themselves.
Blackwood turned in his sleep. Muttered something.
'Peace,' said Mystrel.
And let her hand trail over his cheek, lightly, lightly. Then she bent over him, smiled, and sealed his sleep with a kiss. Both times that Hearst had first opened the box holding the two mad-jewels, she had, to her horror, seen his dead body before her. Knowing what his death would mean to her, she treasured his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the siege dragged on, many of the enemy dispersed. Alish estimated that a thousand of the Collosnon soldiers had died after attacking Castle Vaunting, that a thousand more had marched off elsewhere, and that perhaps three thousand remained.
When the flames of the castle's moat finally died down, allowing the drawbridge to be lowered, the mad-jewels would be used again, and Comedo's soldiers would march out to slaughter the three thousand.
Comedo, it was rumoured, was still eating in luxury. The rest of the castle was rationed, but Phyphor favoured them by releasing urns of siege dust from the tower of Arl, so nobody actually went hungry. Plenty of rain fell, replenishing dungeon cisterns which took the drainage from the vast expanse of the central courtyard, so there was no chance that they would die of thirst.
Miphon, turning his attention to public health, arranged for the water to be filtered and boiled before it was drunk. He brewed up a vermifuge, and dosed everyone in the castle, with the exception of a few pregnant women. He laid out a special poisoned rat bait, with spectacular results. He persuaded Prince Comedo to get rid of most of his corpse collection, and to have the few remaining items embalmed.
The castle's dogs and cats were slaughtered for food. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Miphon got rid of the castle's fleas by having every mat and rug burnt, and by having the stone floors swept regularly. His programme for eradicating lice was not so successful, as- (a) few people were willing to shave their heads and 141 boil their clothes and bedding; and (b) a substantial number of people believed that lack of lice meant that one was so sick that death was just round the corner.
He did much minor surgery. He also had a fair bit of major surgery to do, particularly amputating gangrenous limbs; as only half of his seriously ill patients died, his prestige rose enormously. Gangrene – a consequence of the enemy's failure to sterilise their weapons before using them on human flesh – was usually inevitably fatal, with most attempts at a cure by amputation simply leading to fresh infection.
Wary of the possible personal consequences of his local fame, Miphon diligently practiced the disciplines of humility. He discussed childbirth and healing with Mystrel, who proved exceptionally knowledgeable: despite his experience, Miphon found there was still much he had to learn.
They exchanged information about herbs, honey, garlic, leeches, bone setting, ulcers, cancers, vermifuges and all the other things that healers have to know about – including, of course, the various kinds of pox. Mystrel was particularly wise about the local plants; Miphon, on the other hand, knew more about exotic things like opium and ginseng, which came to Estar only by way of trade.
Blackwood and Hearst would usually be present at their conversations – but, instead of listening in, those two usually talked man-talk about the hunting of large, noisy animals, the trapping of the same, about Hearst's adventures in the Cold West (special emphasis on mammoth hunts) and Blackwood's foolhardy ventures (in his younger days) into the weirder reaches of the Penvash Peninsular (special emphasis on encounters with giant bears).
Hearst and Blackwood one day concluded an inconclusive debate – does the crocodile really exist, and, if so, is it possible to kill it bare handed? – to find Mystrel and Miphon still indefatigably talking medicine.
'… and, of course, garlic is good for wounds,' said Mystrel.
'Yes,' said Miphon, 'But what would you do for an ulcer that wouldn't heal? I don't think I'd use garlic for that.'
'No,' said Mystrel. 'I'd use bandages soaked in honey.'
'Honey!' said Hearst, taking an interest for once. That'd rot the wound.'
'You'd have to change the bandages four times a day,' said Mystrel. 'You wouldn't just leave it there, you know.'
Tt'd still go rotten.'
'Now when did you last see rotten honey?' said Mystrel. 'It keeps in the hive through winter and beyond because the bees make it with a guarding. That's why you can use it on ulcers.'
'You'll have to teach your child, when the child's old enough,' said Miphon, impressed by her competence.
'Boys have a lot to learn besides herbs,' said Blackwood. 'Fishing, hunting, weather-lore – it's the women who've got time to sit at home talking of herbs and honey.'
'Oh yes,' said Mystrel, warmly. 'And carding the wool, and spinning, cleaning the fireplace and making the rushlights, putting the stew on to cook – and that's only the start of the day. Then there's baking bread, drawing water, doing the washing – '
'Peace!' said Blackwood.
Hearst laughed.
Mystrel, her temper up, gave no mercy: ' – and there's plucking birds and scraping hides, weaving the reed- mats, gathering water cress, gathering the big-ear fungus, and soap, in season – up to the elbows in ashes and animal fat. There'll be time enough in a boy's life for my son to learn what I've got to teach him.'
'It might be a girl,' said Miphon.
'No,' said Hearst. 'Blackwood will have a son.'
'It's not him who's with child!' said Mystrel. 'But you're right. It will be a boy.'
'I'll teach him how to use a sword,' said Hearst, who, while they were talking, was slowly incising a rune into the metal of his battle-sword Hast.
'No son of mine will go to the wars,' said Mystrel.
'Then we'll make him a wizard,' said Miphon.
'No,' said Blackwood. 'My son will be a hunter, like his father. When he's old enough. I'll take him north, into the wilds.'
But, for the moment, he spared them further stories of those wilds, for his curiosity was getting the better of him: 'What's that you're cutting into your sword, Morgan?' 'A rune,' said Miphon.
'It's a death-pledge,' said Hearst. 'Out there is a traitor – an oath-breaker. Volaine Persaga Haveros, a Collosnon spy. He swore an oath of loyalty to the prince – and a second oath of personal loyalty to Elkor Alish. When I meet him again, I'll kill him. The rune dedicates this sword to revenge.'
An oath-breaker could not be forgiven; nothing is worse than to betray a pledge of loyalty.
'If I had even a good kitchen knife,' said Mystrel, 'I wouldn't damage it like that.'
Women, it has sometimes been remarked – by Kash m'pie T'longa amongst others – have never been very enthusiastic about the mystique of murder and revenge.
'This is only a scratch,' said Hearst. 'I could tell you a tale of a sword – '
'What sword?' said Blackwood.
'Oh, it's a children's tale I was minded of,' said Hearst. T won't insult you with it.'
As Miphon was a wizard, he did not think it safe to tell the sword-story he had almost started on. The sword in question was the blade Raunen Song, which, according to the Black Blood Legends of Rovac, bore the rune-written names of a thousand wizards.
A legendary' hero of Rovac had sworn to take that sword, Raunen Song the ironcleaver, the stonesplitter, and kill each and every one of those thousand wizards. But the hero had disappeared, centuries ago, without a trace. And this was not the time or the place to encourage the ancient hatreds between wizards and the Rovac.
'Why did you leave the Cold West?' asked Miphon, taking advantage of Hearst's silence to ask a question which had puzzled him for some time. 'It must've offered you more than Estar can.'
'Yes,' said Hearst. 'But it was too cold.'
He did not elaborate.
