Deadnettle

A FTER MY TRIP TO Severen, I deposited my lute case in my room and made my way to Alveron’s private rooms as quickly as possible. Stapes was not pleased to see me, but he showed me in with the same bustling efficiency as always.

Alveron lay in a sweaty stupor, his bedclothes twisted around him. It was only then I noticed how thin he had grown. His arms and legs were stringy and his complexion had faded from pale to grey. He glowered at me as I entered the room.

Stapes arranged the Maer’s covers in a more modest fashion and helped him into a seated position, propping him up with pillows. The Maer endured these ministrations stoically, then said, “Thank you, Stapes,” in a tone of dismissal. The manservant left slowly, giving me a decidedly uncivil stare.

I approached the Maer’s bed and brought several items from the pockets of my cloak. “I found everything I needed, your grace. Though not everything I hoped for. How do you feel?”

He gave me a look that spoke volumes. “It took you a damn long time getting back. Caudicus came while you were away.”

I fought down a wave of anxiety. “What happened?”

“He asked me how I was feeling, and I told him the truth. He looked in my eyes and down my throat and asked me if I had thrown up. I told him yes, and that I wanted more medicine and to be left alone. He left and sent some over.”

I felt a panic rise in me. “Did you drink it?”

“If you’d been gone much longer I would have, and to hell with your faerie stories.” He brought another vial from beneath his pillow. “I can’t see what harm it could do. I can feel myself dying already.” He thrust it toward me angrily.

“I should be able to improve matters, your grace. Remember, tonight will be the most difficult. Tomorrow will be bad. After that, all should be well.”

“If I live so long as that,” he groused.

It was just the petulant grumble of a sick man, but it mirrored my thoughts so precisely that ice ran down my back. Earlier, I hadn’t considered that the Maer might die despite my intervention. But when I looked at him now, frail and grey and trembling, I realized the truth: he might not live through the night.

“First, there’s this, your grace.” I took out the tippling flask.

“Brandy?” he said with muted anticipation. I shook my head and opened it. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and sank back onto the pillows. “God’s teeth. As if my dying wasn’t bad enough. Cod liver oil?”

I nodded seriously. “Take two good swallows, your grace. This is part of your cure.”

He made no move to take it. “I’ve never been able to stomach the stuff, and lately I even vomit up my tea. I won’t put myself through the hell of drinking it only to sick it back up.”

I nodded and restoppered the flask. “I’ll give you something to stop that.” There was a pot of water on the bedside table, and I began to mix him a cup of tea.

He craned weakly to see what I was doing. “What are you putting in that?”

“Something to keep you from being sick, and something to help you pass the poison out of your system. A bit of laudanum to ease your craving. And tea. Does your grace take sugar?”

“Normally, no. But I’m guessing it will taste like stumpwater without it.” I added a spoonful, stirred, and handed him the cup.

“You first,” Alveron said. Pale and grim, he watched me with his sharp grey eyes. He smiled a terrible smile.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. “To your grace’s health.” I said, and took a good swallow. I grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar. “Your grace predicted it quite well. Stumpwater it is.”

He took the cup with both hands and began to drink it in a number of quick, determined sips. “Dreadful,” he said simply. “But better than nothing. Do you know what a hell it is to be thirsty but not be able to drink for fear of throwing up? I wouldn’t wish it on a dog.”

“Wait a bit to finish it,” I cautioned. “That should settle your stomach in a few minutes.”

I went into the other room and added the new vial of medicine to the flit’s feeders. I was relieved to see they were still sipping at the medicated nectar. I had worried they might avoid it due to a change in flavor or some natural instinct for self-preservation.

I also worried that lead might not be poisonous to sipquicks. I worried they might take a span to show any ill effects, not mere days I worried at the Maer’s rising temper. I worried at his illness. I worried at the possibility I might be wrong about everything I’d guessed.

I returned to the Maer’s bedside and found him cradling the empty cup in his lap. I mixed a second cup similar to the first, and he drank it quickly. Then we sat in silence for the space of fifteen minutes or so.

“How do you feel, your grace?”

“Better,” he admitted grudgingly. I detected a slight dullness to his speech. “Much better.”

