Brute (8 page)

Brute was beginning to wonder what he should do if his charge refused to eat, but then from under the blanket a hand appeared, skeletal and shaking. Leynham still hadn’t said anything, so Brute first handed him the tin cup. The prisoner tried to bring the cup to his mouth, but his palsy was so severe that a good portion of the water sloshed out. Brute placed the food on the floor and helped steady the cup as Leynham drank deeply.

“I can get you more if you want,” Brute said when the water was gone. “After you eat.”

“Th-th-th-thank y-y-you.”

Abruptly, Brute was taken back to when he was a boy. The sheriff had decided to emulate Tellomer’s wealthy citizens and had craftsmen install a sheet of glass in the front window of his house. It was a wonder indeed, and for days everyone in the village had paused to look, to touch reverently with their fingertips, to gaze at their reflection. Brute had liked the way the light sparkled off the glass in the mornings. And then one afternoon some miscreant with a grudge had thrown a stone, shattering the window. Brute and the other villagers had gathered around to stare at the shards of glass.

That’s what Gray Leynham’s voice was like: jagged fragments of delicate glass.

“I have a bowl here for you,” Brute said.

Leynham’s other hand emerged, this one equally thin and trembling, and like the other it sported a wide iron band around the wrist. A heavy chain trailed away from the manacle, no doubt connecting eventually with the bolts set into the floor. Brute settled the bowl in Leynham’s palms and watched as the prisoner brought the bowl to his mouth and slurped at the contents. He licked the bowl clean, which made Brute feel guilty about the generous size of his own meal. As Leynham gnawed on the hunk of bread, Brute heaved himself to his feet and left the cell just long enough to put the empty bowl into the bucket and to refill the mug. Leynham took it gratefully when he returned, drinking every drop.

“More?” asked Brute.

Leynham shook his head.

“Can I— Is there anything else you need? I’ll empty the waste bucket in the morning.”

This time Leynham sighed like the wind whistling through treetops, and shook his head again. He let his head fall back then, so that it was propped against the wall. He looked exhausted, as if eating that simple meal had taken all his energy. Brute wondered what punishment he’d face if the prisoner died on his watch.

It took only a few moments to bolt the cell door, to tidy up the small mess he’d made, to piss in his chamber pot and wash up a little with the water from the jug. He briefly considered taking a fuller inventory of his room: there were items on the shelves, perhaps more in the drawers, and the tapestries were worthy of a long and careful examination. But then he yawned so widely that his jaw cracked. It was early yet, but he’d had an eventful day. After a final hesitation and a glance into the darkness of the cell, he stripped off his clothes, doused the candles, and climbed into the most comfortable bed he’d ever experienced. He had to curl his legs only a little to fit. He’d been having trouble sleeping—his missing hand was clenched so painfully tight—but tonight it took him only minutes to fall asleep.

“N
O
! M
ERCIFUL
gods, no! Please!”

Brute was out of bed and on his feet before he realized where he was. A bar of bright moonlight stole in through the room’s slitted window, giving him barely enough illumination to make out the details of the room. A piercing scream rang out, and his sluggish brain stirred enough to note that he was in his new chambers in the Brown Tower at Tellomer Palace—and his prisoner was shrieking as if he were being torn to pieces.

Stumbling over his own big feet, Brute made his way to the cell. Gray Leynham continued to shout as Brute fumbled with the cell’s latch. And then, just as the bars swung open, Leynham went suddenly and eerily quiet. As Brute yanked the filthy blanket off the prisoner’s huddled form, he expected to find a mangled corpse. Instead, he jerked backward as Leynham sat up. In a clear, deep voice, Leynham said, “Gigo Blackwater will die in a fire.” Then he collapsed bonelessly onto his side with a rattle of chains.

Brute’s heart was racing and his breath came in short gasps as Leynham continued to lie there like a corpse. After Brute had calmed down a little, he cautiously put out his hand and touched the man’s bare shoulder.

Leynham jerked and cried out, which made Brute startle so badly he fell back on his ass.

