Again that torturous crying-child face. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry; I never meant to shame you.”
Oh, great. A family crisis. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said. “You just concentrate on getting well right now.”
“I’ve been a good girl, you know. No one’s touched me, not there. I’m still a virgin.”
“I’m sure you are,” I said reassuringly. “You’re a very good girl.”
“But somebody had to do this. I know Ricky’s your favorite and you love him the most, but Daddy, he’s an idiot. He’ll ruin us all.”
“You’re right. I’ve come to accept that, thanks to you.”
“Oh, Daddy, I love you so much,” she said with a child’s utter sincerity. She reached for my hand, and I took her slender fingers in my own. “I know everything they say about you is true, but I still love you, and I want to protect you. But you never loved me, just Ricky. And he’s… he’s…” She dissolved into quiet little exhausted sobs, and these quickly faded to silence. Her hand slid limply from mine back down into the water. Her breathing was steadier now, without that desperate little rattle.
Mother Mallory put her hand on my shoulder. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I think this is a good sign.”
“She’s hallucinating, you know. I’m not her father.”
“No, but her mind is working coherently. Except for that one detail, everything else made sense. Maybe you resemble her father in some way.”
My knees popped as I stood. “For her sake, I hope not.”
She leaned close to me. “And just so you know, she wasn’t taken by whoever did this. She is still a virgin.”
“You check that?” I asked, too tired to hide my prurient surprise.
Mother Mallory’s face turned hard and sad. “If a man hurts a woman, that’s usually the reason. And often he doesn’t care how torn up he leaves her inside. So yes, we check.”
I nodded, properly chagrined. I retrieved my scabbard and went back outside to the courtyard. Lockett was gone, as he said he’d be. I picked up my sword; wrapped around the hilt was a piece of parchment, tied with a black ribbon.
It was a page torn from a bound book, old but still supple; the original volume, wherever it was, had been carefully tended over the years. The page showed an illuminated image of a dragon fighting what appeared to be a cross between a hedgehog and a scarecrow. I recognized it as an illustration of the battle of Charlton the Just against Solarian.
Scrawled across the top were the words Just so you know what you might be up against. H.L.
In elaborate, expensive calligraphy was the poetic caption:
No living thing did that regal one leave alive as aloft it flew. Wide was the dragon’s agony seen, its fiendish fury far and near.
The artwork was done with realistic perspective and colored in what seemed muted naturalism. The sky was blue, with a few fluffy clouds. The meadow showed bright green, while the trees in the background were darker.
That made Solarian himself look somehow more frightening. And make no mistake, this was one scary worm. If the dummy he attacked was the size of the average man, then Solarian was a good forty feet from snout to final scute. As with a lot of reptiles, most of this length was tail. He also did not have the standard four legs and wings; instead, his back legs were long and vaguely bird-like, while his wings grew from his forelegs much like those of a bat. It was this realistic detail that disturbed me the most. Well, that and the thing’s head.
It was not shown actually breathing fire, but burnt patches on the field, some still smoking, indicated that capacity. Instead its neck was thrown back and it seemed to be roaring or screaming in agony. Its eyes were set high on its head, and its teeth were all the same length. A long forked tongue lolled from one side of its open maw. Even accepting exaggeration for dramatic effect, there was no denying that Tempcott’s crocodile skull would fit easily inside the head as it was drawn.
I shook my head and sighed. It was late, I was tired and hungry and my hip hurt. In the clear light of morning this would all be revealed as the silly-ass idea it was.
At the left edge of the picture, Charlton himself peered heroically out from behind a tree as his dummy did the grunt work. Smart move, I thought to myself. If I ever face a dragon, I’ll try the same trick.
I went back into the sickroom. It was hotter than before, and the air hung heavier and sweeter. Only the apprentice remained, standing beside the tub and gazing sadly down at Nicky.
“Where’s Mother Mallory?” I asked softly.
“She’s resting in her room. And before you say anything, she’s an old woman who’s just lost one of her best friends. If we need her, she’s ten steps away. But I can watch over your friend just as well as she can.”
I settled back onto my stool. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The apprentice smiled crookedly, a flaw that somehow made her more endearing. “Good thing, too,” she said, mock tough.
“He can’t…,” Nicky mumbled, eyes half-closed, completely unaware of her surroundings. “… not smart enough… not strong like me… so what if I’m a girl!” she yelled. The apprentice mopped Nicky’s forehead with a sponge and murmured to her soothingly.
“A smart girl is better than a dumb man any day!” she insisted to her phantom inquisitor. Then she faded again. “Ricky listens to the wrong people… he drinks too much, smokes giggleweed… does what his friends tell him…”
She grew unintelligible, then silent. The apprentice leaned down, lifted one eyelid and sniffed at her breath. She arose with a smile and pushed her thick, sweaty hair back from her face. “I think she’s past the danger point. She’s sleeping normally now.” As if to emphasize this, Nicky emitted a loud, buzzing snore.
The apprentice put her hand to her mouth to stifle her giggle. “Would you mind carrying her to her room? I could call for help, but since you’re here…”
I pushed up my sleeves, reached into the water and lifted her. She seemed heavier, more solid now, and even snuggled against my chest without waking. I followed the apprentice out into the hall and two doors down, into a room identical to the one I’d occupied. We placed Nicky on a clean, dry bed and drew the sheet up to her chin. Then the apprentice motioned me outside.
“I’ll go report to Mother Mallory,” she said softly, “but right now what she needs the most is rest. If you don’t mind sitting with her, I’ll come back and check on her at dawn.”
Again I said, “Sure.”
She touched my tunic. “Would you like a dry shirt?”
I shook my head. “I’ll be all right.”
She started to turn away, then abruptly swung back and kissed me on the cheek. “A lot of girls like her get hurt and no one helps them. She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.” Then she scampered off.
I went back into the room. I closed the door, and except for the starlight through the open window, it was dark. I pulled off my tunic and draped it on the windowsill to dry. I moved the chair near the door, sat and leaned it back. No one could open the door without waking me.
I tried to connect the dots between Lockett’s information and what I knew. Marantz’s presence now made total sense: by putting up the geld for Tempcott, he had the scions of the region’s most influential families and the crown prince of Muscodia under his thumb. Tempcott made sense, too: a true believer willing to do anything, climb into bed with anyone, to further the cause. If Laura Lesperitt had something Tempcott wanted but wouldn’t give it up, what could be more natural than that he’d ask his partner to take care of the problem?
But who killed Hank Pinster? And Mother Bennings? And who was the old guy with gloves, and why had Liz lied about him?
God, I wanted to lie down in my own bed, snuggle close to Liz and inhale that atmosphere of safety and contentment. But for all I knew, Liz was off with the old man with gloves, doing who knew what. Was it her father? Some old (really old) lover?
I closed my eyes and was asleep in moments. I dreamed of a huge, befanged mouth bathing me in agonizing flames as Liz laughed.