“That is probably the laudanum,” I commented. “But your stomach should be settled by now.” I picked up the flask of cod liver oil. “Two good swallows, your grace.”

“Is this really the only thing that will do?” he asked distastefully.

“If I had access to the apothecaries near the University, I could find something more palatable, but at the moment this is the only thing that can be done.”

“Get me another cup of tea to wash it down with.” He picked up the flask, took two sips, and handed it back, his mouth turned down in a ghastly expression.

I sighed internally. “If you are going to sip it, we will be here all evening. Two solid swallows, the kind sailors use to drink cheap whiskey.”

He scowled. “Don’t speak to me as if I were a child.”

“Then act the part of a man,” I said harshly, stunning him to silence. “Two swallows every four hours. That whole flask should be finished by tomorrow.”

His grey eyes narrowed dangerously. “I would remind you who you are speaking to.”

“I am speaking to a sick man who will not take his medicine,” I said levelly.

Anger smoldered behind his laudanum-dulled eyes. “A pint of fish oil is not medicine,” he hissed. “It is a malicious and unreasonable request. It can’t be done.”

I fixed him with my best withering stare and took the flask out of his hand. Without looking away, I drank the whole thing down. Swallow after swallow of the oil passed my gullet as I held the Maer’s eye. I watched his face shift from angry to disgusted, then finally settle into an expression of muted, sickened awe. I upended the flask, ran my finger around the inside of it and licked it clean.

I pulled out a second flask from a pocket of my cloak. “This was going to be your dose for tomorrow, but you will need to use it tonight. If you find it easier, one swallow every two hours should suffice.” I held it out to him, still holding his eyes with mine.

He took it mutely, drank two good swallows, and stoppered the flask with a grim determination. Pride is always a better lever against the nobility than reason.

I fished in one of the pockets of my rich burgundy cloak and brought out the Maer’s ring. “I forgot to return this to you before, your grace.” I held it out to him.

He began to reach out for it, then stopped. “Keep it for now,” he said. “You’ve earned that much, I imagine.”

“Thank you, your grace,” I said, careful to keep my expression composed. He wasn’t inviting me to wear the ring, but allowing me to keep it was a tangible step forward in our relationship. No matter how his courtship of the Lady Lackless went, I had made an impression on him today.

I poured him more tea and decided to finish his instructions while I had his attention. “You should drink the rest of this potful tonight, your grace. But remember, it’s all you’ll have until tomorrow. When you send for me, I’ll brew you some more. You should try to drink as many fluids as you can tonight. Milk would be best. Put some honey in it and it will go down easier.”

He agreed and seemed to be easing toward sleep. Knowing how difficult his night would be, I let him nod off. I gathered my things before letting myself out.

Stapes was waiting in the outer rooms. I mentioned to him that the Maer was sleeping, and told him not to toss out the tea in the pot, as his grace would be wanting it when he woke up.

As I left, the look Stapes gave me was not merely chilly, as it had been before. It was hateful, practically venomous. Only after he closed the door behind me did I realize what this must look like to him. He assumed I was taking advantage of the Maer in his time of weakness.

There are a great many such people in the world, traveling physicians with no qualms about preying on the fears of the desperately ill. The best example of this is Deadnettle, the potion seller in Three Pennies for Wishing . Easily one of the most despised characters in all drama, there’s no audience that doesn’t cheer when Deadnettle gets pilloried in the fourth act.

With that in mind, I began to dwell on how fragile and grey the Maer had looked. Living in Tarbean, I had seen healthy young men killed by ophalum withdrawal, and the Maer was neither young nor healthy.

If he did die, who would be blamed? Certainly not Caudicus, trusted advisor. Certainly not Stapes, beloved manservant. . . .

Me. They would blame me. His condition had worsened soon after I arrived. I didn’t doubt Stapes would quickly bring to light the fact that I’d been spending time alone with the Maer in his rooms. That I’d brewed him a pot of tea right before he had a very traumatic night.

At best I would look like a young Deadnettle. At worst, an assassin.

Such was the turning of my thoughts as I made my way through the Maer’s estate back to my rooms, pausing only to lean out one of the windows overlooking Severen-Low and vomit up a pint of cod liver oil.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 873