The Warlord's Domain (17 page)

The place to which the woman led them was a town house typical of the well-to-do area of an Imperial city. Kyrin had seen a similar style before, in Tuenafen; it presented to the world the usual featureless outer wall, a wall broken only by the house doorway set square in front up a small flight of steps. There was no stable entrance; those who could afford to live in this part of town could easily afford the rent of space elsewhere for carriage or horses, and had enough servants in the house to fetch conveyance when it was needed. Rather than leaning out over the street in the way older houses did, this—like the others to either side—was set well back. There was a high hedge to either side, thickly capped with snow, to maintain a degree of privacy from even its nearest neighbors. Kyrin pursed her lips and nodded, seeing still more apparent confirmation of her doubts— but like her other private thoughts, she kept this one quiet; right now, except in the matter of medicine, her opinions were not required.

The elderly man who came out as the horses clattered to a halt had evidently been waiting for the woman to return. It was equally evident as he held the bridles while Aldric and Kyrin dismounted that he had been weeping, and his renewed tears and prayers of gratitude as they went past him and into the house were either genuine or remarkably well acted.

And the mist of pain met them just inside the door; it was like an acrid flavor tasted by the mind but not by any other sense, and it was of such intensity that it made them both hesitate on the threshold. “Dying of what?” Aldric wondered aloud for the first time.

Kyrin remained silent. Her own past experience as a physician’s aide had taught her all the odors of a sickroom, and for all that a deal of this was born of immediate suffering much more of it seemed an echo of older agony. She glanced at Aldric, carefully sidelong from the corner of one eye, but saw nothing to indicate that he detected any of that strata of past pain. What she felt now merely reinforced what she had seen in the street and what she had guessed from that sight, seen before in her own country: people ignoring, people not caring, people taking the opportunity for a deliberately blatant insult. Never mind that it was in the better part of town, never mind its neat, clean exterior, never mind the servants. They were his servants, and this was his house. The hangman’s house…

“What in the name of Heaven… ?” The servant woman had run off toward some inner room, leaving them alone. Aldric had opened a door, looked inside— and now was staring at the racks of stoppered bottles, the shelves of jars, the cases of small glittering instruments— mostly metal, some of glass—all looking wickedly sharp.

Kyrin peered in over his shoulder and sucked in a breath between her teeth. She had expected something of the sort, iron and leather engines of brutality, but these were too… too subtle. Too delicate. Not the hangman’s house, then. Someone more skilled, more sophisticated. She felt the fine hairs lift on her arms and at the nape of her neck as a shudder like an icy needle ran down the core of her spine.

Alba’s legal system was unlike that of Drusul and Valhol, having no place for the use of torture, and Aldric plainly didn’t recognize the blades and needles for what they had to be—implements not for the relieving of pain but for the causing of it. Kyrin was reluctant to explain, but was drawing breath when hesitation, sense and caution were each and all drowned out by the sound from deeper within the house. It was a scream, thin, wavering and very weak—the sound of a child in pain.

We have to get out now, at once
, she thought, hating herself for it, and grabbed at Aldric’s sleeve to pull him away in the grace-time while nobody but servants knew that they were there. And then it was too late, for the woman was back and there was a man with her.

He too had been weeping, but now was blotting at his eyes with a cloth and trying to recover something that approximated dignity with which to greet his guests. Kyrin stared hard at him, trying to read from his face, his eyes, his stance, anything at all that would confirm he was an evil creature undeserving of their help or sympathy. She read only desperation and an aching, helpless grief so that no matter what suspicions she still harbored, the fear that they had come too late still twisted deep inside her like a knotted cord drawn tight.

“Of all days,” the man said in a voice that was almost flat calm and trembling with the effort of staying so, “of all days for me not to know. Of all days for her to be gone and for me not to know…”

He blinked at them, seeing a man in black and silver and a woman in gray and blue, both with sword-hilts rearing above their shoulders, looking in the dim light and their hunched furs more capable of taking life than saving it, and clenched his fists until the knucklebones gleamed white through the tight-drawn skin.

