Sixteen #2
“It’s fascinating stuff,” Jehan finished ruefully.
“Dreadfully illegal, but—fascinating. And I bet I’ve done more hands-on work with injuries than anyone else in our cohort.
I got my research project out of it, too.
Saige was much less curious about where I was developing this new technique than Ysabel was. ”
That got a double blink from Estiene. “Ysabel knew?”
“She did what you did. Followed me, once.”
The shape of Estiene’s mouth went through a few potential vowel sounds and ended on, “Oh. She could have been blackmailing you. That makes sense.”
“Decided I’m a better bet than Clement as a murderer, have you?”
Estiene was touching the ends of his hair. His fingers dropped at Jehan’s tone and he said, impatient, “Engage the portion of your brain that hasn’t been punched useless, Jehan. I know you’d never kill anyone. When did Blavot start to make you fight as well as heal?”
Jehan’s heart gave a hot, silly sting of gladness. Traitorous organ.
“That part was my idea. It’s more fun than practising in our sanitised little gym. Plus it keeps Blavot happy. It goes down well with the audience.”
“I—felt it,” said Estiene. “They really wanted you to bleed.”
“They want to watch someone hurt a healer,” said Jehan bluntly. “Because we aren’t supposed to be hurt.” The post-serrage anger in the city had few outlets. Jehan was providing one.
He went to pull some clean clothes on. He wanted to go back to the Academie and fall into bed and be one day closer to the end of this.
“So you see,” he added, “why I’m not particularly keen on the gendarmes barging in once the Grand Exam is done and asking us all about our secrets, and what Ysabel knew, and who and what we are beyond a bunch of grey robes. ”
“It wouldn’t be that . . .” Estiene trailed off. Estiene who just loved the rules. Jehan turned on him.
“What the fuck do you think would happen if I was convicted of a crime? Where would I get sold?”
Estiene’s brow creased as it did when he was considering a healing problem. Jehan knew how to solve him. And he knew enough that he could solve Jehan.
“To the military,” Estiene realised. His cheeks drew in, taut and appalled. “Someone’s military, anyway. Mathé’s blood, you’d be a prize.”
“I like fighting,” said Jehan. He belted his chemise and shrugged on a short over-robe.
“Fighting isn’t war. Fighting is exciting and scary and—sexy, sometimes.
War is about death. War is death until the other side says stop killing us.
I heal Blavot’s fighters so they can go back into the ring—and sure, there’s grubby stuff happening around it—but military healers heal soldiers so they can go out there again and again until they’re killed. ”
“Hold on,” said Estiene. “Your bonded contract—I remember this. You asked for a no-military clause.”
Another sweet sting in Jehan’s heart. “Mostau wants me for their hospital, so they didn’t mind including it, but . . .”
But if Jehan was a criminal healer, then as soon as his bond-years were paid to Mostau, he’d belong to Sieuxerr and the highest bidder.
“Anyway,” he said, bitter and brisk. “I am bonded, and so as soon as I graduate, I’m leaving. Blavot will be angry when I disappear. But he’ll find someone to replace me, I’m sure. There are always scholars struggling to stay afloat.”
“You haven’t told him?” Estiene stared. “You’re planning to just—vanish, one day to the next?”
“Yes.” Jehan was dressed. He unpicked his braid, gave up on that halfway through, and began to rebraid it, wisps and knots and all.
“I figure three years of distance will cool things off. I’ll come back an experienced healer, and even if Blavot tracks me down then and tries to make trouble, I’m assuming the city won’t care as much.
Water under the Duke’s Bridge, and all that.
” He got fidgety and unsure whenever he let himself think about this part of the plan.
Well. With three years he’d have time to think of something better.
“You’re assuming— Jehan, don’t be a fool,” Estiene snapped. “I know how the Committee for Healer Workforce works. Three years won’t wipe this away. If someone’s army will pay for you—”
“Am I interrupting?”
Absolute cold grabbed Jehan’s freshly healed skin. The rain and his pulse pounded together in his ears. His head turned.
Guion Blavot was in the doorway to the workroom.
Jehan hadn’t heard or seen the door open.
