The Last Dragon: Book Two

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

F lier walked with me to the cabin we were going to share, his crutch regularly thumping with every other step. He didn’t speak or mention my poor reception in the salon. His eyes looked to where attackers might hide and spring from. He took the lead, and as I followed, I remembered the words of my sister about using magic to heal him. I sent a puff of air to put out a candle, so knew my magic was working. Having never done anything like it before, I let my mind reach out and move to his bad leg.

It was only a mental touch, but he reacted as if poked with the ember at the end of a burning stick. He skipped a step, then caught himself on his crutch before falling.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Every now and then there’s a sharp pain.”

“When your leg gets turned a certain way?”

He limped down the passageway as he said, “It just happens once in a while.”

We went into the cabin, and I cleaned up, which I should have done before going outside after returning to the ship. In my defense, there were so many things happening that the battle in Trager was almost forgotten. I found two more clean shirts stuffed into my bag and selected a brown one. My pants had blood splatters and one larger unknown spot. A pair of pants worn a few days earlier was my only option.

Before donning them, I washed head to foot, turning the freshly replaced water a charcoal color instead of the expected red. That simply indicated how dirty my body was. My hair was as bad. A small bottle of scent from my bag helped disguise my smell.

“Hungry?” I asked Flier.

“Always,” he grinned.

In the dining room, we drew few less stares, but as usual, people looked. Flier was a new passenger, and he limped with a crutch, so people casually glanced his way to see him. Their gazes held none of the hostility had been shown that had been present in the salon before cleaning himself. Funny how a little water and a change of clothing changes perception.

The sideboard had several varieties of cheese, small loaves of bread, and a pot of thick soup that must have been heated on the pier before sailing. It was still warm. Vegetables swam in a thick, brown broth. Stringy meat floated too, not much, but enough to draw my interest and hope the meat had come from the ship’s stores. Small pitchers contained red wine.

We served ourselves and sat at a tiny table barely large enough to hold our two bowls and mugs. Flier didn’t stuff his face as expected, but spooned soup into his mouth and closed his eyes as if he’d entered the third tier of heaven. After a small bite of cheese, he touched the mug to his lips and sipped.

He said, “First good wine I’ve had in years. Have I thanked you so much you’re tired of hearing it?”

“Not at all,” I said with a laugh. “Your manners tell me you were raised well.”

What I meant by that opening was that I wanted to hear his story. There was far more than merely a crippled beggar sitting across from me. My instincts wanted answers.

“My family had influence. I was the fourth son, but still, my father managed to purchase a commission in the King’s Army for me.” His head lowered as he concentrated on eating, and his actions seemed to tell me to mind my own business.

So, he had been an officer, as suspected, and he had been educated. He wanted me to stop asking questions. That was something I couldn’t do. As I ate, I reached out mentally again, very slightly, and probed his leg as he sat with no weight on it. An area of his knee drew attention as it flared red in my mind. He winced once but otherwise was not aware of my intrusion. Since I’d never done anything like it before, my progress was not only careful but slow. I turned my head to the window at my side and pretended to look outside as my small-magic flicked near his knee as gently as a feather falling from a bird flying past.

My ignorance told me things I didn’t understand. The outside of his bad knee was warmer than the rest of his leg. My energy touched skin first, then penetrated soft flesh, and later rigid hardness—not bone. His bones were further inside the leg. Retreating somewhat, the hardness was encountered again. I mentally moved above it, then below.

“How did you injure your knee again?” I asked so abruptly he was startled.

He rolled his eyes. “Early in my capture, I tried to escape.”

That didn’t provide the answer. “Did you fall?”

A wry grin appeared on his face. “Yes. I fell right after the arrow hit me.”

“In the knee,” I said, already knowing the answer. “The outside of your knee.”

His humor changed to an expression of wariness, and I knew I’d said too much. His left hand went protectively to his left knee. He placed his spoon on the table and waited.

A lie seemed appropriate. “There was an ex-soldier who had a limp like yours in Dire.”

He seemed relieved and interested.

My tale continued, “A battle wound from the frontier, they said. A member of his unit had pulled the arrow free, but the iron arrowhead remained inside and festered. It didn’t heal until they cut it out.”

“And then?” Flier asked.

“He healed.” I shrugged casually. “Still limped a little but he used no cane or crutch.”

Flier began eating again, slowly and obviously thinking. I ate too, without talking to disrupt his thoughts. He needed time. My mug needed a refill, and without thinking, I took Flier’s mug too. When I returned, he was looking at me strangely, as if the common courtesy of the act impressed him.

He said, “I was unconscious from a beating when they carried me back to the dungeon. Now, the wound seeps pus and never heals. I can feel something hard in there with my fingers, but never knew what it is. I thought it bone so left it alone.”

“My sister has some skill in nursing.” The words escaped my mouth before thinking. Kendra did have some skills in healing but was no physician. I’d volunteered her services when I had no right. Trying to cover for my misstep, I said, “We could always ask her opinion.”

