The Curse-Maker (20 page)

“Draco? What the hell—Draco?!”

He shrank back, as if I were going to jump up and chase him away.

“I—I came with a message from Bilicho, and the mistress—I mean—your wife—sent me after you. She—she said she didn't want you to know. So I followed you here.”

He stood up. He was thinner than usual, and the only thing up here that looked genuinely haunted. I didn't want to be the one to tell him that Coir wasn't worth it. I rolled over on my side and groaned, then tried to push myself up.

He helped me to my feet. We were standing outside of the cave, near the fire, and the darkness did nothing to lesson my feeling that any second Cerberus would take a bite out of my ass. I rubbed my eyes. The ears still worked. I could hear the horses snatching illicit bites of thistle.

I tried to walk and wobbled instead, like a bird just out of the nest. As soon as I could stand without his arm, I figured my head would live to be hit another day. I took a good look at my new freedman.

“I'm goddamn glad to see you. I thought I'd never get to—well, I thought I was dead, let me put it that way. What—what happened?”

He stood up straight like he used to and didn't look so much like a broken-down arena fighter.

“He hit you with a shovel.”

He jerked his thumb toward the woodpile, where another man, large and bearded, lay trussed and tied to a log. Draco was never much of a storyteller.

“Where did you come in?”

“I was down the road. The mistress—your wife, that is—gave me the black horse to ride. I left him down the hill, walked up here, saw him on the ground—”

He gestured toward the bastard I'd skinned my knuckles on. He was groaning, tied up next to the other one.

“—and I thought I'd better tell you I was here. Then I saw him hit you from behind. I couldn't yell in time—and—and, well, I wrestled the shovel away and hit him with it. Then I carried you out here, and tied them both up.”

I held his eyes. “You saved my life—and I'm rather attached to it, as lives go. They would've dropped me down a shaft without so much as an apology to Pluto for the intrusion. Thanks, Draco. That's not nearly enough, but it'll have to do for now.”

He shuffled his feet and tried not to look embarrassed. For Draco, that was like trying not to look large. I grimly explored the back of my skull and winced. Same old bumps, but no new cracks, and no blood came off on my fingertips. I got the flat end, not the sharp end. I'd be all right. I was a little alarmed at the extra head I was growing.

“How long have I been out?”

“About—about two hours, I reckon.” He looked down at the miner I fought. “You must've hit him hard. He's just now waking up.”

That meant it was the second or third hour of night. We had a long, bumpy fifteen miles to travel—and me with two heads, and not much sense between them.

“Draco—you are staying, aren't you? With us?”

The shuffling noises increased, and even in the dark he was as red as the embers in the fire. Nobody mentioned Coir. “I'd—I'd like to, Master.”

“You're a freedman. Call me Arcturus.” I grinned and reached out a hand to grab his arm. “Welcome home.”

I could see the firelight reflect in the smile on his face. It was good to have him back. And it was the last time I'd go to a goddamn resort town without a bodyguard.

“Where are the horses? And the donkey?”

“The little black one is with Nimbus. The donkey is still by the dogwood tree.”

I grunted. “Nimbus smelled Pluto. That's what she was nickering at.”

I looked around as far as the light would go. Draco had lit some of the lamps inside and taken a couple outside, and stoked the small fire while I'd been unconscious. I wondered if he'd mined any silver while he was at it.

“Master—I mean, Arc-Arcturus. What should we do with them?”

It hurt to think. That was nothing new.

“They'll slow us down if we take them to the fort. They'd have to walk. Or be dragged.”

I stepped carefully over to where the men were tied, trying to get used to the pain. I spoke as loudly as it would let me.

“Of course, we could just throw them down one of the tunnels, tied up, and they'd starve to death. Or drown, from water coming in. Or maybe we should feed them to the rats. They're always in tunnels—big, red-eyed, hungry rats. They're not too picky about what they eat, either. Isn't that right, Draco?”

He nodded, eyes wide. I looked at him. I couldn't very well wink in the dark, even if one side of my face wasn't twitching. I hoped he understood.