Blavot stood with his hands tucked into the pocket-slits of that bright, incongruous journade, his weight comfortably between his planted feet.
How long had he been there? How much might he have overheard before he opened the door?
Jehan had to swallow fear before he spoke. Nothing you can do about it. Just act normally.
“No.”
“Hm. I’d thought I might be.” Blavot glanced half-smiling at Estiene, who’d stood in startlement. He didn’t raise his voice. He never had to. “Your friend was quite adamant he be allowed back here to see you in all your post-fight glory, Fortier.”
Jehan forced himself to move across the room and put a possessive arm around Estiene’s shoulders. They were tense as wood.
“I’ve been trying to get him to come and see me in action for months,” Jehan drawled. “Didn’t think he’d ever turn up.”
“Ah, well, a special week, isn’t it? The last week of your studies.” Blavot’s eyes travelled down Estiene to the purple belt, and back up. Jehan’s pulse redoubled.
“Yes. Now, if you’ve had your fill of the rough side of town, sweetheart,” Jehan said, shifting his grip to take firm hold of Estiene’s hand, “then you’re taking me somewhere more comfortable for a drink. And you’re paying,” he added, which got a more genuine gleam of amusement out of Blavot.
“Do grace us with your presence again, Scholar Sweetheart,” said Blavot, as Jehan hauled Estiene past him and out the door. “And I’ll see you at the gym as usual, Fortier. Won’t I?”
Jehan sent an incoherent noise of agreement over his shoulder and made for the back entrance of the offices and rooms, which let out onto a smaller street.
He expected at any moment a heavy hand to land on his shoulder and haul him back.
Through the door, the night air burst onto his face and he gasped, pulling the door shut behind them.
The tiny rough eaves here provided some shelter, but sent water in long, solid drips to the ground, where it splashed and began to soak their shoes.
The rain was still a heavy grey mass. Estiene’s hand slid out of Jehan’s and he let it go.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Jehan said. “Fuck.”
Estiene stood very close to avoid the drips, his side pressed against Jehan’s, staring out into the pouring night. His profile was sharp in the dim bits of reflected streetlight that found them here.
Finally he said, “Even if he knows, surely he can’t actually stop you from leaving.”
“You haven’t seen him when someone tries to get one over on him,” said Jehan.
“He’s not just a man who owns a gym and a fighting ring and likes to dress like a vicomte while acting like a street-slug.
His sister runs— Fuck, it doesn’t matter.
The last man who thought he could get away with rigging fights under Blavot’s eye was found in the river with his throat cut and all his fingers missing. ”
“And this is someone you were also hoping would forget your existence and leave you alone when you . . .” Estiene turned to look up at Jehan. His eyes were dark pools, unreadable in the dimness. “You’re coming back, after your bonded service? To Sieuxerr?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Obviously he was coming back, barring—well, perhaps the country of Fenehaf had hidden depths beyond its three words for coffee. Perhaps he’d meet someone short and angry and poised and perfect, and fall in love again. “This is my home.” Mine as much as yours.
“I thought . . .” Estiene was too close to the edge of the eaves. He winced as an ambitious drip found his forehead. “Ugh.”
“We should get back,” said Jehan. He took a breath and then plunged out. It was as bad as it looked, but there was no other way. “Our next case is bright and early tomorrow. Or today, at this rate. Grand Exams wait for no scholar.”
Estiene squinted up at the sky, dubious.
“What’re you afraid of now?” Jehan demanded. “Ruining your clothes? You can afford more. Being a bit uncomfortable? I know you’ve put yourself through worse.”
Estiene’s mouth flattened. He was easy to bait when you knew how. He stepped out and the rain smoothed him slickly down at once.
“I’m not afraid of getting wet,” Estiene bit out.
“No. You’re just afraid of the tiniest little bit of disapproval from Papa.
The tiniest step outside what’s proper.” Jehan had managed to bait himself, there.
But he pulled up short before mentioning what Estiene had revealed about the Grand Exam and Healer Marcelle’s deal with the Chancellor.
That wouldn’t have been fair. He could see the wound that had left in Estiene as if his own magic had sensed it.