I’d expected reluctance on his part. He showed none. His eyes lighted up, and he sat up straighter. Our conversation stalled until we finished eating.

He asked in a hopeful tone, “Do you know where your sister might be?”

“We can check the cabin.”

His expression was hopeful, and the girls were in their cabin when we knocked. Kendra had no problem sitting him on the bed and rolling his pantleg high enough to examine him. He winced at her touch but waited for more. She felt all around the area and finally said, “I think Damon is right. It is an iron arrowhead. Part of it is just below the surface and will probably get worse over time. I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten infected and killed you. It should come out, no matter if it improves your walk or not.”

“Don’t look at me, I’m not a doctor,” I said.

She scowled at me. “This is a passenger ship. Passengers have health problems and accidents. There must be one of the crew who is trained.”

“I’ll go see,” I said and slipped out the door before drawing more of her ire.

A sailor splicing a rope told me they had a man with medical training and where to find him. Within a short time, he knelt on the floor of our cabin examining Flier’s knee. The man was short, pudgy, and in need of a haircut because it fell well below his shoulders. He continually had to brush it aside with his hand, and he looked at Flier’s knee, his fingers probing. Still, he had a competent bedside manner and pleasing attitude. He offered a name of Spike, which didn’t sound encouraging.

He said, “Yup, I can feel it right here. It moves around, too, so I think it’s worked its way loose, but causing the puss and pain. Probably kill him sooner or later. Once there was this . . .”

“Can you remove it?” Kendra interrupted.

“Can’t tell until cutting. But, I have to clear it with the purser, first. Extra services have to be paid for before, and all that.”

I said, “We’ll pay whatever.”

“Not to me to decide or not to take your coin. Haggling for the price of services is done before the service is provided. I mean, I can’t put the arrowhead back in if you think it’s too much cost, can I? Sort of a law on a ship to pay first.” He stood upright as if that ended the conversation.

“How certain are you?” I asked Spike.

“That I can get it out? Without looking, I’d say pretty damn good. But you can never tell for sure, and that’s the other reason why you pay first.”

That sounded good enough to me. “You go get whatever tools you need and come back here. I’ll go find the purser and get it approved and pay him.”

Kendra winked at me. Flier sat quietly and grinned. I left and went in search of the purser and found him in the salon meeting with another passenger. He took a few coins from me, fewer than expected, and I headed back to Kendra’s cabin wearing a smile of my own.

The chubby man called Spike was already there, a tool bag on the floor, of the sort a carpenter uses. He accepted my word about already paying. Spike looked at Flier, “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s going to hurt. You could wait until we make port and get a real doctor to do it.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Just don’t do anything that can’t be undone.”

“It’s going to hurt, I say again.”

“Do it.” Flier gritted his teeth in anticipation. When the tools were removed from the bag, he paled at their sight but didn’t change his mind.

Kendra said to me, “The girls would enjoy a walk.”

“I may be able to help Flier. I’ll stay,” I said.

She looked at me and understood the underlying message. My small-magic might be of help, and for that, I needed to remain. She said as if it was true and for their benefit, “Blood makes me faint. Would you mind staying?”

When they were gone, Spike pulled a cork cap from a small bottle. “This is from a tree bark near Dire. It kills the sense of touch on skin.” He spread a few drops around the knee, careful not to get any on himself. “Takes just a few minutes to work. Now, you lay back and look anywhere but down here. I don’t need you jerking and pulling away.”

Flier settled himself on his back and waited. Spike pulled a handful of dirty, bloodstained rags and handed them to me. I watched him use a small item that looked like a nail to stab the flesh around the knee gently. Flier didn’t react. Spike pulled a small knife with a thin blade, a larger one, and pliers. He spread them neatly on the edge of the bed and placed rags under the knee to catch the dripping blood.

Glancing at me, he said, “Might get messy.”

My thought was that Flier should have had another mug or two of wine before this. But when looking at his face, his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Spike spread more of the substance from the tree bark, this time over a larger area, and waited. Then, after feeling the knee with probing fingers, and without warning, he used the smaller knife to cut a slit. Yellow puss mixed with blood oozed out. Then more.

“Keep it cleared away so I can see,” he ordered, which made me turn to the two candles providing a dim, yellow light.

I wiped and cleaned, he made the incision longer, and used the tip of the knife to probe gently, not cutting, but feeling in the puss and blood welling up. He grinned at me and nodded. “Metal touching metal.”

He reached for a few rags and inserted them into the cut to gather the blood and puss, then pulled them back quickly and looked before the area filled with more blood. My small magic could keep the blood away, but Spike would sense something wrong. He might stop the operation if he suspected I’d done it. Sailors are superstitious, and they don’t like mages in any form.

He inserted his finger into the slit and nudged the arrowhead with a dirty fingernail. It didn’t seem to move, so he adjusted his finger and tried moving it the other way. “Stuck,” he muttered. “Bone probably grew around it.”

He reached for the pliers.

