Chapter 15 – Last of His Blood #4
“I know she has a brother, my lady, but it will cause disruption among the other servants if a kitchen maid is paid more than a footman.”
There wasn’t enough time to have this discussion.
Ophele had had no counter for the contention that Sim and Jaose, trained footmen of three and four years’ experience, should not be paid the same as a girl who knew how to make toast. The obvious solution to Ophele was to pay everyone more, which provoked a discussion on the scarcity of goods and the stability of the valley’s economy and three additional books on economic philosophy had been added to her satchel.
“Just—look after her, please,” she said, looking from Adelan to Azelma.
“We will,” Azelma promised, stepping forward to gently pinch Ophele’s cheeks in both hands. “And you look after yourself, and His Grace. Keep your eyes open, child. Think before you speak. And be brave.”
“I will,” Ophele promised, bending to accept an embrace.
“Now, here, I’ve made you both a lunch,” Azelma said briskly when they parted, producing a bundle wrapped in cheesecloth.
“You can tell His Grace that no hands touched it but my own and Wen’s.
And I will come, my lord, if you need me,” she added, looking over Ophele’s shoulder.
“I can be packed and on my way in a trice.”
“Thank you,” Remin replied, plucking the bundle from Ophele’s hands. “I think your testimony will suffice, but I will send for you, if it is needful.”
“Testimony?” Ophele echoed, but he only kissed her cheek and handed her up into the carriage. And then all the servants were waving as they moved off, and Samin the bootboy ran behind them to the top of the hill, calling good-bye, good-bye!
It reminded her of the day she left Aldeburke, seated before Remin on Lancer with lunch in her lap and knots in her stomach, the first time she had ever left the estate.
“It is always so exciting, beginning a new journey,” Mionet said, looking out the windows of the carriage with satisfaction.
“And much more comfortable than the one either of us undertook to come here, I daresay. I have examined the cabins on the ferry myself. They are small but very comfortable, perfectly acceptable for the third woman in the Empire. I am told they consulted Sousten…”
She filled the silence with agreeable chatter as the carriages rolled smoothly over the cobblestones.
The descent to the harbor was a rougher ride; the hill by the barracks was deeply rutted and cut with stones to keep the soil from eroding further, and Ophele turned around in her seat to look back at the hillside, wondering how to solve the problem.
They could not add more soil to the hill, or build it out into the river, and the stones were already getting bounced off the side by the traffic, so how…
“I hope they will have this fixed before we return,” Mionet said, clinging to the strap behind the carriage door to keep from being tossed onto the floor.
Five ferries bobbed at the docks as Ophele stepped from the carriage, square-sailed caravels with smoke puffing from internal stoves.
They were not quite ready to make sail; porters scurried up and down the gangplanks, making their way through a mountain of baggage.
Remin’s soldiers had lined up with their gear in neat rows, each man’s personal belongings stowed in one line and their horses’ gear in another, and Ophele’s eyes widened as she watched Lancer go up the plank onto one ship, followed by Justenin’s horse and Miche’s, and the four grays that would draw her own carriage.
But of course, how else would they have horses when they got where they were going?
It did make her request for a satchel of books feel much more reasonable.
Several colorful trunks and boxes appeared amidst the generally drab baggage and Mionet’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing, like Remin about to plunge into a melee.
“Mind your hands, if you please,” she called, clear and commanding, moving to intercept an unfortunate pair of porters and demanding to know what they meant by handling a lady’s shoebox like it was filled with soldiers’ moldy old boots.
“Oh, she is right, she is right,” Magne said anxiously behind Ophele, dancing in place. “Fine clothes can be damaged, they must be caref—oh, dear, dear, dear! That’s the hats! No, they must go on top, on top!”
And he was off, to join his handwringing to Mionet’s imperious commands. Ophele was tempted to join the fray herself when she saw her books going up, flung in a bag over someone’s shoulder with no care at all for the leather bindings.
“My lady! Your Grace!” she heard behind her, and Ophele turned to see a cascade of boys tumbling down the hillside, all the pages descending from the barracks and waving wildly.
“Oh, be careful!” she called, going to meet them. “Be careful! Haven’t you got lessons right now?”
“We wanted to say good-bye,” Denin said breathlessly, and several boys thrust out small, scrubby bundles of spring’s earliest flowers. “For you, my lady.”
“Master Epagne gave us leave, my lord,” Gavrel added, as Remin loomed into view with Miche one step behind him. “He said it was just down the hill, after all.”
