Chapter 36
He had to carry Edmund up to the next landing, and there they rested, because the Dervish’s shoulder was a red agony.
Could he carry the scholar the rest of the way up?
He eyed the stairs rising in front of him, an endless narrow switchback.
If it had been a normal staircase, maybe.
This one … ancestors only knew. He was not entirely sure that he wasn’t dead and in some bizarre hell of endless stairs.
Edmund lay curled on the floor. The Dervish leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Gnoles cause the werkblight. Huh.
He could see why it was a secret, of course.
The minute that anyone found out—anyone but Edmund, anyway, and now him—the gnoles would be in danger.
All the gnoles, everywhere. Humanity was not good with other species at the best of times.
Look how they reacted to Large Francis, who just looks dangerous.
If we learned that the gnoles made some humans sick, it would be a bloodbath.
The suspicious timing of the case among Otto’s followers made sense now.
Dog Violet had gotten away, but her fur or dander or whatever gnoles had was certainly all over their clothes, and the man had come in very close contact with them when he was manhandling them into the wagon.
If he was one of the people susceptible to this cascade, as Edmund called it, then that would have been enough.
The Dervish realized suddenly why Edmund never wanted to talk about curing the werkblight.
Zale said one in fifty people still die of it. Which is still … what, a few people a year? Multiplied by every place with gnoles. And he knows why they get it, but he can’t tell anyone, because the gnoles would be massacred.
Edmund had made a choice, many years ago, to save the gnoles at the cost of dozens …
hundreds … of his fellow humans. That his treatment had saved the vast majority of the werkblight victims was exactly the sort of thing that Edmund would overlook, because Edmund was like that.
All he knew was that he had a terrible secret and if anyone else ever managed to make the same leap of insight …
The Dervish thought of all the gnoles he’d seen in the city. He’d stopped noticing them after the first few minutes. They were just there, alongside humans, doing small useful jobs, living their lives. Dog Violet … Brindle … the ones who worked with Gervase’s sister …
The streets would run red with blood.
He remembered Edmund speaking so passionately about the importance of knowledge being preserved. Ancestors, it must have killed him that this knowledge could never be recorded or passed on.
Except now it would be. Because the Dervish knew, and he was functionally immortal.
Functionally immortal, and likely to be in someone else’s hands, if we don’t get moving soon.
“Edmund,” he hissed, shaking the scholar’s shoulder. “Edmund, please, I need you to wake up.”
“Hwuh?”
“Come on. Just a few more stairs.”
Edmund uncurled slowly, looking briefly like Large Francis coming out of a ball. His ten-minute nap seemed to have revived him a little. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, the stairs.”
The Dervish helped him to his feet and they leaned against each other as they went. “Is there a hell of infinite stairs?”
Edmund thought about it. “Strangely enough, religion isn’t my field. I think … maybe … there’s a hell where you fall forever?”
“Maybe we’re getting to the top so we can do that bit.”
“I don’t remember which god oversees it.”
“It’s probably the God of Mules. It seems like something they’d do.”
They reached the next landing and the Dervish looked up and saw a door.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. It put the body of every lover he’d ever had to shame. He wanted to make passionate love to it, although in his current state, it would probably have to settle for a handshake and a saucy wink.
It was open. They staggered through the doorway together.
It occurred to the Dervish too late that there might be someone in the room beyond, but there wasn’t.
The room wasn’t large, and the stack of firewood against the wall made it feel even smaller.
A metal grate and some sort of contraption had been arranged over a large hole in the floor, leading to a large chimney.
The only other contents were two chairs and a ladder.
The Dervish dropped Edmund into a chair, dropped himself into the other one, and moaned with pleasure.
You never appreciated just how much standing hurt until you weren’t, and sitting on cold stone didn’t improve matters much.
“I love this chair,” he said, to no one in particular. “Perhaps I will marry it.”
“We’ll have a double wedding,” Edmund said. “I don’t think I can leave this chair.”
“Heh.”
The Dervish stretched his legs out, painfully.
Something nagged at him. It was an absurd thing and exhaustion was probably clouding his judgment, but given that they might not die, it seemed like he should probably mention it.
Edmund had confided in him, after all, even if there had been a poppy hangover involved.
