doctor?”

Bieta nodded.

“Why don’t I find a real doctor? This feller ain’t no horse.”

“Because we can’t afford a visit from the surgeon. Enin might not be a real doc, but he’ll accept the kind of payment I can give.”

The man lying on the stack of hay moaned in the back of his throat as though agreeing with Bieta’s plan. Both mother and son turned their attention toward him; his brow was sopping again and his cheeks glowed an unhealthy red. Bieta planted her tongue firmly against the space between her front teeth and wiped his sweat away with the grungy cloth.

“Fever’s got him,” she said without looking at her son. “You need to hurry and get Enin before it’s too late.”

Stirk stared a moment longer, then nodded so hard his brain might have smacked against the inside of his head. When he left, he neglected to shut the door, leaving the dim light of the overcast day to shine into the room. Not many people used the alley behind the tanner’s, but anyone who did would see in—and it might be someone who’d recognize their prize. Bieta huffed an annoyed breath, climbed creakily to her feet, and went to close the door.

With her shoulder leaning against the lintel, she scanned both directions along the lane. There seemed more traffic than usual on the streets beyond, but she saw no one in the alley. Bieta’s brow crinkled at that, but she shook her head and put it out of her mind as she swung the door closed, shutting out the day. She returned to the lad’s side, wringing out the cloth as she did.

Shallow and irregular breath whispered between his parted lips. Once in a while, the pause between inhalations lasted longer, and Bieta worried the young man had expired, but then he’d draw another hitching inhalation and the rise and fall of his chest returned to its broken pattern.

During each of the elongated intervals, guilt prickled through Bieta’s chest. The lad ended up here because of her—and she didn’t mean because she made Stirk carry him. If he hadn’t come upon her and Teth arguing, he’d never have had his own sword plunged through his gut.

“He wouldn’t’ve hurt me. Not bad, at least.” She wiped the cloth across his forehead. “He just wanted a free one.”

If he’d truly saved her when she was in need of aid, she doubted she’d have the same feelings nibbling at her brain. Maybe she’d be more concerned for him than full of guilt. But she could have stopped him before he embarrassed Teth—a man who didn’t take kindly to embarrassment. If she had, he likely wouldn’t be lying on a pile of straw that smelled of Stirk’s sleep sweat, breathing ragged breaths, and perspiring enough to fill a pitcher.

“We’ll make sure you live,” she said to the empty room. “Soon enough, you’ll be home, and a few pieces of gold in my pocket’ll make me forget everything.”

She rubbed her scarred-over eye socket with the back of her hand, digging at a phantom itch that scratching never satisfied. Time crept by, and Bieta glanced over her shoulder often, expecting the door to open and Stirk to return with the horse doctor in tow.

“Where is that boy?”

An instant later, the door opened as though Stirk had been waiting outside for an invitation. He crossed the threshold, his wide frame blocking out the late morning gloom, and Enin followed. The horse doctor was skinny as a stick but stood taller than Stirk and had to duck to enter the storeroom, his head appearing huge on his spindly body. Bieta didn’t think his scrawny neck and sunken chest contained the gumption to straighten him up again, but they managed.

Enin surveyed the room, a shadow crossing his face.

“I should’ve guessed you a liar. When have Stirk and Elishbieta owned even a flea-bitten nag?”

Bieta scrambled to her feet, one knee popping as it unfolded. She went to Enin, grasped him by the front of his shirt and looked up at him. Often, she’d thought his large head and long nose made him resemble the animals on which he worked.

“Had to, Enin. We need your help and you wouldn’t have come if you knew the truth.”

He glared at her for a time, then raised his gaze to see past the woman. His brows cinched, the two bushy things meeting over top of his nose, and he pushed past Bieta, strode across the room in two floor-gobbling steps.

“What—?”

Enin stood over the lad, staring at him for the space of more than a couple breaths. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and redirected his gaze to Bieta.

“What happened to him? Did you do this?”

“No,” Bieta said, hurrying to him, head shaking all the way. “Teth did it.”

Enin raised a brow. “Teth’s dead, y’know.”

“I know. I think he’s dead because of what he did to this fellow.”

The horse doctor stared at her a moment longer before finally turning back to the poor, sweaty lad. He kneeled and pulled a pouch from where he had it tucked into the waistband of his breeches.

“I’ve known Teth a long time,” he said, putting the pouch on the floor and unrolling it. Metal things inside it clinked against one another. “The man had it coming for a while.”

Bieta nodded to herself and stepped up behind Enin, peeking over his shoulder. The light flickered on the blades of a variety of knives, each a different size or shape than the others. In a pocket beside them were an array of needles, the smallest looking as though it might be intended for sewing tiny buttons; the largest may have counted varmint killing among its uses.

Instead of pulling out one of the shiny instruments, Enin leaned in for a closer look at the wound in the lad’s belly. He laid his hand next to it, pressed down. The young man groaned.

“It’s got to be cleaned, Bieta. Don’t you know anything?”

“I cleaned it,” she said, gesturing toward the bowl of murky water on the table.

Enin glanced over his shoulder at the vessel. “That didn’t help clean it. Made it worse, more like.”

Bieta’s cheeks went warm. Her mouth opened to defend her actions, but Enin interrupted and she was glad of it.

“I gotta have something better at killing infection. Do you have any alcohol?”

