lurked. To be lost in this world, unable to participate in either this life or whatever awaits us beyond, must surely be a horror worse than Magrog’s netherworld of fire and ice.
Bastien stepped aside as a scolding Constance and two boys hauled in jars of water and a stack of battered tin basins, setting them beside the table.
“Law gives me the right when there’s a question,” he said when the storm of noise had passed. “The duty, even. But if it eases your mind, I’ve had the Mother’s high priestess sanctify this room. She laid pureblood magic and temple blessings about it, and said the souls can’t escape if we close the door and turn all the vessels upside down before we open it again.” He leaned close and dropped his voice. “Besides, I have ’em sewed up after.”
He chuckled and laid a genial boot into a slack-jawed boy who was peering in from the atrium to gawk at me.
Bastien had not eased my mind in the least. Nor was I soothed when a slight, unshaven man, carrying a tattered leather case, appeared in the doorway. His dark hair was a greasy tangle, his eyes burnt-out hollows. “Heard you’ve work for me.”
“Ah, Bek! I want this done quick. He’s no wounds we can see, but someone’s cut off his purse and snatched his weapons. . . .” Bastien reeled off the sum of his observations and all we had learned of Valdo de Seti. “Just need to make sure we’re not missing something obvious before the widow arrives. Though she’s not pounced on us wailing, as some do. I’ve a notion this Valdo was not a likable man.”
The surgeon’s shoulders drooped. “So, the body’s claimed, then. Too bad.”
His voice was low and surprisingly clear, considering the reek of spirits about him and his unsteady gait as he crossed to the table. He set his case on the wheeled table and opened it. His hands shook as if he suffered a palsy.
Bastien slapped the man’s back. “Soon as wounded come in from these quarreling princes’ battle, we’ll doubtless have a Moriangi or five mixed in by mistake. Mayhap even a Hansker mercenary. You can slice mongrels to pieces as your heart desires. Some folk say Hansker have no balls. Some say they’ve three balls, but no heart. Do you think that’s so?”
“
Some
folk believe burying a live cat at the full moon will cure their crabs.” The surgeon picked a short saw blade from his case and set its tip just below de Seti’s throat before glancing over his shoulder at Bastien. “You’ve a good enough mind to know—”
He lowered his blade and fixed his sooty gaze on me. “What have we here?”
Gray threaded the surgeon’s hair, and creases seamed a narrow face neither so old as I expected, nor so degenerate. Yet my blood curdled at a man who spent his days cutting flesh—living or dead—much less one who took pleasure in it.
“I’ve bought me a luck charm,” said Bastien, grinning. “Better days coming to Caton.”
“If you think a sorcerer can raise the dead to life again or squeeze out where their gold’s hid, I’ve a few bits of anatomical learning to share with you.” The surgeon’s quiet speech dripped irony.
“Ah, Bek, when you’re done here I’ll give you a sight of what the fellow can do. Mayhap you’ll rethink your tawdry bits of learning. Or pay me to have him redraw that anatomical map you carry about.”
They spoke as if I were a dead man or one of the statues in the prometheum rotunda.
It had been the same in Montesard. Pureblood discipline had forbidden me to break silence to exchange ideas with my tutors or fellow students, which sorely hampered my learning. Once the strangeness of my presence wore off, the others talked in just such fashion, which made matters even worse. But one day in our tutorial session, Morgan, she of the green eyes, had wondered aloud whether
those who refused to speak in session
might be required to write out their opinions, arguments, and questions. The tutor could read them aloud so that all
Bastien stepped aside as a scolding Constance and two boys hauled in jars of water and a stack of battered tin basins, setting them beside the table.
“Law gives me the right when there’s a question,” he said when the storm of noise had passed. “The duty, even. But if it eases your mind, I’ve had the Mother’s high priestess sanctify this room. She laid pureblood magic and temple blessings about it, and said the souls can’t escape if we close the door and turn all the vessels upside down before we open it again.” He leaned close and dropped his voice. “Besides, I have ’em sewed up after.”
He chuckled and laid a genial boot into a slack-jawed boy who was peering in from the atrium to gawk at me.
Bastien had not eased my mind in the least. Nor was I soothed when a slight, unshaven man, carrying a tattered leather case, appeared in the doorway. His dark hair was a greasy tangle, his eyes burnt-out hollows. “Heard you’ve work for me.”
“Ah, Bek! I want this done quick. He’s no wounds we can see, but someone’s cut off his purse and snatched his weapons. . . .” Bastien reeled off the sum of his observations and all we had learned of Valdo de Seti. “Just need to make sure we’re not missing something obvious before the widow arrives. Though she’s not pounced on us wailing, as some do. I’ve a notion this Valdo was not a likable man.”
The surgeon’s shoulders drooped. “So, the body’s claimed, then. Too bad.”
His voice was low and surprisingly clear, considering the reek of spirits about him and his unsteady gait as he crossed to the table. He set his case on the wheeled table and opened it. His hands shook as if he suffered a palsy.
Bastien slapped the man’s back. “Soon as wounded come in from these quarreling princes’ battle, we’ll doubtless have a Moriangi or five mixed in by mistake. Mayhap even a Hansker mercenary. You can slice mongrels to pieces as your heart desires. Some folk say Hansker have no balls. Some say they’ve three balls, but no heart. Do you think that’s so?”
“
Some
folk believe burying a live cat at the full moon will cure their crabs.” The surgeon picked a short saw blade from his case and set its tip just below de Seti’s throat before glancing over his shoulder at Bastien. “You’ve a good enough mind to know—”
He lowered his blade and fixed his sooty gaze on me. “What have we here?”
Gray threaded the surgeon’s hair, and creases seamed a narrow face neither so old as I expected, nor so degenerate. Yet my blood curdled at a man who spent his days cutting flesh—living or dead—much less one who took pleasure in it.
“I’ve bought me a luck charm,” said Bastien, grinning. “Better days coming to Caton.”
“If you think a sorcerer can raise the dead to life again or squeeze out where their gold’s hid, I’ve a few bits of anatomical learning to share with you.” The surgeon’s quiet speech dripped irony.
“Ah, Bek, when you’re done here I’ll give you a sight of what the fellow can do. Mayhap you’ll rethink your tawdry bits of learning. Or pay me to have him redraw that anatomical map you carry about.”
They spoke as if I were a dead man or one of the statues in the prometheum rotunda.
It had been the same in Montesard. Pureblood discipline had forbidden me to break silence to exchange ideas with my tutors or fellow students, which sorely hampered my learning. Once the strangeness of my presence wore off, the others talked in just such fashion, which made matters even worse. But one day in our tutorial session, Morgan, she of the green eyes, had wondered aloud whether
those who refused to speak in session
might be required to write out their opinions, arguments, and questions. The tutor could read them aloud so that all
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