The Trials of Lance Eliot (22 page)

A young man stood behind the nearest press. “There you are, Father. It's about time you got here.”

“We were worried,” said a young woman, arranging sheets of paper on the press.

“Abigail was worried,” said the young man. “I knew you could take care of yourself. What took you so long?”

“There was a delay,” said Eben, tactfully neglecting to tell them what it was. “Is the paper set out?”

“Yes, Father,” said the young woman, adjusting the last sheet.

“Are the platens set? Are the windows covered?”

“All taken care of,” said the young man. “We're ready. But before we start printing, who've you brought with you?”

“These are the men from the Resistance of whom I spoke yesterday,” said Eben. “They have come to assist us.”

The young man grinned. “That's great! The more workers we have, the sooner we finish and go to bed.”

Eben frowned. “You disrespect our guests, my son.”

“I'm sorry,” said the young man, turning to Regis and me. “I'm glad you're here to help. You can call me Cog.”

Regis bowed. “Very pleased to meet you. I'm Regis.”

“I'm Lance,” I said, and added rather rudely, “Your parents named you
Cog
?”

“Oh no, Cog is just a nickname.” He gazed pensively up at the lamp. “I had a real name once, but I don't think anybody remembers what it was.”

“It was Ganit,” said the young woman.

Cog made a face. “That's an awful name. Cog is much better.”

“I'm Abigail,” said the young woman. “I apologize in advance for my brother.”

I was inebriated and the light was dim, but I was still able form a general impression of what Cog and Abigail looked like. Cog, who was about sixteen, had curly black hair and a wide mouth set in a permanent grin. His skin was brown except for his fingers, which were stained black with grease. Tools hung from a leather belt round his waist, so that he jangled when he walked.

His sister Abigail, whom I took to be eighteen or nineteen, was graceful and slender. Her long black hair was tied up in a bun to keep it out of the machinery.

“Where is my darling wife?” asked Eben.

“Mother went home to brew some blackroot,” said Cog. “We can start without her.”

The printing presses were great wooden machines with metal plates called platens that held sheets of paper. The platens were carefully lined up with type, small metal blocks with raised figures used to print letters and numbers. The type were arranged, inked and pressed against the paper to produce printed pages.

We worked for hours, making as little noise as possible. We took a break when Eben's wife arrived with sandwiches and blackroot, and then kept printing until he decided we should stop for the night. Then we cleaned and put away the type, oiled the presses and uncovered the windows. I was sober by this time—the blackroot had helped—but almost too tired to stand. Regis supported me as we walked back to the house.

About two weeks passed, and life settled into a pattern. I awoke every morning, ate breakfast and went to work at the press. On my first day of work, I had realized there was a problem. I couldn't compose words from Rovenian letters. The effect of Linguamancy allowed me to read words, but the letters themselves were meaningless to me. It was impossible to create a word from a jumble of type.

Oddly enough, this weakness became my great strength. I perceived misspelled words as combinations of random letters. This allowed me to notice misspellings that others had missed. The manager soon noted my singular ability and put me in charge of proofreading first prints. I told Regis when I noticed a misspelled word, and he rearranged the type so that the word was spelled correctly.

Work ended four hours after lunch. I spent a few evenings training with Tsurugi, and then something happened that brought our sessions to an end. I received my wages. The moment I had valores in my pocket, I abandoned Tsurugi and went straight to the nearest pub. When the proprietor pushed me out at closing time, I returned to the press to help Regis and the others print the pamphlets. Then I went back to the house and slept.

These were the darkest days of my Thursday Afternoon of the Soul. It was a struggle to get up every morning. It was a struggle to go to work. It was a struggle to do anything but drink, and drink only plunged me deeper into depression. Had not the thought of death frightened me so much, I would have hanged myself and made an end of it.

My friend, I suffered many difficulties throughout my adventures. I endured afflictions that scarred my body and darkened my mind and broke my heart, yet my Thursday Afternoon of the Soul was the most miserable of all. I knew I couldn't last much longer. What I didn't know was that my Thursday Afternoon of the Soul was about to come to an end.

One night, I left the pub and began my unsteady walk to the press. As I passed an alley by the river, something jabbed me in the small of the back.

“Stop or you're dead,” hissed a voice.

I stopped.

Hands thrust themselves into my pockets and withdrew my valores. “This is it?” growled the voice.

“How much did you expect?” asked another voice. “Look at his face. This drunk [unprintable] is probably poorer than we are.”

“I haven't got any more money,” I muttered, only vaguely aware I was being robbed.

“Oho! He speaks,” said the first voice. “Well now, it's too bad you haven't got more. We'll just have to let you go. But it's not right to take your hard-earned metal and not pay you back, so here's a little token of our gratitude.”

I felt a splitting pain in the back of my head and fell to the pavement. When I awoke, I was cold, stiff, bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut and an awful pain in my side. The thieves had apparently kicked me while I was down. I don't know how long I lay there, staining the snow crimson, before forcing myself to my feet. Clutching my side, I hobbled to the house and dragged myself up the stairs to bed.

