Chapter 11 #2
Edmund looked up ahead to the slim figure of the Dervish, wrapped in his blanket, stalking along the center of the road.
The strangest thing had been how small the other man felt.
The Dervish was larger than life, all whipcord and quicksilver, his presence so much greater than Edmund’s own.
It wasn’t until Edmund had actually held him that he realized how much of that was personality, how little actual flesh.
The Dervish felt fragile, and Edmund, who could not defend himself, let alone anyone else, had felt a wild urge to protect him.
He’d also had a rather more basic urge to throw his leg over the man’s body and begin kissing him. Which, uh. Probably not a good idea.
Not that he thought the Dervish was a stranger to such things.
Quite the opposite. Edmund had had a few fumbling encounters with other acolytes, and one longer-term relationship that ended when his lover was transferred to another temple.
Despite being sworn to celibacy, the servants of the Many-Armed God were no stranger to such things.
Celibacy, to the minds of men like Brother Mornan, meant avoiding women.
But people who looked like the Dervish could have men, women, and probably gnoles and mules if they wanted. Edmund had a glum idea that his limited experience would not hold a candle to the Dervish’s.
It was bad enough that the Dervish thought he was pathetic in combat. Edmund couldn’t bear the thought of being found pathetic in bed.
Anyway, it’s all moot. As soon as he realized where he was, he went through a wall to get away from you.
I’m sure it was just the nightmare, Edmund told himself.
Uh-huh, his self answered back.
They called a halt, or rather Sweetness did, demanding a drink and perhaps a treat.
Edmund had kept his waterskin tucked into his clothes, against his skin, so that it stayed warm.
He offered the mule a little at a time. When she was done, she snuffled her nose over his chest, suspicious that he was holding out on her, then heaved a mournful sigh.
“The sooner we get over the pass, the sooner we can have a fire,” Edmund told her, refilling the canteen with snow.
“How-far-is-this-pass-friend-Edmund?”
“I think we can make it by nightfall.” He shaded his eyes, trying to assess the time of day through the clouds.
“Once we’re out of the valley, I doubt the Sleeveless will bother to chase us.
” He wasn’t actually sure if they would have given chase anyway, given Large Francis’s terrifying display, but better safe than sorry.
“A gnole thinks it would be safe,” said Dog Violet. “A gnole thinks Sleeveless will be too busy licking wounds to come that far, particularly in snow.”
“You do think a fire will be safe tonight, then?” asked Edmund hopefully.
Dog Violet looked over at the Dervish. “Knife-man?”
“What, why does my opinion matter? I’m just the muscle.”
“Does knife-man not get cold, then?”
The Dervish, who had wrapped the blanket cloak around himself so tightly that it looked in danger of cutting off circulation, could hardly deny that. He rolled his eyes.
“Before we get moving again, may I look at your wound?” asked Edmund.
The Dervish blinked silver eyes at him. “My what?”
Edmund gestured toward the man’s ribs. “You were hurt last night. And then it was too dark to do anything about it.”
“Oh. That.” The Dervish looked down at himself as if surprised. Maybe when you were used to healing inside a magic sword, wounds seemed ephemeral. “Can it wait until we have a fire? I don’t really feel like stripping in the middle of the snow.”
“Yes, of course. I just don’t want it to get infected.”
The Dervish looked at him strangely, and Edmund realized that infection was also something ephemeral so far as a servant of the sword was concerned. He winced and started to apologize.
“Thank you,” said the Dervish abruptly. Edmund had the odd feeling that he had startled himself by saying it. “Later.”
The road went sharply uphill for a time, the surface rutted and cracked from freezing and thawing. Edmund was glad he wasn’t trying to get a wagon through.
They called a brief halt near the top, or rather, Sweetness did.
Edmund emptied half of his canteen into a cooking pot so that the mule could drink.
He passed the rest around, took a drink himself, then sat down, perspiring, and panted.
“I can’t be getting old,” he muttered. “I’m barely twenty-seven. ”
“Thirty,” said the Dervish. “Thirty is when everything starts breaking.”
“A gnole doesn’t want to hear about it.”
Large Francis was the only member of the group who seemed unbothered. “How is it that you can breathe?” Edmund asked him. “I was given to understand that insects don’t have lungs in the way that mammals do.”
“Indeed-we-do-not-friend-Edmund. There-are-structures-in-the-lower-segments-which-extract-air-and-there-is-a-set-of-muscles-that-force-air-across-them. Your-diaphragm-is-similar-I-believe?”
“Oh, hmm, sort of. The lungs inflate and deflate, which … yes, I suppose you could say air is forced across them, in a fashion.”
“May-I-touch?”
The pillbug extended two legs on his left side, the ends blunter than the antennae and the sharp ends on the legs inside the talking music box. Made for different purposes, perhaps?
Edmund took one of the ends—feet didn’t seem like the right word, somehow—and placed it against his chest so that Large Francis could feel the rise and fall.
“And-the-air-comes-back-through-the-mouth,” the pillbug marveled.
“I-have-seen-diagrams-in-books-but-have-not-felt-it-for-myself.” One antenna hovered in front of Edmund’s face, and Edmund obligingly exhaled on it.
“Your breath doesn’t come back out?”
“No-friend-Edmund. I-do-not-have-breath. Here.” Large Francis rolled his lower body to one side, exposing a number of pale legs and thick pads of flesh, some with bright white splotches.
“The-white-ones-take-in-air,” Francis said.
“And-these-drawn-up, here?” He tapped a set of long, spatulate structures that were tucked up against the underside of his shell.
“These-are-my-lungs. You-may-touch-but-carefully.”
Edmund reached out and stroked the pillbug’s lungs with his fingertips. The surface was furrowed and spongy, somewhere between tree bark and a brain. Large Francis flexed his carapace slightly, and Edmund felt a wash of air across his fingertips. “Fascinating,” he murmured.
“Seems a bit vulnerable,” said the Dervish, looking over his shoulder. “Anybody could just stab you in the lungs, couldn’t they?”
“If-they-could-get-beneath-me, yes-friend-Dervish.” Large Francis rolled back to his feet and settled his shell with a rattle. “But-my-carapace-is-much-stronger-than-your-muscles-so-to-me-it-seems-as-if-your-lungs-are-much-more-vulnerable.”