“Sir, madam,” he said with that same dreadful calm, “I thank you. I apologize for troubling you. But swords will not… not save…” His lip quivered, he turned his face away in an attempt to regain the control that was slipping so fast and only one word escaped him: “Help.”

Aldric turned his head slowly to stare at Kyrin, wondering why she had already held back far longer than he would have thought her capable of doing in this circumstance. She tried to meet that stare and had to look away.
You took an oath
. The voice in her head was her own, and yet so heavy with accusation that it was not hers at all.
You didn’t quibble then. Why do it now? He can’t believe that you’re just standing here. Tell him why and walk away, maybe he’ll understand
—
or do what you swore to, that night by starlight. But either way, be honest
...

Kyrin tugged back her hood, heedless of the snow that fell from it to the floor, and began to walk rapidly down the corridor in the direction from which the man had come. She heard another rustle and thump which told that Aldric had just followed suit, and smiled a swift tight smile which creased little lines into her face. As she opened the door at the end of the passage and saw the bed whose size made the tiny body writhing feebly in it look even smaller and more helpless, the smile went away. “Your servant-woman told us about the child,” she said. “Now you tell me. How long has she been like this, and where is the site of the pain… ?”

The sight and sound of someone being decisive and knowing—or even just seeming to know—what to do was enough to start the man talking; and once started, he seemed unable to stop until he was rid of all his hopes and fears. Most was just background-noise to Kyrin—she had more important things requiring her attention than to hang on every word—but she listened closely enough to hear symptoms described and thus guess at causes… as well as having her own mistaken notions set to rights.

It became plain that the man, Ryn Derawn, was neither a hangman nor a torturer, except maybe of speech. He was a jeweler and goldsmith, a self-styled artist in the precious stones and metals, and a happily married man with a loving wife and two fine daughters. The younger child, Mai, had been troubled with fever and an upset stomach these two days past, and only that morning had been dosed with an infusion meant to relieve it. His wife had given the medicine herself, just before she went out to work…

... And at first it seemed to help. Then the complaints and crying had turned to screams so harrowing that Ryn had sent a servant with Lorei, his elder daughter, clear across the city to stay with relatives until all was over. One way or another. And still there was no sign of his wife’s return…

“Why, man. What could she do?”

Ryn smiled wanly. “Everything,” he said. “Giorl’s the finest surgeon in Drakkesborg.”

Kyrin was too intent on the second stage of her examination to waste time or breath on comment, but Aldric could almost hear her eyebrows going up from where he stood. He had already told her what the conventional Alban attitude would be to women who were involved in medical practice, and there was no reason to believe that the Drusalan Empire would be any less straitlaced in the matter. And that was just where physicians were concerned; surgeons, who not only touched bodies but opened them up and rummaged about inside, would be regarded even more askance. Small wonder that the servants from this house were treated as if they were involved in something dirty…

She shook her head and dismissed the annoyance to a part of her mind where it wouldn’t interfere with the business at hand. That part of her mind was already almost certain about what was wrong here, and just one more test would prove it. Kyrin laid the tips of her fingers on Mai’s lower belly, half a palm’s width below and in from where the child’s hip-bone was visible, and pressed down barely enough to indent the skin. It was more than enough. Mai’s eyes and mouth went wide and she screamed. The little girl’s shriek of agony had two effects: it confirmed Kyrin’s diagnosis…

... And it provoked Aldric, outraged by the sound, to snatch away her hand with excessive speed and violence, and to snarl something viciously angry at her for causing the child unnecessary pain. Kyrin stared at him, then at the flattened blade of his right hand, and realized with something of a start that the oversight of not explaining what she was about had almost earned her that hand across the face.

Almost, but not quite; and if he
had
hit her Kyrin knew she had only herself to blame. Ryn had flinched from the scream and the pain which had provoked it, but he was evidently familiar with—or had been told about—this apparently brutal but very proper and accurate test for an inflammation in one particular part of the bowels. Aldric was
not
familiar with it, had
not
been told and had laudably—if barely—restrained himself from reacting to what must have looked like casual and thoughtless probing.

“Thank you,” said Kyrin, and if her voice was shaking who could blame her; she knew better than most the power in a focused strike from that particular right hand. “For not hitting me. I should have warned you.”