“I have something I need to tell you.”
Edmund opened one eye. “That sounds horribly ominous.”
“No. Well, sort of. Err … I killed Otto.”
“Who?”
The Dervish rubbed his hand over his face. “That one farmer? The one who fed us to the dragon?”
“Oh, him.” Edmund closed his eyes again. “Right. I remember.”
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d feel guilty about it.”
Edmund was silent for so long that the Dervish was afraid he’d committed an unpardonable sin. Then a snore drifted through the room.
“Edmund!”
“Hzz! I’m awake.” The scholar shook his head to clear it. “Right. Otto. You killed him.”
“I told you I was a bad man.”
Edmund shoved one hand through his hair, until bits stuck out in all directions. “I know I should care about this, but I’m having a hard time right now.”
“I mean, you don’t actually have to care. I wouldn’t. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Thank you?”
“It felt like I was lying.”
“Okay.” A long pause. “This … feels like talking about feelings.”
“You see why I hate it.”
“I’m starting to.”
The Dervish would have liked nothing more than to stay in the chair until the end of eternity, possibly later, but it was only a matter of time until someone noticed Anthony was missing.
He got to his feet with a long groan. His body informed him that it was still very angry, but willing to consider moving again.
There was a trapdoor at the top of the ladder. The Dervish climbed up, laboriously, opened it, looked around, and saw only grass and sky and a thick row of trees. He did not so much step out as roll out, then crouched down to help Edmund up.
It wasn’t quite dawn yet, but unfocused gray light was showing along the horizon. The tree trunks had gone from being black shapes to being grayish blobs with bark on them. Edmund took a deep breath of the cool air. “Merciful gods,” he muttered. “I’d missed that.”
He began walking downslope, haltingly, and the Dervish hastened after him. We did it. We’re out. We made it.
“You certainly took your time,” Scholar Andraste said, stepping out of the trees. “I was starting to think you’d never get here.”
The Dervish discovered that he wasn’t in quite as bad a shape as he thought. Adrenaline surged through him and his daggers were in his hands.
Andraste rolled her eyes and waved one hand. Three more people stepped out of the trees. Two of them had crossbows aimed at him.
No, not at him. At Edmund.
Shit. He stepped in front of the scholar, for all the good it might do.
“These aren’t your friends, are they?” Edmund whispered.
“No.”
Edmund muttered something in gnolespeech.
“How did you get up here?” the Dervish asked.
Scholar Andraste made a polite scoffing noise. “Did you think there was only one way out? The alarm was raised as soon as someone found that fool you tied up. And it’s not as if we were expecting any other visitors.”
“You knew I’d come after him.”
“Of course. Why do you think we kept him alive? And you brought the sword too, I see. Very tidy.” She dusted off her hands. “We couldn’t very well kill him, or you’d simply walk away and the Smith only knows when we’d find you again.”
There was a very large man standing behind Andraste, the only one without a crossbow.
Even Gervase might have second thoughts about trying to thump this one.
The Dervish calculated his odds of crossing the distance and killing the man before one or both crossbowmen got a shot off and didn’t much like the result.
If he shoved Edmund flat, that would help, but the enemy was blocking their escape downslope, and if he got himself killed, what was Edmund going to do? Jump off and pray?
“Let Edmund go,” he said.
“No,” said Andraste.
“What?” said Edmund.
“I’m serious. Let him go. You want to be the wielder? Let him give up the sword and leave.”
Andraste rolled her eyes. “Or I could just order him killed, and then I’ll be the next wielder anyway.”
The Dervish took a deep breath. “You don’t want to do that. He’s that Learned Edmund.”
Edmund looked groggily appalled. Scholar Andraste, however, stared at the Dervish as if he’d just announced that the world was about to be eaten by a giant antelope. “What?”
“That Learned Edmund. The one who cured the werkblight.”
“But he’s so young.”
“Genius knows no age,” the Dervish said, shamelessly stealing Zale’s line. “Tell her, Edmund.”
“It wasn’t really a cure,” Edmund said wretchedly. “The healers did all the work. I just…”
He trailed off. The wind blew through the pines, emphasizing the sudden silence.