“No, I—” She stopped and canted her head to find Stirk standing in the corner, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes strayed to the nearly empty sacks of grain and rice near his feet, then back to his mother. “Stirk?”

“Ain’t got any. Drank it.”

She frowned, put her hands on her hips. Her head tilted to the left and her eye fell on the sagging bags. She raised her hand and pointed but said nothing; she didn’t need to. Stirk slouched across the room and stuck his wide hand behind the rice sack, pulled out a clay jar with a loose lid and handed it to his mother. She glared at him for a few seconds longer before giving it to Enin, the contents sloshing.

“Will this do?”

Enin removed the top and inhaled a deep sniff of the liquid, then jerked his face away, nostrils flaring and eyes pinched.

“Smells like it’ll kill anything.”

“I know what I wish it’d kill sometimes.” Bieta scowled at her son again.

“Ma…”

“Be quiet.”

Stirk fell silent in the face of his mother’s anger, and she looked back to the horse doctor. Enin was still on his knees, holding the jar of hooch a safe distance from his nose, but he peered up at her instead of tending to the poor lad.

“Ain’t you going to help him?” she asked, hands on hips.

“It’s going to cost you, Bieta.”

“You know I can pay the way you like.” She smiled, pulling her lips back far enough to show the space her front teeth once occupied, and plunged her tongue in and out through the gap. One corner of the horse doctor’s mouth twitched.

“Gonna cost more than that.” He lowered his eyes to the front of her dress.

“You’ll get what you’re owed. Can you fix him?”

Enin sighed and regarded the young man again. “It’s bad. I’ll clean and stitch the wound, put a poultice on like I’d use on a horse, but I’d be worried about the bruises.” He raised his hand and pointed at the dark patches on the lad’s face and chest. “Could be they broke something inside him. Only a surgeon can fix it if they did, and I don’t think any of them’ll accept the kind of payment you’re offering.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You’d still need to convince one to brave the outer city. Good luck with that.”

Bieta opened her mouth to say more, but the horse doctor tilted the jar over the injured lad’s wound, splashing the clear liquid onto his belly. His body jerked and he groaned louder than he’d done since they got him to the tannery. Bieta gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers.

“Sorry, boy. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Enin sloshed another generous dollop of hooch over the hurt, and this time Stirk moaned. Bieta slapped him on the forearm.

“Guess that’ll have to do,” Enin said. He took a swig of the alcohol, pulled a face, then set the clay jar aside and reached for his pouch.

His thick finger brushed along the tops of the needles arrayed in the pockets of the satchel until they came to rest on the second smallest. He plucked it from its place and reached in to another, smaller pocket with his thumb and forefinger and pulled out a spool of black thread.

“Might want to hold onto him,” the horse doctor said, nodding toward the lad. “I don’t imagine he’ll do much squirming, but you can never be sure.”

Bieta crouched on one side, hand resting on the lad’s shoulder, and directed Stirk to do the same. As they moved into place, Enin expertly threaded the needle, finding the eye on his first attempt. He pulled the fiber through, tied it, and snapped it off the spool with a practiced flick of his wrist. After dipping the needle in the hooch, his hand hovered above the lad’s gut, the point poised to pierce his flesh.

“Ready?”

Bieta nodded and turned her gaze toward Stirk. He faced the wall, refusing to watch.

“Stirk?” Bieta prompted.

“Just do it.” He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat bobbing with the effort.

“Here we go.”

Enin plunged the needle into the skin at the edge of the lad’s wound and the fellow jerked again, the way he did when the horse doctor cleaned the gash in his belly. Bieta leaned forward putting more of her weight on him and then watched Enin work.

He pulled the needle through the other side of the cut, then brought it back and repeated the process. After each time he put in a suture, he pulled the thread taught the way a seamstress might when sewing together the panels of a dress. Bieta counted the loops of thread as Enin worked, but stopped when she reached fifty-nine because she couldn’t recall what came after that—she’d never been given reason to count any higher. The fellow ceased his groaning long before she lost count.

The horse doctor worked quickly and efficiently, pulling the two sides of skin together until they became a puckered line held together by black stitches that stood out against the lad’s pale flesh. When he finished, Enin tied off the thread and took one of the small blades from his pouch to cut it.

“That’ll keep his blood from seeping out, but he’s probably bleeding on the inside,” he said replacing his tools in the pouch. “I’ll put a poultice on, but he’ll need a surgeon or a healer.”

Bieta pursed her lips, tongue working against the space between her teeth behind them. Surgeons were rare in the outer city and, if the stories about them were true, no healer would have any interest in the type of payment she had to offer. All she’d be able to do was hope to keep him alive long enough to collect their ransom, then his life would be someone else’s concern.

Instruments stowed, Enin pulled another, smaller pouch off his belt, this one bound by a length of twine. He undid the tiny knot, his large fingers proving more dexterous than Bieta remembered, and flipped open the flap. With the same thumb and forefinger he’d used to take the spool of thread out of his other pouch, he removed a large pinch of dried brown leaves from the pocket. He stuck the wad into his mouth and chewed, his face screwed up in an expression of disgust. When he decided he’d softened it enough, he added a sip of the hooch to the concoction and ground it between his teeth some more.

“This, my friend,” he said to the lad around the mouthful of herbs, his face twisted by the foul flavor, “is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”