Chapter 6
Six
Wolfcatcher’s Son, Swordsmith’s Daughter
Oste never wanted to meander his way down to the Palais in this heat unless he had to.
The old building was home to the important ‘three Ps’, as he liked to call them: parlement, politicking, and policing.
A civic physician like himself floated between them all and answered when called upon, but he only had himself to blame for this trip.
He had, after all, told Jehan from the ‘policing’ viguerie that he’d investigate that damnable bullet, so through the burning summer air he went.
He supposed it could be worse; Provence was drier than other lands near and far.
Still, it didn’t stop the sun from feeling utterly hostile, causing sweat to cling to his skin from beneath the thinnest shirt and doublet he owned, in ivy-patterned champagne fabric.
It was a lighter color than his golden earring, so he’d replaced it with a small pearl and donned his widest-brimmed hat—not to show off, but to try and get some shade.
Oste half-stumbled into the Palais in a heat-exhausted daze, then sauntered in like he was well-to-do bourgeoisie and not the fraudulent mess he felt like most the days.
A few men inside tipped their own hats at him, not because of his own commission or deeds, Oste figured, but because of his father.
His father did the job nobody was brave enough for, even though the vast majority of its days included no action at all, and despite the fact that the name ‘Lézin’ had carried respect even before Martin took up the mantle like many family men before him.
Falling in love with a voyageur had been his only blunder in the eyes of the city.
The Aixois had the decency to spread the rumor that she’d merely been a Provencal from the Camargue; nobody really wanted to condemn Martin Lézin.
Some kindness.
The physician removed his hat and crumpled into the chair in the viguerie office.
A servant bringing out wine and cool water was one of the most welcome sights he’d ever seen, and Oste guzzled a few large sips of the red before he remembered his manners and transitioned to water.
The same servant was just filling up the glass again when Jehan entered and sent his own feathered cap flying onto a distant chair.
“Merde!” he called out. “I’m dying in this heat.”
“I’ve not a chance of reviving you,” said Oste, “for I’m in the same sorry state.”
The young men made their introductions and asked after each other’s families.
They could never do away with all their niceties, not once they matured enough to understand their respective statuses and the necessity of at least a thin veneer of good behavior.
When Jehan put his feet up, Oste was relieved that his noble colleague set a casual tone, and did the same.
More time was spent drinking water and wine than ought to have been, but he had little to complain about in that regard.
It was hot, the circumstances weren’t ideal, and his patients had required him to run around like a madman before this.
He was certain his healing leg could have done without such labors, and Oste found himself coughing and fatigued by duty’s end.
Not even the drinks seemed to be doing away with it.
Jehan set his wine glass down. “The bankrolls and my job responsibilities require that, by this point, I ought to have asked you about that bullet.”
“Oh, no,” Oste remarked. He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “I’ve been stalling on purpose.”
“‘Oh, no’?” repeated Jehan with a brow lofted.
“You won’t like it. It makes even me downright furious.”
“Ah, hell. I was stupid enough to hope.”
“You’re going to hate your job and this assignment even more.”
“Petit-Lézin,” Jehan whined, then let his head flop back. “Just tell me, and if it’s too much, take me out back and run me through.”
“That I can do.”
Oste procured the bundle at his belt and set the contents on the table. The bullet made its appearance again, as well as a note with Lézin’s signature.
“My father has provided his evidence in writing here,” said Oste. He slid the note over to Jehan, who scooped it up and began to read. “Specifics regarding his conclusion, in case you require them in the court.”
“You know we’d ask for his spoken testimony,” Jehan murmured as he scanned it. “But, hold on—this says…”
“That it likely came from a city musket? Rightly so.”
“No…” Jehan drawled, despairing. “Oh, no.”
Oste waved a hand flippantly. “He told me to tell you that he could be wrong.”
“Chasseur Martin Lézin? Perish the thought. Oh, God…”
He leaned forward and hissed across the table. “Someone in the city employ is going to hell.”
Jehan ran a hand through his hair. Sweat had sprung anew. “This could mean so many different people…”
Oste shrugged. “See who was missing a bullet from that night. You keep track of those sorts of things, don’t you?”
Jehan lifted his head and stared.
“Don't… you?”
He swallowed. “Well, no.”