“My mam got the blight two years ago,” said one of the crossbowmen finally, shifting from foot to foot, “but the healers fixed her up.”
“Seriously?” Andraste gave a short, squealing laugh, like a rat caught in a vise. “Fine. He can go, if he gives up the sword.”
Edmund’s eyes were shining with tears. “I can’t,” he said. “Don’t ask me to.”
“You have to,” the Dervish said. “Please.”
“But…”
He kissed Edmund’s forehead. “If you don’t go,” he said, against the scholar’s hair, “they’ll kill you. And they’ll still have the sword, and nothing will change, except that I’ll know you’re dead. And that will break my heart. Now get out of here before we have to talk about feelings any longer.”
Edmund gulped back a sob. “Fine. I—I give it up.”
The Dervish felt something snap next to his heart, the cord between them cut. “It’s done,” he told Andraste.
“Good. Now get out of here, Learned, before I think better of this.”
Edmund nodded and took a step back, then another. Then he whirled and went down the hill at a staggering run, sliding on the grass, until he vanished into the trees. The Dervish watched him go, feeling strangely light. Whatever happened next, win or lose, Edmund was safely away.
I’m a bad man, Edmund, but I saved you. That has to be worth something.
When there was no longer any sign of Edmund, the Dervish unbelted the sword from his waist and held it out to Andraste. “If you draw it, you’ll be the wielder,” he said. The naked triumph on her face was unsettling to watch. “But draw it immediately.”
“Why?”
“So that I know you didn’t wait until I was in the sword to send your men after Edmund. Then I’ll cooperate.”
“Very well.” She took the sword from him and gazed at it, her eyes alight. “At last,” she murmured. “At … Why is there bacon wrapped around the scabbard?”
“It’s enchanted bacon,” the Dervish said.
She just looked at him. “I do not like jokes,” she said. “Just so you’re aware. I find it’s best to establish these things up front.”
“Fine.”
Andraste picked the battered strip of bacon off the sword with her fingertips, grimacing with distaste. “The Smith’s work was not meant to serve as a charcuterie board.”
The Dervish had a great deal to say about the Smith’s work, but kept his tongue locked behind his teeth. His plan, such as it was, hinged on not offending Andraste so badly that she decided to wait to draw the sword. “It was myrmecochory,” he said.
Her eyebrows drew together. “Pollination by ants?”
“Ancestors, did everyone know about this but me?”
“I didn’t,” offered the man with no neck.
“Right,” said the Dervish. “It’s like the ants taking the seed back to eat.
I tied the bacon around the scabbard and the hilt, then”—it occurred to him that he should probably not imply that he had friends in the area—“jumped off the cliff here and smacked the sword back into the sheath. Then the dogs found it, dragged it into the kennel to gnaw on, and pulled the sword loose, and there I was.”
Andraste stared at him like a butterfly collector confronted with a rare spotted turquoise swallowtail that was, inexplicably, playing the bagpipes. “I told you I don’t like jokes.”
“That was the absolute truth. If you don’t believe me, I’ll do it again and prove it.” Had Edmund reached Sarkis and the others? Surely by now they were riding away.
She shook her head. “Fine. Just draw and I’m the wielder, is that it?”
“That’s it.”
Andraste’s smile—her real smile—was as clean and chilly as snowmelt. “Very good.” She slid the blade into the scabbard with a click.
Silver closed like a fist around him, then released him just as suddenly. The world jerked several feet to the side, but that was all.
Thank you, ancestors. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
“Happy?” asked Andraste, lowering the blade.
The Dervish smiled. He could feel the tug next to his heart, leading directly to the woman in front of him. “Ecstatic,” he said. “Now let me show you something your precious smith never thought of.”
And leapt.
Shock spread across Andraste’s face as he grabbed her. Momentum carried them half a dozen paces to the cliff. The magic screamed at him, and the Dervish spun them both around, whirling like dancers, like, in fact, a dust dervish, so that his body was between his wielder and the edge of the cliff.
Which was all the magic required, that he put his body between her and danger. He’d learned that a hundred years ago, when his tormentor had set down the sword within reach, and the Dervish had picked it up, pinned the man against the wall, and run them both through.
He fell backward over the edge, holding Andraste in his arms, and listened to her scream all the way down to the ground.