The Black Bouquet

Her sword was stuck out on the bridge, and her bow presumably lay somewhere in the street below. She still had a dirk, a buckler, and some arrows in her quiver, however, all of which he tossed beyond her reach. She certainly seemed severely injured, but he was no healer. He wanted to make certain she didn't suddenly rouse and stick something sharp in him or brain him with the shield.

Next he went after her coin. Like many folk in Oeble, she carried a few coins in the pigskin purse on her belt, but more in an interior pocket of her leather armor. When he relieved her of her gold and saw just what a tidy sum it was, he gri

He stuffed The Black Bouquet under his tunic. Big as it was, it rode uncomfortably there, but he needed both hands. Though someone had once told him an injured person shouldn't be moved any more than necessary, he couldn't leave the ranger there. He had to take her someplace where she could be helped.

He wrapped her in her cloak in what he recognized was a rather pitiable attempt to disguise the nature of the peculiar burden he proposed to carry through the streets. He tugged his hood as far forward as it would go, to shadow his features, then he picked her up, carried her down the stairs, and out of the tower.

He was fit and she was slender, but the past couple days had been strenuous, and his arms and back soon started to ache. He was pondering the advisability of draping her over his shoulder when someone whistled in the darkness up ahead. A moment later, a similar series of shrill notes warbled from behind. Aeron couldn't understand the signals-as far as he knew, no outsider could-but he recognized the distinctive signature of Whistlers calling to one another. The first one trilled again. It sounded closer. The gang member was evidently heading down the street.

Aeron could have dashed for the mouth of an alleyway, but not quickly enough, not encumbered with the ranger. He considered dumping her, but even if no one molested her, there was no guarantee that anybody would help her, either, and he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. He could also try relying on his cowl to conceal his identity, but he doubted it would do the job, not if the Whistler was actually hunting him and passed close by.

That meant his best option was to hide. He carried the scout into a shadowy doorway and hunkered down. He drew a throwing knife in case he did have to fight, and stayed motionless thereafter.

A pair of bravos, both human, came into view. The cleanshaven one swaggered and sneered as, Aeron assumed, bullies the world over were wont to do. The one with the long, drooping mustache looked bored.

They glanced this way and that, plainly searching for someone or something. The man with the mustache peered straight at Aeron, but then turned indifferently away. The fugitive slumped with relief, and the ranger twitched and groaned.

He frantically tried to clap his hand over her mouth. It took him a second to find it inside the muffling cloak. Meanwhile, he waited to see if the Whistlers had heard her.

No, evidently not, for they wandered on down the street. Once they were gone, and his nerves left off jangling, he checked on the guide. She was still unconscious. She'd moaned in her sleep, if "sleep" was the proper word for her condition.

"You're too much trouble," he told her. "I earned every bit of your stinking gold." He wrapped her up again and carried her onward.

The priests of Ilmater maintained a house of healing on the thoroughfare called the Rolling Shields. Someone had painted the god's emblem, a pair of white hands bound with red rope, on the door, where the lamplight illuminated it. A scarlet bell pull hung beside the sigil, but with his hands full, Aeron found it easier simply to kick the panel until a stocky young acolyte with bloodstained sleeves opened it. The smells of astringent soap, incense, and sickness drifted out from inside.

"I have an injured woman here," Aeron said. "I'll pay for a private room and the best care you can give her."

"Everyone receives the best care we can give, no matter the size of the donation," the novice said stiffly.

Still, he led Aeron past the public wards with their double rows of cots to a chamber with a single bed in it. Aeron set the scout down, and the acolyte disappeared. A senior priest, scrawny, pale, and grizzled, appeared a minute later. He gave Aeron a curt nod, then proceeded to examine his patient. Eventually he rested his fingertips against her head and murmured an incantation. Pale light shone around them both, as if they were celestial beings possessed of halos. Bone clicked inside the guide's body. Aeron assumed it was knitting itself back together, but even so, the noise set his teeth on edge.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She was gravely injured," said the priest, "but she'll mend."

"Quickly, I imagine, since you used a spell on her."

"I'll be using more, but even so, it may be tomorrow or even the next day before she regains consciousness."

"Piss and dung," Aeron muttered.

He couldn't wait that long to set about the task of freeing his father, which meant he was likely going to have to proceed without the benefit of whatever information the ranger could give him. Oh, well, he doubted she actually had anything critical to say. He produced a handful of her gold.

"Take good care of her," Aeron told the priest, "and please, don't tell anyone she's here. There are people who want to hurt her."

That last could well be true, if the Red Axes knew she'd been poking around, and had decided they didn't like it.

"What about you?" he priest asked. "You're bruised and battered. You look like you could use a chirurgeon's attention yourself."

It occurred to Aeron that he ought to conserve his coin, but he decided, to the Abyss with it. He definitely could use some relief for his aches and pains, and a safe-well, as safe as anywhere in Oeble-refuge in which to rest. He scooped out more coins.

"You're right," he said. "In fact, I'd like to stay for a while myself. You can drag a cot or pallet in here, and if you can lay hands on a fresh shirt and tunic, I'd be grateful for those as well."

CHAPTER 10

Kesk disliked being awake before mid-afternoon. He disliked Slarvyn's Sword, too, even though the food was good and the decor-an eclectic collection of weapons, suits of armor, and the skulls and preserved carcasses of ferocious beasts-was to his taste. The problem with the dining club was the gauzy-winged sprites flitting about to maintain order. It rankled that the tiny fey, by wielding the slender wands with which the proprietor had equipped them, could paralyze even a tanarukk with a single burst of magic.

So, all in all, Kesk was in a foul mood, which soured still further when Aeron sat down opposite him. He quivered with the urge to leap up and swing his axe. The sprites would never stop him in time. But, unfortunately, such a tactic was unlikely to gain him the book, so he controlled himself.

"You're late," he growled.

"I had to look the place over," Aeron said, "to make sure you came alone."

From his calm demeanor, no one would have guessed he feared for his father's life, but Kesk thought that was a bluff and that the facade would crack soon enough.

"I did as the urchin you sent told me to do," said the tanarukk. "Where's the box?"

"The Black Bouquet, you mean."

Kesk sighed and said, "So you got it open."

"Yes, and now I'm ready to sell it. I was thinking Imrys Skaltahar might be interested. He has enough coin to pay a fair price, and he's so well established that he's one of the few people who doesn't need to fear you. Half of your own operations would fall apart if he wasn't involved."