“What?!”
“You think that’s the sort of thing the fellows in office bother to keep track of?
Bah! Think again! Between the volunteer units, Aixois militias, and the royal gendarme, oh, no, there’s no getting into the specifics.
It’s a disaster. I’ve been saying for years that we need a more organized approach to defense… ”
“Does the armory not know how many bullets to request?!”
“It’s not an exact science, Oste!”
“Jehan!”
“No one is used to muskets! They’re new! Swords were easy! Simple!”
“There’s nothing simple about a proper sword!”
“Oste, I’m not having this argument now.”
“Well, I might be having it, if you’ve a mind to dumb down blades.”
Jehan pinched his nose. “Can you not go back to being angry about the bullets?”
Oste blinked. “Well, sure, alright. I’m pissed.”
“Very good.” Jehan wagged a finger, then guzzled down the remainder of his wine. His next words were accompanied by the gurgle. “It’s all… shit!”
“Again,” Oste growled, “with conviction.”
Jehan beat his chest with his fist. “It’s shit.”
“There you are.”
“Horse shit or dog shit?”
“Dog shit. I like horses.”
“One of ‘em rattled your brain a little.”
“Still got more brains than you.”
“I ought to meet more voyageurs,” Jehan slurred, “because you’re a funny bloke. This was good work, Oste.”
“They’re not all as funny as me,” said Oste. He finished off his wine, then wiped his mouth and yawned. “What’s next?”
The lieutenant tilted his head back towards him.
His brows came together, and he appeared momentarily deep in thought, as though he’d forgotten where he was.
He reached errantly out towards his own glass of water, then retreated into the drink for a handful of seconds.
The glass clinked delicately back on the mahogany surface.
“I mean, we’ll question the men,” said the lieutenant, “and you’ll go back to the hospital.”
“For…?”
“You’ve already done plenty. Your responsibilities require nothing else beyond that. The viguerie will take it from here.”
“Oh.”
“Oste,” Jehan drew out, and his tone at that precise moment made the doctor realize they’d both had far too much wine during what was meant to be an official debriefing. The lieutenant reached out and clutched Oste’s arm atop the table. “You’re a damn good fellow. Do you trust me?”
Oste drew his brows up. “Do you want me to?”
“Yes. Trust me that I’ll give this a good and honest try. I’ll give it my all. You have my word.”
He looked down at Jehan without lowering his head. “Because she was pretty?”
“Because of duty,” said Jehan. He rammed his index finger down onto the table.
“To hell with duty.”
“Oste!”
“To hell,” he repeated, leaning forward as he narrowed his eyes, “with duty.”
“You’re a madman.”
Oste clapped his hand down on Jehan’s shoulder and stood up. The lieutenant grunted from the force. “Do things—” He was interrupted by a cough. “Do things ‘cause they’re the proper things to do.”
Jehan snorted. “Didn’t you learn your lesson about being honorable?”
“I’m a stupid man. Anything else, Lieutenant?”
“I’m supposed to be the one dismissing you.”
“Please, dismiss me, so I can get out of this stuffy room and into a cold bath with no clothes on.”
Jehan stood, too. “You’re upset.”
Oste inclined his head. “I want to stab the fellow who fired that bullet, but I remember that I’m a physician, and you’re a puffed-up constable, so you’ll get the pleasure.”
“So long as I find him.”
“If you can’t,” said Oste, jabbing a thumb out at Jehan, “then think of me.”
“You really don’t want me to do that.”
“I don’t, but I do.”
“Oh, go wash, you scoundrel.”
That had been a mistake. Oste didn’t pay enough attention to have regret during that entire ordeal, but what was certain was that by the time he stepped back outside, come sunset, the air felt even hotter, and he heard within his own voice when he told patients to avoid drinking too much alcohol in the summer; they never did as handle it as well as they ought to have if they indulged too much.
Ah, well.
He limped his way up north back into the Bourg district and cut through the side streets that lacked evening foot traffic and horses.
He started to labor halfway through, to his irritation, even with the cane; but he had to admit to himself that it had been a long day, and the trip home was uphill.
He’d always said he intended to buy a parcel of land outside the city and several horses, and now Oste felt good on that promise; a proper Camargue horse beneath him would make some trips easier.