“Wh-wh-wh-what?” Leynham rasped in that broken-glass voice, slowly rising to a seated position.

“Are you hurt?”

Leynham seemed to consider the question for a moment before shaking his head. “Dr-dr-dream.” He sighed wearily and held out a hand. “B-b-b-blanket, p-p-p-p—” He gave up with a frustrated growl.

Brute handed him the blanket, and Leynham wrapped it tightly around himself. He looked small and frail, his head hanging wearily. As Brute remained sitting next to him, unsure what he should do, Leynham lifted his head and turned, unseeing, in Brute’s direction. “T-t-tell g-g-g-guard,” he said quietly.

At first Brute didn’t understand what he was talking about, and then he remembered his instructions from Lord Maudit: he was to report anything Leynham said while asleep. Given the nature of this particular dream, Brute decided he didn’t want to know why. He rose to his feet and watched as the prisoner scooted backward against the wall. The stone floor would be much less comfortable than even Brute’s lumpy old bed at the White Dragon, especially on bare skin stretched over meatless bones. “Do you want some water?” he asked.

Leynham appeared startled by the question, then nodded. So Brute filled the tin cup from the jar and held it to the other man’s lips. “Th-th-th-thanks,” Leynham rasped when he was through.

Brute relocked the cell door and pulled on his trousers and shirt. He didn’t bother lacing up the trousers—too much trouble—instead he clutched the waistband in his fist so the trousers wouldn’t fall down. The tower corridor was completely dark. He kept his elbow against the wall to help him find his way. At the very end, he used his stump to bang against the door. The stump was good for that much, at least.

After a moment, the door inched open. “What?” demanded the guard. He was backlit by bright moonlight. Brute couldn’t make out his features, but he thought it was a different man than the guard he’d encountered earlier.

“The, um, prisoner. He had a dream.”

The guard hissed with displeasure. “Fuck. All right. What did he say?”

Brute repeated the morbid statement about Gigo Blackwater, whoever that was. If the guard knew the meaning of the message, he gave no indication. He only swore again, more softly, and then nodded. “Fine.” Then he slammed the door in Brute’s face, and the lock thunked into place.

That left Brute to return to his chambers in the darkness. Leynham was silent, perhaps sleeping again, and Brute was tired. He removed his clothing for the second time that night and again climbed into bed. The sheets were soft against his skin and smelled slightly of lavender; the quilts were old but clean and warm. Nothing whatsoever like a cold stone floor. He tossed and turned for a long time, his missing hand aching fiercely. Finally, when he couldn’t stand it any longer, he stood and yanked one of the blankets off the bed. He crossed the room, unlocked the cell door, and tossed the quilt onto the prisoner’s legs. He locked the door again before returning to bed, where sleep came swiftly.

I
T
WAS
Brute’s full bladder and empty stomach that finally woke him, the bright sun shining through the slitted window and revealing that he’d slept much later than usual. He stretched luxuriously—that mattress truly was a wonder—and glanced inside the cell. He smiled to himself when he saw that Leynham had spread his old blanket on the floor to provide a bit of padding. He was covered so completely by the quilt Brute had given him that only the top of his matted hair was showing. Perhaps Brute would get in trouble for granting that small mercy, but nobody had specifically ordered him
not
to share his bedding with the prisoner, and he might use ignorance as an excuse. People always assumed he was stupid anyway.

After using his chamber pot and putting his clothing back on, he unlocked the cell. “I’m going to empty your bucket. Do you need to use it first?”

Leynham sat up and, using the wall as support, slowly stood. He let the quilt fall to the floor and trailed his fingers along the wall as he hobbled the few steps to the bucket. He was naked, his body emaciated and dirty. Brute supposed he should turn his back and give the man a little privacy, but Leynham couldn’t see him anyway, and Brute was shocked at the condition of the prisoner’s body: bruised and scraped, covered in dried blood and other filth he didn’t want to identify. The iron bands around Leynham’s neck, wrists, and ankles seemed to weigh him down. Brute guessed he would have been a fairly tall man if he stood upright. Not as tall as Brute, of course—not even close—but taller than average.

