Chapter 53
When I return, reluctantly, in the late afternoon, Quin is still there, speaking with the manager of the neighbouring perfumery. She’s a beautifully dressed woman in her late twenties, and she’s happily seated close to Quin on the steps outside.
“. . . end of Cherrywood Lane. I can show you the way if you like?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say.
Quin looks up sharply at my approach. He thanks the woman for her help, and pushes up on his cane. “Wasn’t sure you’d return.”
I wasn’t sure I would, either. But the thought of Nicostratus, imprisoned in his own home, at risk of being dragged to the prison at any moment . . . “We’ve more to do.”
We head towards Vitalian Dimos’s home, and my temple burns from Quin’s glances. “I walked past here with Nicostratus,” I say. “I remembered the way. It’s better not to involve too many people in our affairs.” I halt halfway down the lane. “Which house is it?”
Quin gestures to an aklo in a nearby yard. “We’ll have to involve others in our affairs.”
I slink after him to the aklo and ask if he knows Vitalian Dimos. Dark eyes look at us from under a caterpillar brow. “Haven’t been here long—what’s he look like?”
I fish in my pouch for the folded portrait and hand it to him.
He opens it, frowns again, and scratches his brow.
“Isn’t that—” he points a finger at Quin, and turns the picture around.
At the flash of Wanted Quin’s face, I snatch the paper and stuff it back into the pouch, taking out the correct portrait this time.
My face is hot, and Quin is far too quiet beside me.
I clear my throat. “That’s the man we’re looking for.”
“I think . . . he’s the healer? Ah, his house is the one with the broken gable. But I haven’t seen him in a couple of days. There’s a rumour redcloaks claimed his spell was poison.”
“When did this happen?”
He turns to ask an akla carrying well water and she puts her bucket down. “Last week. A group came to his store, some with bee stings. He gave the injured men a spell but it worsened their condition. They almost died. They said he used harmful spells and reported him.”
We thank them for their help, and ask they report to the constabulary if Vitalian Dimos returns. Then we snoop—check out the herb garden he’s cultivated, poke around the property—and return to the city square as lanterns are being lit against a quickly darkening sky.
“That’s all we can do for today,” Quin says. “Tomorrow, I’ll look into the whereabouts of Paxos.”
“Do you think the commander knows something? Seems strange that he wouldn’t mention a runaway soldier. Especially one who left on the day of these deaths.”
“He’s definitely hiding things. What those things are, and the reasons for them . . .” Quin inclines his head, and flags for a buggy. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”
I eye the tight space inside and shake my head. “I’ll leave it to you.”
He narrows his eyes, but ultimately climbs in.
I watch until his buggy disappears around a bend, and turn away. Though the lanterns are many, and bright, none seem to help me see clearly. My chest feels tight and my head throbs. I should head back to Nicostratus’s house. Eat with him, reassure him things are progressing.
I continue trudging the city streets. Another hour, and I can skip to bed sooner.
I rub my temples and wander cobbled alleys and lanes. Sick beggars plead for help from dingy nooks, and I can’t even . . . not even simplex spells. My stomach sinks to my knees as I slouch past them.
I bump into Petros in the streets not far from the residence. He looks surprised, and straightens the uniform that he’s presumably had enough of and wants to take off. He smiles widely, and I try and fail to do the same. “Nicostratus sent others out to find you.”
He sees I’m not quite as lively as usual and turns on his heel to escort me back. Nicostratus, who is pacing the courtyard, rushes over the moment I step inside the gates. “I was worried.” He holds my arms and inspects me. “All in one piece. Good.”
Petros bids us good night, and Nicostratus urges him to enjoy his night off, thanking him for getting me here safely.
Dinner is waiting inside for us. I force meat into my mouth while Nicostratus keeps the conversation going, and try not to think about rejecting those pleas for help. I swallow hard. Smile.
“You’re kind,” I murmur. “Consistent.”
He blinks, and a smile unfurls. Yes. I like that smile.
It leans towards me, close, closer. “Would you like—”
I push to my feet with a wince. “Sorry, I need to call it a night. Headache.”
“Do you need a vitalian? I can call one.”
My chest aches. I shake my head, and go to my room.
The next three days, I claim I’m sick and stay in bed, staring enviously at scenes of healing on the walls around me.
I refuse anything but a few spoons of soup, but on the fourth day, afraid Nicostratus truly will call for a healer, I drag on clothes and walk aimlessly around the cloud-covered city.
