and it missed the bone entirely. This did not please du Malphias. The lack of symmetry between the two wounds somehow ruined his experiment. So, with Quarante-neuf holding the leg steady, the Tharyngian used his hammer and chisel to break the femur.
When Owen resumed consciousness the Tharyngian was engaged in measuring both wounds by every means possible. He would call out numbers and comments, which another one of the pasmortes scribbled down. Then, apparently satisfied, du Malphias applied five drops of his vivalius along the length of the wound, and proceeded to stitch it up. He then closed the other wound and draped the first with a leather sheet so none of the dripping Shedashee potion would splash onto it.
Each day he would return, poking, prodding, taking his measurements and making notes. Owen had complained that his right leg did not feel as the left. It felt hot, and as if something was clawing into it. Du Malphias acknowledged his complaints with a nod, added an additional drop of vivalius, but his expression when he examined the wound from that point forward belied the confident noises he made.
Then the fever began. Owen had no idea how long it lasted because his nightmares never ended. Moments of wakefulness he had, but no true lucidity. He had distant memories of his own ravings echoing through his small prison as Quarante-neuf would bathe him in cool water.
The only relief from nightmares came in brief respites when Bethany Frost appeared. Her smile abated his fever and ended his torments. She would read to him in words that made no sense, but he listened only for her kind tone. She would reach a hand out to soothe his brow and, at times, would lean in for a kiss…
Only to be torn away from him screaming. Then he would find himself in the forest, running along the winding path. The stick creatures had faces, the faces of his wife and his relatives, dead comrades, and men like Lord Rivendell. They hounded him, nipping, tearing his flesh. He tried to run faster but bullets ripped through his legs. He stumbled and fell, feeling them ever close and drawing closer. He clawed at the earth, trying to drag himself along, and then, as a last resort, he burrowed into the earth for safety.
And he would awaken in his tiny prison, buried, and feel no safer.
Though du Malphias never explained what he had done, as Owen healed he came to certain conclusions. The Tharyngian clearly had reopened the wound in his right leg and drained it. He'd set up a second drip of the Shedashee preparation and left the wound open to drain more. Finally, when the heat and redness had vanished, he had reclosed the wound, all the while glaring at Owen as if he had somehow betrayed the Laureate.
Owen, thanks to Quarante-neuf's kind treatment and the wisdom of the Shedashee, recovered steadily. He no longer had to be restrained and du Malphias' stern expressions surrendered to looks of mild pleasure. He'd even brought the crutches and invited Owen to venture forth whenever he felt able.
I will hobble, then walk, then escape.
With this goal in mind, Owen forced himself to move. His legs protested mightily at first, but he pushed past this new pain. The stitches held and the wounds healed. Owen did notice that while they seemed to progress at the same rate, the right leg was closing without the puckered trace of a scar. The leg even felt a bit stronger than the left, though the difference in bullets might have accounted for that.
The things that interested du Malphias only concerned Owen in that as long as the Laureate found him worthy of study, he would remain alive. The look in the Laureate's eyes especially when he did not think Owen noticed revealed Owen's ultimate disposition. He was, after all, a spy and, therefore, had to be shot.
Ironically, of course, he'd wait until Owen healed. Healed enough that after he kills me, he can make me into one of his pasmortes.
Owen was determined that would not happen. He was not going to die in du Malphias' frontier fortress. He was going to return to Saint Luke and thank Agaskan for her doll keeping him safe. Then he would go to Temperance and complete his journals, finish his mission, and return home to his wife.
A cold chill ran down Owen's spine. During his fevered dreams, it had been Bethany Frost, not Catherine, who had comforted him. His wife did appear in his dreams, but she wore mourning and held back, staring at him in horror as if he were long dead. He reached out to her and she recoiled, calling him a pasmorte.