“Yeah. Rats, I think. Some of 'em wouldn't turn down a meal, even of—this.”

I kicked at Bushy Beard's leg. His face reflected the moon and was starting to form a scream. Not too much longer.

“It'll be slow, of course. They always start with the extremities. First the toes. Then they work their way up, until—”

Bushy Beard pissed in his pants. It trickled into the ground and ran in a little stream toward the one I'd hit. The bastard wriggled over as much as he could, trying to keep from getting wet. I leaned over him.

“Don't bother. You smell worse than piss already.”

His mouth was bloody. He spit some of it at me. I was gratified to see there were some teeth chips in it. I wiped my hand off on his hair and turned to Bushy Beard.

“Who hired you?”

He was shaking, his eyes bouncing back and forth between me and Draco, as if we'd transform into rodents when the moonlight struck us. Rat stories. You can always get them with rat stories.

“I don't know—honest, I don't know him. Just a man, I met him in an inn. He was looking for—looking for workers. I used to be—used to be a soldier—I know a little about mines—”

He was too young to retire. Probably a deserter. If I turned him in, he'd be better off with the rats.

“I see. You're a deserter from the auxiliary.”

He'd already pissed once but was trying again. “Oh, God, please—please don't. I got—I got a wife somewhere, probably kids—please—please—”

The other one wasn't as intimidated. He tried to talk. He'd get used to the lisp.

“Shu' your god'am mouf. Don' 'ell 'em nofin.”

I turned to where his hand was still crumpled from its earlier introduction to the rock. I stepped on it. He screeched. Lucky for him he was ambidextrous.

I said softly: “Remember that next time you're around a donkey, asshole.” I turned to Draco. “Any food and water in there?”

He nodded. “In a room to the left. Want it?”

“Just enough water for the trip home, and extra feed for all the animals.”

Draco headed for the cave. Grotesque shadows from the flickering lamps danced and writhed against the wall, making it look like the entrance to Tartarus. When Draco came out with a couple of sacks and two water skins, I was more than ready to leave.

“Feed a little to all of them, and give what extra you can to the donkey. The journey will be hardest on her.”

And not so easy on me. The pains kept stabbing at irregular intervals, and each time I felt like I was going to fall. Draco got the horses ready, and I checked the donkey's legs. She'd been beaten and battered and was unsteady on her feet, but her heart was sound. I stroked her on the neck.

The fire was dying down. The men's eyes glistened in the dark. With Draco's help, I clambered on top of Nimbus.

“All right. Cut the garbage loose. Hell doesn't want them just yet.”

Draco took his knife and sliced the ropes, first on the bearded one and then on the other. They stayed on the ground until he crawled onto Pluto. Whom I'd have to call Little Pluto from now on. I'd been too damn close to the real thing.

I watched as the one I fought cradled his broken hand and ran his tongue around his mouth. Bushy Beard almost wept with relief. They hobbled toward the cave, blending into the darkness until the black maw swallowed them whole. Lamp lights jumped and danced. Now they were just two more shadows on the wall.

My head felt like a kettle drum played by a three-hundred-pound deaf-mute. But I was alive, Draco was back, we uncovered an illegal mine, and we saved a donkey. A good trip.

*   *   *

There's a difference between five hours in daylight and eight hours in the dark, and it's more than three hours. Particularly when you've got a skull the size of Mount Aetna. After the first hour, I was thankful for the concussion. I didn't want to know where I was.

Draco didn't say much. It took him three hours to mention Bilicho. Apparently, Gwyna wrote Stricta as soon as we arrived in Aquae Sulis. Something about “Can you find Draco and ask him to come, there's a dead body, etc.” Bilicho found him living in a little shack on the south side of the river. Coir had already moved on.

I tried to console him, but it was all I could do to stay in the saddle. Besides, after my recent and most notable lapse in perception, I didn't feel qualified to give anybody advice on women. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with my own wife, and then I run straight into a shovel.

