Chapter 10 #2
She’d not have called what happened to Oste war.
It was supposedly peacetime then, and there were no armies to be found, save for Flassans’ wretched loyalists and Papal representatives there to restore the order that Oste couldn’t and was never destined to.
War wasn’t when people who were supposed to govern and protect their citizens sent armed men after others trying to leave the city, condemned only for their words and worship. That was injustice. Brutality.
Some people asked him if he was Catholic or Protestant. He’d usually laugh and say that he was a physician. He was supposed to concern himself with healing.
“I’m aware that being fired upon from muskets and tumbling off a horse is a detriment to most men’s health,” Dorotèa answered. “If you must know, I was there that night. Not close, but I… witnessed it.”
“Ah.”
“He is private about such things. About… everything that came after. I know only how he appears when he struggles. Should—should his family not be roused? Why aren’t they here? They’re better suited for these conversations than I am. Is this appropriate? I’m neither family, nor—”
“He asked only for you, and did not wish to worry anyone else yet. I find it foolish, but despite the fact that I often forget it, he is an adult, and I cannot force it.”
“I see,” she breathed, then tucked a stray lock of hair back. “Actually, no, I don’t, but I suppose the proper thing I ought to do now is to be flattered by his trust, or some such.”
“It’s always a novelty when it manifests,” Balac drawled, then gave an errant wave of his hand.
“But you have concerned yourself with his messes, and he is the present mess. He has had poor spells already. You see, Mademoiselle, that he had not one lead ball to contend with, but several smaller scraps, a dastardly tactic to use on a crowd. While some were excised, others were left, on account of whether we presumed it would have killed him to remove them or not. He had lost so much blood. He’d not have lived if we went hunting for all of them right then. ”
Dorotèa crossed her heart and shuddered. “God help him…”
“Mmh. God had a hand, I’m sure. For as splendid a result it was for him to persist, you must understand that he will always be reduced.
There is a degree of toxicity the body may hold onto, not to mention the initial damage.
And though we made great use of Paré’s recent developments of such injuries—really, I cannot understate the efforts and my handiwork—he is weakened.
I presume his poor habits and subsequent ignorance of them fed such festering and spirited along such an ailment.
If he was his own patient, he’d be laughing at how obvious it all was. ”
She clapped her hands onto her cheeks and stammered, forlorn. “Oh, no. Oh, I tried to tell him as much, but I think I simply made him want to do the opposite. Please, no—do you mean to say he is dying?”
“No,” Balac answered her flatly. He moved his arms as though to touch her in some sort of comfort, but flexed his fingers and moved them back to his sides instead.
“No, not unless this sickness or another one betters him. What I mean to say is that his constitution is delicate, but I’d not have taken him back and cleared him for his commission if I thought there was no point.
I can’t employ dead men, Mademoiselle, though it can on occasion be helpful for certain matters of taxation and paperwork.
I tell you this not to frighten you, but to explain to you that, as the bearer of this apparent Saint-Mitre assistance, he needs to have a care, or else he will perish.
I’d like to avoid that; he’s surprisingly helpful, and his father is a family man with a large gun. ”
Dorotèa shook her head. Her breathing had quickened without her realizing it.
“I do not know what is best for him. I’d like to know.
And whatever it is, he may be better off hearing it from someone else.
I can be a right nuisance, Directeur, so if I’m to relapse into my irritating rambling, I’d like for it at least to be helpful.
What can be done? I’ll not lose him—I mustn’t. ”
Balac released a low rumble and stared off to the opposite wall.
He narrowed his eyes at a portrait of Guy de Chauliac as though the late physician had harmed him personally.
“I have discussed with al-Anezi and other surgeons the possibility of attempting another excision. We fear this would be high risk for little reward, most likely. Alas, to leave the fragments is not at all recommended, either, and they are doubtless responsible for many pains and weak spells. I fear such a surgery may yet be necessary anyway, though, and if I might damn the unknown and a lack of literature for a case like this, my opinion sways on if such a matter is better suited for when it is a critical necessity, or when he is at his strongest. Regardless, it’s a hellish affair. ”
“That does sound… less than pleasant.”