Owen did not trust dreams as did his wife, but he sought to make sense of them. His wife's reaction was perfectly in keeping with her character. She loved him dearly, but had no stomach for dealing with illness and infirmity. While she spent many hours reading to her grandmother as the old woman slowly sank into senility, blood, vomitus, or other leakage would send her running. He counted himself lucky that he had never been seriously wounded. Though many of his wife's friends volunteered in hospital sick-wards, Catherine never did.
The reasons Bethany comforted him were myriad. At the very least, she had been kind to him. During his short stay in Temperance, her laughter had put a smile on his face and she had been a very solicitous hostess. Add to that the fact that her mother had sewed his ear back on, and connecting healing with the Frosts was not hard to understand. Separated from his wife, in the throes of delirium, it was expected that his fevered brain might impose her as an image of hope.
He frowned. Regardless of it being an involuntary consequence of his illness, it was unseemly. He was a married man who loved his wife. He resolved that when he returned to Temperance, he would be cordial to and even friendly with Bethany Frost, but he would make certain there was no misunderstanding between them. He could not tell her of his dreams-this would make her uncomfortable. He would, however, show his gratitude, and hope that somehow she would understand his behavior.
Owen surveyed the fortress from the mouth of a tunnel set halfway between the upper fort and the stone star at the construction's heart. The pasmortes worked tirelessly-du Malphias noted that some of them had been worked to death and still worked-an oft-repeated joke in which the Laureate took great delight. Owen had concluded that the pasmortes' abilities and level of service corresponded to how badly damaged they were at resurrection. Quarante-neuf appeared to be quite high-functioning, able to carry on a conversation and even seeming to have emotions. He was a great deal more human than Etienne's description of his father.
Others, in various states of decay, functioned as beasts of burden. Du Malphias referred to them as his little 'ants,' capable of shifting mountains one tiny piece at a time. When one of the beasts became broken, du Malphias or a couple of the higher-functioning pasmortes like Quarante-neuf, would affect a repair via magick deep in the bowels of the fortress.
The ability of a pasmorte to use magick shocked Owen, but it made sense. They had become creatures of magick themselves, and the magicks they used were rather elementary. Just as Kamiskwa and Makepeace had repaired the canoes, so magick could reattach a severed arm, or strengthen a broken bone.
Du Malphias came walking down the path from the upper fort. 'Good morning, Captain Strake. How are you feeling?'
'Pain is a three on your scale in my left leg, two in the right. Discomfort, but nothing insurmountable.'
'Excellent.' The Tharyngian frowned. 'I regret the necessity of this. Come with me to the smith.'
'Sir?'
'I cannot have you getting up to mischief.'
Owen held his head up. 'I pledge to you, sir, as an officer and a gentleman, that I have no intention of doing anything of that sort.'
The slender man's grey eyes tightened. 'You understand, sir, that you stand before me a spy whose life is under immediate threat of extinction. Please accept the honor I do you in treating you like a dangerous foe. I have determined that iron shackles will not impede your recovery, therefore this prudent precaution is one that must be employed now. Quarante-neuf, if he does not follow me, drag him.'
Quarante-neuf took a step forward, but Owen started after du Malphias. 'Please, sir, not so fast.'
The Tharyngian glanced back, then slowed his pace.
'Thank you.' Owen caught up with. 'I have wanted to ask, sir, after my compatriot. How does he fare?'
'He perished. Sepsis. Everything I tried, failed.'
Owen's stomach imploded. Not Makepeace! He scanned the lines of pasmortes. 'Did you…?'
Du Malphias waved the question aside. 'The infection did significant damage to his spine and brain. He was of no use to me.'
'I should like to pay my respects.'
'I imagine.' Du Malphias pointed at a stool next to the smith's anvil. 'It pleased me, however, to give him a Viking funeral. I laid him and his equipment in a canoe, lit it afire, and sent it sailing into the lake. The current caught it. His ashes will have washed down the Roaring River and into the Misaawa. On his last journey he shall see more of this continent than he did in life.'