“Then say it, and get back to your studies,” said Remin, looking harassed. “It is crowded on the quay already.”
“Actually—my lady,” said Jacot, approaching with one of Ophele’s books in his hand. “I’m glad we got to come and say good-bye; I wanted to s-see you and say—”
Everything happened at once.
Ophele squealed in surprise as she was suddenly flung down onto the dock with Leonin on top of her and Davi’s sword ringing free of its sheath, his voice roaring for the boys to get back.
Boots thudded. Remin shouted. Someone was swearing, everyone was scrambling, there were splashes and chaos and something heavy thumped onto the dock.
There was a moment of silence, and then all the pageboys started screaming.
“What—what,” Ophele kept saying, trying to shove Leonin off her and feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. “Leonin, what—Remin! Remin!”
“Get her back,” Davi snapped, and suddenly Ophele was hauled to her feet as if she were weightless, batting at Leonin’s hands as she sought wildly for Remin.
No—that wasn’t Remin on the dock, that was Jacot, only something was wrong with his head, and she turned to find Miche beside her, standing with his arms flung out before a stricken Remin.
“No,” Remin said into sudden, complete silence. “No, no, no, no…”
There was a blade sticking out of Miche’s chest.
“Oh, fuck,” said Miche, looking down at it, and then plucked it out of himself with a strange, detached curiosity. The three slim steel prongs of the weapon were red with his blood, and smeared with something darker.
“I told you I didn’t want this. I told you.” Remin’s voice was shaking. “Miche—”
“I said, move! Lie him down, don’t touch that blade!” came Mionet’s voice, and yes, that was Mionet shouting, Mionet running, shoving her way through the crowd even as Remin wheeled to face this new threat, one huge fist raised.
“N-no…no, Remin, she knows healing!” Ophele lunged for his arm even as Mionet jerked to a halt. “Remember, Duke Ereguil said!”
Mionet lifted her chin.
“I can save him,” she said.
A violent shudder wracked Remin’s body, his black eyes blazing down at her, his arm straining in Ophele’s grip before he bowed his head and stepped aside.
“Do it,” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you, my lord. Sir Miche, be so good as to lie down,” Mionet ordered. “Davi, for heaven’s sake, cover that up.”
Davi cursed under his breath and threw his cloak over the remains of Jacot’s head.
It was as if Ophele had blinked, and lost a few seconds.
It was confusing. Somehow she was with Remin, kneeling on the dock and shaking so badly she had to lean against him to stay upright, her chest quivering and hitching in silent, sobbing gasps.
Her fingers clutched his shirtfront and his arm was clasped around her like iron.
“You can just unbutton it,” Miche was saying helpfully. “It seems a shame to tear Tiffen’s finest—”
“Do shut up, and try not to breathe,” Mionet snapped, cutting away his shirt and assessing the three puncture wounds in his chest. “Let me see that knife. Someone fetch me a bucket of water.”
“I don’t understand,” Ophele said, her voice high and thin. She was still trying to construct these events into some coherent narrative, and she started wildly as Justenin thudded by her with a grim expression, off on who knew what errand.
Examining the bloody weapon, Mionet sniffed it and flicked away a miniscule amount of the black substance on a fingernail, then set it aside.
This couldn’t be real. This was a dream, a terrible dream, where beautiful, perfect Mionet bent to cover Miche’s wounds with her mouth, sucked, and then came up with red lips to spit blood on the dock.
Rinsing her mouth, she bent and did it again.
“Why, why did you do this?” Tears streamed down Remin’s face as he gripped Miche’s hand. “I told you, I didn’t want anyone else to die for me, why…”
“You’re the last of your blood,” Miche said. His voice caught in his throat, a sudden wet wheeze. “If you die…that’s the end…of your House…”
His face was ghastly pale. Pink froth bubbled to his lips.
“And what about you? What about your blood?” Remin asked hoarsely. “Miche—”
“The last of my blood is right here.” It seemed horribly literal.
Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, dark red, but for some reason he was looking at Ophele, his hazel eyes made golden in the sunrise, the same unforgettable honey of her mother’s eyes, the same tawny hue she saw in the mirror every morning.
Even before her mind grasped the unthinkable truth, her heart had frozen in her chest.
No one knew what had become of Rache Pavot’s brother.
Miche smiled the smile that could charm birds from the trees.
“Take care of her, Rem…”