“Quite. The last go of it was the furthest thing from pleasant. I’d prefer to hold off, for now. Alternatively, I have devised some tinctures to put to use, and alongside, I believe he would be an excellent candidate for aerobic therapy, and I should like to write a publication on the findings.”
“Aerobic… what?”
“Aerobic therapy!” Balac added in a rare burst of excitement.
“Healing through movement and technique. We may free him of his imbalanced blood as needed, and pump it anew through proper conditioning. Similar methods have been used on soldiers, you see. We build up his strength, improve his range of movement, push that lung and his foolish heart to return to capacity. Another page out of Paré’s book; he is Oste’s hero, if you did not know.
But truly, he’s an excellent candidate, tough ox that he is.
So long as he doesn’t do the improper thing and perish from this illness, I’m quite eager to submit him to this academic kick in the—if you’ll pardon my language—hindquarters. ”
Dorotèa swayed on her feet in surprise. She supposed her jaw must have slackened and gone agape, for her mouth suddenly reacted to the overwhelming air of a nurse hurriedly going by with an opened bottle of strong alcohol.
She swallowed to fight against the acidic tickle on her tongue she experienced, then asked after Balac, mildly incredulous.
“He is… nervous… about not meeting a high enough standard…” she murmured, “but he does very much so like fencing.”
“So I’ve heard, damnable rapscallion. No matter; it’s his dominant arm that’s weak, so that suits.”
Dorotèa nearly vibrated where she stood.
She no longer tasted the alcohol, but a fight.
Adrenaline tickled her body and thoughts, and her hands itched like she’d have to use them.
Oh, to have the fun they had again! To watch him play as he did with his blade and laugh without a care.
She supposed he may try again if they forced him, told him he had to for his health, but how far would that truly go?
She wondered if it would only make him more fretful and hate it.
And yet, he’d lamented that he could not fight with the duelist…
She held her breath, and dread settled into her gut.
It was possible she could tell him it was her, all along, and that she only wanted to have fun with him again.
He trusted her enough to summon her in this time of need.
Would he not trust her then to make his first spars back be easy and pleasant and fine?
Still, she feared he would find her unnatural.
That he’d hate her for keeping a secret.
What if she made everything worse? What if he couldn’t stand that he’d been trounced by a woman, and a notoriously improper one at that?
Dorotèa only then noticed she’d grabbed onto her dress skirt and was twisting it in her hands. She shuddered and let go, looking back up at the director.
“I… I will do my best to convince him of your idea so long as your guidance is given, Directeur.”
“Naturally, naturally. There’s a process to these sorts of things, and besides, the present first step is recovering from his unwelcome sickness.”
“Do you think he can?”
“It is serious, but I do.”
“May I stay with him?”
“So long as he permits it, I suppose he can do whatever he pleases in there, but the entirety of Saint-Mitre setting camp may be a bit much.” Dorotèa allowed a nervous giggle, and Balac reeled, seemingly stymied by another living being finding anything he said funny.
“Mademoiselle,” Balac interrupted, “I was quite serious. They’ve materialized before like a flock of grape-wearing Camargue flamingos. ”
“I know.” Dorotèa smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “May we go back in?”
“Soon.”
Not rushing in was a challenge, and Dorotèa thought there was nothing ‘soon’ about the wait and idle cup of tea she took to pass the time.
It was a reminder of how poor she felt at listening, for she quite wanted to head back into the room anyway, and almost did. Restraint had never been her strength.
Dorotèa rushed back in once she was finally summoned.
She was beside Oste again in a matter of seconds, eyes gliding from the small bandages around his arm to his face.
She sat in the chair that al-Anezi, now standing, had been using, and brushed her fingertips over his hand.
His long, dark lashes fluttered and regarded her with a tired countenance.
He’d lost a touch of color, but not so much that she was prepared for after having seen one of her brothers undergo the procedure some years ago.
“Oste?” she asked. Realization that his proper address might have been more appropriate to use around his colleagues occurred to Dorotèa, but it was too late now. She cleared her throat, flustered. “Would you like me to stay? I should prefer to keep you company, if you’d wish it.”