At the canal, a dozen boats are drifting towards Thinking Hall. Eparch Valerius strides swiftly from the road to the dock, straightening his clothes, tucking away soiled cuffs, readying himself to greet some of the kingdom’s future great vitalians.
Those soldad-carrying scholars pile out at the dock and follow the eparch towards the hall, a smaller version of the one in the capital—the same ornate structure; the same promise of knowledge.
The edges of my own soldad are cutting into my palm where I’m squeezing it. A sob threatens to escape and I swallow it down painfully. Long grass snatches at my ankles as I near the edge of the canal. I hold my arm out, soldad hanging over the surface of the water.
I shut my eyes and will myself to release it. I can’t use it anymore. Why carry the weight of my lost dream? Drop it.
Drop it.
I squeeze tighter.
Drop it!
My pulse is hard and fast, echoing through the soldad like it’s a beating heart.
A heart that’s broken. Drop.
I grit my teeth. My fingers refuse to obey; I use my other hand to pry them open, one by one, until the badge shifts, and then falls—
I don’t hear the splash. Frown.
I snap my eyes open, and my breath stutters. In a small rowboat sits Quin, his stern eyes fixed on me, my soldad caught in his outstretched hand.
“Getting rid of everything I gave you?”
“What are you doing here?” I choke out.
His eyes narrow.
I shrug, laugh hollowly. “My light’s gone out.”
A sudden wind lashes around me—my hair flies, my cloak flaps, and I stand through it, head downcast, uncaring.
“Enough,” he says.
I slowly raise my head and look at him, and away again.
The winds twist and spin, propelling me off my feet and plunging me onto the seat across from him. The boat rocks and water splashes us, and then gusts are thrusting us along the canal.
He doesn’t stop until we’re at the outskirts of the city, where groups of refugees from the south are huddled, drinking handfuls of water, nursing and tending to their exhausted loved ones. My chest grows heavy; there are surface injuries and sprained ankles everywhere.
“More and more of my people are being displaced by the volatile situation at the border. They come inland, hoping for a life with more security.” He looks at me. “These are people that have truly lost everything and must start over.”
My throat is thick.
“Out of the boat.”
I climb out and follow him through throngs of quietly suffering families, young to old. In a makeshift pavilion, aklos and aklas and a group of nobles are cooking porridge, doling out blankets.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“My supporters,” he says quietly. In his constable guise, Quin heads into the pavilion; they greet him as a constable, albeit with a knowing twinkle in their eyes. “I have things to discuss with them. I’ll need a couple of hours,” he says, and leaves me with the aklos and aklas.
Hungry people crowd the pavilion, eager for food. Two flustered aklos are trying to maintain order and serve—I take a ladle in each hand and tell them to organise people into a peaceful line.
“He took two bowls!”
“One is for my nannan. She twisted her foot, can’t get up.”
“You’re just scamming for more!”
The man with two bowls flattens his lips. There’s a scar cutting his brow, and his hair is hacked short—as if he might have sold it for money or food along the way.
“There’s enough for everyone,” I say, keeping my voice firm and calm. “Sir, pass one bowl along to maintain peace. I will bring another for your nannan.”
This is reluctantly agreed to, and once everyone who can move has been doled out a bowl, I take a tray and find those who are immobile.
Finally, I find the grandson who’d first taken two bowls of porridge.
He’s seated at the base of a tree, an arm around his nannan, spoon feeding her from his own bowl.
I crouch before them and pass him the last bowl of porridge. “Make sure to keep your strength.”
“Who are you?”
“No one. I support the true king.”
“True king? The runaway king?”
“This,” I say, gesturing to the volunteers, the food, the blankets, “is his doing.”
Nannan whines against her grandson, and instinctively I reach to take her pulse, and drop my hand again.
Hope flashes in his eyes. “Do you have medical knowledge? She hurts after every meal, for days now. Can you help?”
I stiffen and scramble back. I shake my head.
“Hurts,” she croaks.
I’m on my feet, hands trembling. “I don’t. I can’t.”
“Please.”
“No.”
A hand latches onto my upper arm forcefully, and I whirl to Quin watching me with shadowed eyes. His jaw twitches, and he tells another to help the grandmother.
I feel each thump of his cane in the ground under us until he tosses me into the boat. I can’t look at him.
“I thought Nicostratus was supposed to make you feel better. I see I have to take this into my own hands.”