I looked behind me. The donkey and I were just keeping our heads down. All three of them. She was tied to the back of Nimbus and stumbled every now and then. At least we both had someone to catch us if we fell.

It was about three hours before dawn when we finally reached the villa. Lineus himself was manning the door duties. My wife's idea, probably.

I told him to make sure the stable slaves gave the horses plenty of feed, but go easy on the donkey and build her up slowly. She needed a bath, and medicine for the welts on her back and neck. I'd mix up an unguent for her as soon as I could think again.

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir.”

Lineus acted as though the governor's guests habitually brought half-dead pack animals to stay at the villa.

I made my way into the house. Gwyna was curled up on a couch in the dining room. There was at least one benefit to my aching head. I could see two of her. She woke up as soon as I weaved gracefully into the room, knocking over one of the chairs in the process.

“My God, Ardur—you look like hell! What happened? Are you all right?”

She was up in one fluid movement, her hand on my arm, gently pulling me to the couch. I grinned on one side of my face.

“You should see the other guy.”

“But—but I sent—”

The sound of large, shy feet shuffling in the back by the hallway wafted into the room.

“Draco—come in here. Gwyna wants to thank you.”

I sat down on the couch. Rest. Rest was what I needed. My bodyguard was still hovering at a distance, in the rear of the
triclinium.

“He found me, as you can see. Saved me, too. I would've gotten more than merely acquainted with a shovel.” I winced. The heat in the room was making my sore muscles relax, which was making my head pulse in rhythm.

Gwyna stared at me, her eyes large and worried. “Ardur—will you—are you really all right? Should I call for Philo?”

I opened an eye and looked at her. “Philo? I don't need goddamn—goddamn it!”

I lay back on the couch, panting. I shouldn't have clenched my jaw.

“No. No Philo. Please. Just—just get me a little willow bark. There's some in my kit. And some valerian. I brought it for you—to help you sleep.”

Gwyna looked me over again, debating something in her mind. She stood up and started minutely examining my scalp.

“There's nothing fractured. I've got a concussion and a large bump. Think of it as an unwanted guest. It'll go away soon enough.”

She bit her lip and stared at my skull as if she could see through it. Finally, she nodded. “All right. But if you're just putting on a face so I don't call for Philo—”

“If I could put on a face would I choose this one?”

She threw me one last “or else” look, then finally noticed Draco. She handed him a smile. “Thank you, Draco. I can't say it enough. Make yourself at home.”

She hurried out of the room, and we both watched her go.

“Why don't you go to bed? You probably haven't been off a horse for two days.”

“Will it—will it be all right?”

“Of course. You heard Gwyna. You're at home.”

A smile cracked his long face. Lineus appeared behind him and cleared his throat. He timed his appearances like a striptease artist.

“Shall I show the gentleman to his room?”

Draco turned around, looking for the gentleman. I tried to nod and thought better of it.

“Please. Good night, Draco.”

Lineus put a guiding hand on Draco's elbow and escorted him to one of the bedrooms. I leaned my head back slightly and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Gwyna's hand was on my cheek, and she was washing my face with a soft, wet, warm cloth. My medical kit was on the table. I was beginning to get sleepy, even with the pain and other, more pleasant distractions.

“Thanks for sending Draco. You could've told me he was here, you know.”

The ablutions stopped. “Ardur, you wouldn't have taken Draco, and you know it.”

I grumbled. “How do you know?”

She started washing me again. “Because I know you. You hate to admit weakness, particularly when you're feeling threatened. I asked Draco to follow you, just in case.”

She was remarkably self-disciplined. There was no sense of triumph in her voice.

“You should be pleased with yourself.”

She braced herself on my chest with her arms and leaned back to look at me. “Why would I be pleased because my husband got hurt? Why would I be pleased because what I was afraid of came true? What kind of wife do you think I am?”

Her lips were trembling. I'd gotten her angry and hurt her feelings. I was a monster.

“The best. What I should say is thank you. You saved my life.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then bent closer, her lips brushing mine. “Ardur—you are my life.”