Despite the nightmare and the bits of information Warin had divulged, there seemed to be nothing sinister about the prisoner. He was wretched, pitiable. It could be a ploy, Brute reminded himself. An effort to make the new jailer relax his guard so that the traitorous witch could—what? Cast evil spells? That didn’t seem very likely.

After the cell was locked up again and Brute had emptied his own chamber pot into Leynham’s bucket, he ventured back down the corridor. He didn’t recognize the guard who blinked at him when the door was opened.

“What do I do with this?” Brute asked, indicating the stinking bucket.

The guard made a face and pointed at a tiny building nearby. “Dump it in there.”

There
turned out to be a latrine, a plank of wood with a hole, set over a wide pipe. Once the bucket was emptied, Brute put it near the entrance to the tower and set out in search of the kitchens. As he walked, he realized that he’d forgotten to bring the dishes from the previous night’s dinner; he’d promise to fetch them later.

Along the way, he goggled at the bustle of activity and was goggled at in turn. Alys had a quick smile for him, though, and a little squeeze of his good arm before she hurried off to help another woman pile dishes on trays. He got lost three times on the way to the kitchens but only once on the way back.

Maybe Leynham was waiting for him, because he was sitting up when Brute returned, and his head was cocked as if he were concentrating on the sounds of Brute’s movements. Brute gave him back the waste bucket, rinsed his hand with the jug water, and brought Leynham his breakfast—which proved to be more mush. Brute got salted fish and a doughy bread that was slightly sweet and, to his surprise and pleasure, slathered thickly with butter and strawberry jam. He hadn’t tasted jam since he was a boy. His mother used to keep a pot of it in the house, and when she wasn’t looking, he’d sneak over and dip his finger inside, enjoying the treat all the more because it was illicit.

When was the last time the prisoner had tasted something sweet?

Brute didn’t try to speak with Leynham as they ate. Instead, he finished his own breakfast and wandered about the room a little, finally examining the contents in detail. The bookshelf was scuffed and slightly warped, but still sturdy. Its shelves were mostly bare, but a few items sat there: an extra tin cup, an empty glass jar, a neat pile of folded cloths that proved to be handkerchiefs, a knife, a piece of slate and hunk of chalk, three extra blankets, and a few crude wooden carvings of women and beasts. The drawers in the chest were empty, save for a few dried and crumbly sprigs of wormwood. Brute set his pathetically few belongings inside the top drawer.

And then, as he was turning away, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

His mother had owned a hand mirror. The glass was set into a silver frame with vines and flowers worked into the design. It was much too fine a thing for the likes of their little family; most likely his father had stolen it from someone. But his mother loved it, and every day she spent time sitting and looking at herself in the glass, checking to make sure her hair was arranged correctly and that her skin was still unlined. But Brute himself had never looked in her mirror, never ever, not even when he was very small. He knew what he looked like. Still, as he got older he couldn’t avoid catching an occasional glimpse of his face reflected in the still water of the White Dragon’s trough or even in an occasional puddle. He always turned away as quickly as he could.

Now, though, he drew closer to the mirror, as if he were bewitched by some sort of spell. He saw his dark hair shorn close to his skull, his broad, tanned cheeks stubbled by his morning’s beard. He saw the eyes so many people found unsettling—one brown, one hazel—each crowned by a bushy black brow on a protruding forehead. His large nose was canted to one side and had a bump in the center, results of one of the beatings he’d received as a child. He had scars as well: a long one that diagonally traversed his chin, another near the right-hand corner of his lip, and a roundish one on his forehead. His teeth seemed too small for his long, broad jaw, and his chin jutted out like the prow of a ship. Even his ears were grotesque, huge fleshy saucers stuck at right angles to his head. Had he been the size of a normal man, he would have been simply ugly. But with his towering height and overgrown body, his features turned him into something else: a freak.