The Enterprise of Death (26 page)

“Like, a fuckin
blackamoor
?” Monique whispered, glancing around at the stained curtains boxing them in.

“Yes,” Awa whispered, her guts twisting up into a noose to throttle her hopes of finding any kind of friendship from the woman.

“Fuck me,” Monique exhaled.

There it was. Awa thought about telling Monique that judging a woman by where she was born made no more sense than judging her for liking other women, or for having brown hair instead of blond. Telling never did any good, of course, but—

“In that case I can’t very well make ya a full fuckin partner
even if ya do ’ave the scratch,” said Monique thoughtfully. “But we kin work somethin out, ta be sure. How much ya got?”

“Excuse me?” Awa blinked, the tears she had not even noticed smearing the lead makeup around her eyes.

“I’m out, right?” Monique set her bag down. “An’ you’re the one what got me out, an’ I don’t mean to forget that, blackamoor or no. Ya kin do for others whatcha did for me?”

“Now, what I did—”

“Rub a little paste or somethin, yeah?”

“Well, actually—”

“
Rub a little paste or somethin, yeah?
” Monique flashed Awa a ludicrously exaggerated wink. “What goes in that paste is the doctor’s business, not mine, an’ not the ’ores’, neither. Important thing is the nasty goes away, aye?”

“I’m not a doctor,” Awa protested. “Did you say whores?”

“See, that’s why I need ya, sister, cause of them wits of yours. Course we can’t call you a doctor, anyone with more’n half an eye kin see your great tits an’ call the shit on that claim at once, an’ then we’re in it for claimin ya’s a doctor when ya’s jus, I dunno, an apothecary or midwife or some such. Midwife sounds good an’ all, aye?”

“Monique,” said Awa firmly. “What are you talking about?”

“Talkin bout gettin ya your own practice, an’ some cunny besides, if you’re interested.”

Awa took a step back. “Now, I’m … I’m flattered, but—”

“Not me, you chit!” Monique laughed. “I’m talkin bout the ’ores! Sure, most of’em don’t have the willin or want ta go lappin tween our legs, an’ of those that will a fair sight less will go down ta blackest Afrik, sure, but the ’ores I got in mind are the dirtiest of the dirty, an’ we’ll find us a choice chicken or two for ya ta pluck if you’ll say yes, sister. Say yes, sister!”

“You want to go get whores,” Awa said carefully, sure she had missed something and trying not to take the woman’s offensiveness
personally. “And you want me to go along to, to tend to these whores, so that you don’t get another malady?”

“Sister Gloria,” said Monique, “an’ we
will
have ta getcha a new title an’ clothes, cause keepin some ’abits at hand for clergy or whoever ta wear or put on they girls is one thing, an’ havin a fuckin blackamoor nun sittin bout a brothel all day is somethin else. But I got waylaid—point is—I fuckin love ’ores. I love fuckin’em, I love drinkin with’em, I love eatin with’em, I love jus sittin bout talkin with’em. Love ’ores, I do, an’ ya kin ask Manuel if that ain’t the Lord’s truth. So down all these days stead a puttin way funds for some of them fillygreed matchlocks I’ve been keepin on with my old guns instead, an’ squirrelin away every coin I get, excludin the occasional bottle or piece of mink from one of said obligin girlies. Kin ya guess why?”

Awa could not.

“To open my own brothel,” Monique whispered conspiratorially. “An’ with this last bonus a von Wine’s I’m set. Got me a beard named Dario, a game little dandy who’ll sign the papers an’ lease an’ all, an’ o’er my travels I planted enough seeds in the heads of enough ’ores that ifin we stop in a few towns along the way ta the new digs we’ll ’ave us a regular caravan of cunt rollin into Cathar Country, an’ then we’re set. I pony up the cost so I run the show, Dario’s the frontman an’ gets a small take an’ a room for his part, ’ores get a bigger cut than they’s accustomed ta keep’em ’appy, an’ you, Sister Gloria—”

“Me?” Awa was not sure if this was the worst idea she had ever heard, or the greatest. “Me?”