Regis found me the next day. Refusing to go to work, he heated up some water and prepared a bath for me. I was injured too severely to move, so he washed away the crusted blood with a cloth. Afterward he helped me into a comfortable robe and brought me blackroot and buttered toast. When Tsurugi heard of my injuries, he dismissed his students and joined us in the garret.

I told my story reluctantly. Regis was sympathetic in a reproachful sort of way. I could almost see him fighting the urge to say “I told you so,” or something along those lines. Tsurugi said nothing. When I had finished my story, he stood and left without a word.

Halfway through the morning there came a knock on the garret door. Regis opened it. A lady stood on the top step, fidgeting with her gloves.

“I understand you have an injured person,” she said.

“Who are you?” asked Regis.

“My name is Althea. I'm a Curamancer from the Whitestone Hospital. I was given your address and told you had an injured person.”

Regis welcomed the woman into the garret. I gazed at her with apprehension. The last time someone had used magic on me, it had been an electric experience.

“Relax,” she said. “This won't hurt.”

She pulled off a glove and laid a hand on my chest. I cringed, expecting a sharp shock, but felt only a warm sensation spread across my body. It was like slow immersion in a hot bath. She removed her hand. I felt horribly cold for a moment, and then realized my pain was gone. The gashes and bruises had disappeared, and I could see with both eyes again.

“That wasn't so bad, was it?” asked the woman, pulling on her glove. “He'll be fine,” she said to Regis. “Keep him in bed another hour or two, and don't let him do anything strenuous until tomorrow.”

Regis thanked her and asked how much we owed for the healing.

“Not a valor. Your friend—Tsurugi was his name, I think—paid when he sent me here.”

I stayed at the house that evening instead of printing pamphlets at the press.

“You need rest, old boy,” said Regis. “We can manage without you for one night.”

I climbed to the garret, ignoring the children and their questions.

“Mister Lance, how did you get hurt?”

“He got hurt? He don't look hurt to me.”

“That's 'cause he got healed by a Curamancer.”

“Wow!”

“Were you really hurt bad, Mister Lance?”

I pretended not to hear them.

Shutting the garret door behind me, I threw myself onto my bed and lay there until someone came in. It was Tsurugi.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“For a walk.”

I didn't want to go for a walk. I tried to make some excuse, saying my head hurt and I needed sleep, but his silence left no room for argument. I went with him.

We wandered through the streets as the stars began to twinkle far above us. The lamplighters were out with their ladders, kindling the wicks of the streetlamps. The streets were bathed in a warm yellow glow. The light was the only warm thing that night. There was a chill in the air that went through my coat as though it were nothing. Tsurugi didn't speak. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground ahead of him, and I decided not to risk breaking the silence.

At length we came to a park by the river. Even in the desolation of winter it was beautiful. Icicles hung from the trees, sparkling like crystal in the lamplight. A thin ribbon of water broke away from the river, meandered through the park and rejoined its source half a mile or so farther on. My companion led me to a meadow by this little stream and stopped, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground.

“You need to stop,” he said.

I said nothing.

“I used to drink. It almost destroyed me. It's destroying you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, and for a fleeting moment I glimpsed the peculiar mark on his forehead. I had almost forgotten about it.

“This is just the beginning,” he continued. “You got hurt, and you've hurt Regis.”

“What?”

“In Pelea's name,” he exclaimed. “Can't you see it in his eyes? You're tearing him apart. He's sick with worry over you.”

He turned away from me and resumed his stuffed-fish expression.

“You need to stop,” he said. “Regis will help you. Let's go back.”

He was almost out of sight before I could get my legs to move again. I hurried after him and followed him back to the house. My mind was in turmoil. Tsurugi had just put into words what I had known all along. I was hurting myself. He had also put into words what I hadn't even imagined. I was hurting Regis.

Could I stop drinking?

I'll be miserable if I stop, I thought. Alcohol is my only comfort. No it isn't. My friends are a comfort to me. Of course I'll be miserable if I give up alcohol. I'm miserable
now
. Things can't get any worse. At least, not for me. Maybe if I stop drinking life will be a little less miserable for Regis. He's hurting just as much as I am.

Is he?

He doesn't show it. Why not? Well, he's too busy. He works at the press, he plays with the kids, he helps Atticus—he takes care of me. He listens to my grumblings. He brings me blackroot when I'm hung over in the morning.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt like a selfish git. The more I thought about it, the more I realized something had to change.

I met Regis by the river early the following morning.

“What's amiss, old boy?” he asked, rubbing his arms. “Tsurugi told me to meet you here. It's freezing. What are you doing out of bed, and why are you clutching that bottle? With all respect, it's early even for you to be tippling.”

“I'm giving up drinking,” I said.

He stared at me. “You're doing what?”

“I think I owe it to you,” I said, and threw the bottle into the river. It shattered against a slab of ice, sending a spray of broken glass and amber whiskey into the air.

Regis stood for a moment with his mouth open. Then he leapt forward and tackled me in an embrace that nearly sent us both into the river.

“I'm glad to hear it,” he exclaimed, thumping me on the back. “I can't tell you, old boy, how glad I am to hear it.”

That, my friend, marked the end of my Thursday Afternoon of the Soul.

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