Aldric’s hand relaxed now, and he had released his grip on Kyrin’s wrist, but he still looked uncomfortable and embarrassed by all that had happened.

“I had to make sure.”

“That she was in pain?” There was confusion rather than sarcasm in his voice. “We knew that much already.”

“But not why. I know now, and what we can do about it. There’s a little tag of tissue, a useless afterthought called an
appendix
, in everyone’s guts; not even my master knew what it was for, but he knew what it sometimes did. This.” She gestured down at Mai, who had sunk back into an uneasy muttering drowse until the next spike of pain came to disturb her. “This infant’s
appendix
has somehow become inflamed or infected, and that test was the final proof. Either we cut it out, or it bursts. And if it bursts, she dies.”

“One of the guardsmen in Dunrath fell sick with that,” said Aldric, “and my father’s physician cut it out of him.”

“And… ?”

“He lived—long enough to be proud of the scar, and long enough for Duergar Vathach’s people to kill him. But he lived. I want this child to live.”

Kyrin eyed him thoughtfully, thankful that he couldn’t read what was going on in her mind right now. At least she could stand by and take over if she had to—but hopefully that wouldn’t be necessary. She took the plunge.

“And I want you to help. Please…” The expression on Aldric’s face changed and he opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. “Ryn Derawn, listen to me. I don’t dare move your daughter in case her
appendix
bursts, so we’ll have to work here. There will be mess. Be ready to change the bed—including the mattress. Order clean linens brought here so that we can wrap the child and shift her out of here immediately we’re done. Then go to the kitchen and have water put to boil—lots of it.”

“Lady, both the bath and kitchen coppers will be bubbling by now.” Ryn gave her a feeble smile. “It is midwinter, after all.”

“Better. Then do this: take the biggest pot that has a lid, fill it with the boiling water, have your cook put in salt to four parts in the hundred, then put the lid on and keep it on while the pot is brought up here.”

“As she says, there’s going to be a mess. But a hot, clean mess.” Aldric sounded very brisk, but there was an edge to his voice that Kyrin hadn’t heard before.

“Quite so.” Kyrin gave him a funny look, but said nothing else until Ryn was out of the room and about his various errands. “Now
kailin-eir
Talvalin, what’s biting you? Afraid of a little blood?”

“No. But there need not be any.” He unhooked the cross-strap of her scabbard and let Widowmaker slide from across his back, then raised the longsword until her pommel was between them. A thread of blue-white fire coiled deep within the crystal that had been set only recently into the
taiken
hilt, shifting slowly as oil patterns on water. “You’re forgetting the Echainon stone.”

“I am not, and I was not. But I will not let you use it.”

“Why not? You’ve seen that it works! We both have!”

“On open wounds, Aldric. I haven’t yet seen it cleanse foul matter from deep within a body. Because of that, and because of other matters, I can’t and won’t trust it on this child.”

“What other matters?”

“Because of where we are… as you continually remind me. Obvious sorcery would not be such a good idea here in Drakkesborg.”
And because you place too much reliance on that thing already. That, and the sword it’s mounted in. I wasn’t happy when you put the spellstone there. Not happy at all
. “You see?”

“Yes. Yes, I see.” He unhooked Widowmaker and wrapped her in her belts, then laid the weapon to one side. “I see much better than I thought. So what do you want me to do?”

“Help me select the proper instruments.” Kyrin walked to the door, paused and glanced over her shoulder at him with a smile around her eyes if not quite on her lips. “You might discover uses for sharp steel that not even your weapon-master ever taught you. And better uses than you ever thought possible. Come on.”

The place was not the torch-lit stone cavern of an ordinary torture chamber; one of Giorl’s predecessors had seen to that when he (or had it been another
she?)
redesigned what was now the citadel’s principal interrogation room. There were glazed white tiles on the floor, the walls and the domed ceiling which made the room look like the inside of a skull, and it was illuminated by lensed oil-lamps so that there were no shadows in which the eye could find shelter from the machinery squatting in the center of the floor over an array of inset gutters that could be flushed with clean water whenever they became choked.