“You, Sister Gloria,” said Monique, “are resident cunt-cleaner. See, I got it all worked out—ifin my ’ores is clean all the time, an’ I mean,
really
clean, word’ll spread, and that’ll give us the edge to justify payin the ’ores better, an’ any other costs we might incur by dent a bein a real classy fuckin venture.”

“But Paracelsus says that most people don’t know the pox
comes from, from that, they thinks it’s the water or the gods or—”

“Word’ll spread on all counts, mark me there, an’ then my ’ores legs’ll be spreadin like brains on bread.” Monique licked her lips at the thought. “Sides, havin a house wholly free of the pox’ll be good for morale an’ establishin a certain, whataya … ambiance. A certain fuckin poxless ambiance. Ifin ya got capital ta help start us off I’ll give ya a cut of the cunny-money, an’ even if ya don’t you’ll have
private
fuckin chambers, three meals a day, four bottles of wine or two of stronger stuff a week, an’ the free ass of any ’ore willin to give it. An’ mind what I said—I’ll assure ya got a choice of no less than three different obligin fannies, kind of girlies what’d teach the devil’s own stable how ta properly service everythin from blackamoors to blacksnakes.”

“I … don’t … I.” Awa had never considered anything remotely like what Monique was suggesting, and told herself that any interest she might possess had everything to do with gainful employment far removed from Paracelsus—who grew creepier by the day —and not the promise of carnal relations with women who drew little distinction between her and a serpent. Awa
had
wanted to find a way to distract herself for the next few years, to enjoy life instead of surrounding herself with death, and to restore any tipped internal balance in the event the nigh-forgotten beliefs of her mother came to be true. While she had decided tending to the afflicted pox victims would be a more fitting and fulfilling occupation than washing Manuel’s laundry in Bern, it sounded like in purpose working for Monique would be essentially the same as working for Paracelsus, only with a rotating choice of women and drink. This seemed more and more appealing as the young necromancer considered it. A wet shriek came from just beyond the curtain to her left, the sound deteriorating into a gurgle as the patient gagged and vomited on the stench of his own putrefying body, and that settled it.

“Alright,” said Awa, though she had learned enough of the ways of men and women to avoid putting up her own substantial fortune of grave-gained treasures she had acquired over the years since leaving the mountain. “I don’t have money to spare but I’ll be your, your … I’ll tend to your girls, and I thank you for your offer.”

“Least I kin do, right?” said Monique. “But you’ll be tellin me your real name fore we go any further, less your Infidel fuckin parents thought Gloria sounded proper in their Turk fuckin tongue.”

Awa frowned, not having considered this condition, but of all the people she had ever met Monique seemed the least likely to exploit something as subtle as the power a name gives a person. “Awa,” said she.

“Right enough, Awa,” said Monique, clapping her on the shoulder. “Let’s getcher gear an’ get shy of this shithole.”

They went to the storeroom and gathered Awa’s satchel, which she had never unpacked. She had slept on the floor beside Paracelsus and with the lack of privacy had not wanted him examining her dagger or salamander eggs by leaving the unusual items lying around. As she shouldered the bag Paracelsus burst into the room behind them, his arms wrapped around a small cask.

“And just where do you think you’re off to, my dear?” The physician panted as he set the keg down. “And look at you, madam, fully recovered in so short a span!”

“We’re leavin,” said Monique. “An’ where we go ain’t concern of man, beast, nor nuthin betwixt’em.”

“And when will you be back, Sister Gloria?” asked Paracelsus, straightening up and looking at Awa.

“I …” Awa glanced at Monique, who raised her palms and took a step back. “I don’t intend to return. I thank you very much for your time, of course, and your generosity, and—”

“My understanding, of course,” said Paracelsus, narrowing
his puffy eyes. “Most people in this wide world of ours would not be so understanding, I don’t think.”

“Of course, your—” Awa began, but he cut her off.

“Most people would not tolerate
a witch
to sleep under their roof, let alone a Moor.” Paracelsus raised his eyebrows, glancing at Monique. “No, most people might balk at the idea of a woman composed of more sulfur than salt being allowed to live, let alone—”

Which is when Monique closed the short distance between them and punched him dead in the jaw. Paracelsus seemed to hop nimbly backwards onto his table, but then all his limbs flailed about and glasses were breaking and his canisters went rolling onto the floor. Monique might have hit him again but Awa grabbed the taller woman’s arm.

“Call’er a fuckin witch again an’ see what happens!” Monique bellowed before Paracelsus’s eyes had even come back into focus. “Say it again, ya quack, an’ I’ll drown ya in your fuckin pox-metal!”

“I
am
a witch,” said Awa. “He just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t when—”

“The fuck he had anythin but blackmail in mind,” Monique fumed. “I know when a fuckin cock’s workin a threat into ’is words, an’ that’s what he was doin. Threatenin.”

“Monique, I am a witch. Did you hear me?” Awa squeezed her friend’s arm, unsure whether she wanted her to punch the physician again or not. He had seemed a most understanding man, albeit a peculiar one, and until this he had given her no definitive reason to think his concern for her was less than altruistic.

“Maybe if you’d put a pox on me stead a takin one off I’d give a shit,” said Monique. “As is, I’m more’n happy ta pay ya for your wiles with more’n a spot beside me on the floor and fuckin gruel to eat like this lump’s been doin. Ya wanna fuckin tell me she’s a witch again, lump?!”

“No.” Paracelsus dribbled a little blood as he spoke, glaring at Monique. Awa saw his eyes dart over to his sword propped against the wall, and she quickly stepped between him and it. At this his shoulders sagged, and the sullen young doctor said, “Go on then, Sister Gloria, I can see when my friendship is no longer required. I would not have exploited you, though; I would have had you for a tutor. I only hope that in time you will not allow false impressions to color the facts, that I was a man open to you in ways that those who could never understand you could, could never understand.”

“An’ jus what the fuck is that supposed ta mean?” demanded Monique, bowing up further.

“That in only a short time I have learned much from our mutual friend,” Paracelsus spat, a small rose blooming on Monique’s tunic where his bloody spittle fell. Tears were running down his cheeks as he continued, but Awa did not know if these were the result of emotion at her impending departure or being struck in the face. “That much of what we, in our ignorance, think of as medicine is actually poison, but that very poison, in the proper dosage, can be a medicine. That there is more at work than we know, and that if we but listen to the swarthy witch, the seemingly mad diabolist, we may discover more than all the wisdom of antiquity. Go if you must, Sister Gloria, but know that by doing so you shut me out, and by shutting me out you shut out all of modern medicine. You will not find another so willing to believe, to hear you out. Spirits in the mercury? Of the mercury? The world teeming with all sorts of spirits, and not divine nor diabolical but simply spirits who—”

“I never said that!” Awa cried. “I never told you, how did you—”

“But you did!” Paracelsus nodded. “As you slept you would mumble to yourself, and often when you were awake as well. I have transcribed some of it, and much of it is in line with what—”

“You want me to break ’is head in?” Monique looked very seriously at Awa.

“It’s my fault,” said Awa. “I shouldn’t have, I mean, I know I talk to myself sometimes but … Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim.”

“Yes?” Paracelsus blinked, pleasantly surprised that someone, anyone, had remembered his full name.

“Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim, what is done is done, but I cannot have you telling people about me. Use what I have given you but trouble me no more.” Awa stepped between Monique and the physician, who tilted his head back at the sudden intensity of his nurse.

“Trouble you? Why, I—” Awa touched his knee and he died. A little, anyway, and it was the most marvelous, exciting experience of the doctor’s life.

“Christ!” said Monique, backing away. She knew a dead man when she saw one, and even if he had not noisily voided his bowels she would have known he was murdered.

“Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim,” Awa said his name a third time, and leaning in, whispered in Latin, “You are dead, but I shall spare you this end so that you may help the living, so that you may use the little wisdom I have given you to change the minds of men, both about witches and about the world we all inhabit. It would be far safer for me to leave you as a corpse, but instead I give you life. Do not make me regret my decision, Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim.”

And up he sat as she returned his life to him, only to double over again in agony as a migraine ricocheted behind his temples. By the time he had recovered enough to realize he had soiled himself, Awa and Monique were gone, as was his schnapps cask. He did not even clean himself before scribbling down the monumental
experience of dying, the stench and itchiness not nearly distracting enough to delay him a moment more.