“Try again,” I said, fearing he’d need a much larger cut to get the pliers inside. Besides, I had other plans. I closed my eyes and reached my mind to the metal arrowhead. As Spike’s finger pushed, I exerted more and more pressure, first in one direction, then another. My breath quit. I ignored the sweat running down my forehead into my eyes. My magic pulled, pushed, twisted, and turned.

“There!” Spike almost shouted.

Flier screamed.

Their shouting exclamations startled me. Spike’s arm drew back, his fingers clutched an arrowhead as wide as my thumb. Flier sat, eyes wide, centered on the bloody object.

“Want it?” Spike asked him proudly.

Flier held out his palm. Spike dropped it in his hand.

We all looked as if it was the first we’d ever seen. It was covered in blood and who knows what else, but it was definitely an iron arrow tip, looking rusted, the tip slightly bent, probably from striking his knee bone.

Spike lurched to one side, reaching for rags as he pointed to blood flowing freely out of the knee and running down Flier’s leg. I took the rags and stemmed the flow as I cleaned up the floor and wooden side of the bed, while Spike dribbled a powder from a vial into the wound. Then he pulled a curved sewing needle used for carpets and a spool of thread heavy enough to repair sails.

“Better put some more of that tree-stuff on before you sew the wound,” I suggested and was rewarded with a nod from a white-faced Flier.

Spike was already reaching for it. “I know what I’m doing. Look away,” he told Flier again.

Flier winced and gritted his teeth with every stitch, but in the end, Spike did a respectable job of closing the cut. I folded the cleanest strips of cloth for a pad, and dirty ones to wrap around his knee to hold it in place. As soon as Spike left us, Flier used my shoulder for a crutch, and we limped two doors down to our cabin.

Spike had given me a powder to mix with water for Flier. His advice was to ignore his moans and make him drink the concoction no matter what. “Might take away some pain or not, but it’ll put him out for the night and half of tomorrow.”

I gave it to Flier and left him in the lower bed, his eyes already foggy. I had a mug or two of wine to drink. At the door of the salon, I’d intended to head to the gaming table and relax. It didn’t happen that way. Kendra stood and drew my attention. Yes, I’d forgotten we’d used her cabin instead of mine for the operation, and she had no idea of the outcome. In retrospect, we could have performed the operation in our cabin and used the powder to put him out before Spike made his cut.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Sleeping. But we pulled an arrowhead from the side of his knee. Every time the knee bent, there must have been excruciating pain. He bled all over your cabin. I tried to clean it up.”

“Don’t worry, we can finish up. Is he going to walk again? I mean, without a crutch?”

“I have no idea. But his knee was hot before we started. It was swelled and leaked pus. You were right. I could tell it was hot around his knee before we saw it.”

“So, your magic was helpful?” She grinned as if to say, I told you so.

Pouring a full mug of red wine, my least favorite but all they had tonight, I said, “Spike was going to make the cut much bigger so his pliers could get a grip on the arrowhead. It was stuck in bone. I convinced him to try with his fingers again. When he did, I assisted with my mind.”

“A smaller incision should mean less healing time.”

“You can take the girls to your cabin if you’d like,” I said while pouring more wine. I intended to drink several mugs.

“So you can get to the table and play your silly gambling game with those crude men. You’re not cheating them, are you?”

A direct answer was hard. There were times I could confess to manipulating the game, but never to win for myself. The stakes were generally very small, and the game was more for companionship and to pass the slack time on the ship. However, I’d caught three players cheating so far. As each was identified by me, they encountered a losing streak. One expressed, “Never had such bad luck.” The others just accepted their sudden losses.

Kendra waited for an answer. “I have no need for their copper coins.”

“Tomorrow, I wish to have some time for myself. Will you be free to escort the girls around the ship?”

It was impossible to refuse. She left me to the empty seat at the table and the raucous greetings of the players. To their delight, I lost the first three rounds. That was acceptable. They were all small. Then the fourth round came, and the pot grew and grew. I held three five-spots. Not the best hand by far, but one that seldom lost. I raised.

The coins in the center of the table shifted without a hand to move them, and for the first time, I noticed the ship was rolling side to side, and lurching ahead now and then. The moon had risen, and the silver streak of light usually upon the water was broken by waves. The wind tore the tops of each wave and churned the water white.

Before long, a partially filled mug slid across the table in my direction. I gathered it and handed an embarrassed player his drink. A sailor entered the salon and shouted for attention. “Pardon the interruption, but the captain says we’ve encountered a spot of foul weather. The outside decks will be closed until notice. Prepare your cabins for shifting cargo. If it ain’t nailed down, you better put it away before it flies and hits you in your face.”

He must have realized he’d insulted many of us. His face reddened, and he turned and ran from the salon as if chased by angry passengers. Behind him, the door was caught in a gust of wind and slammed shut with a bang loud enough to emphasize his words. Three of us were willing to stay and play, but the other three in the lounge stood and left. The few other people in the salon soon went to their cabins, leaving only us at the table.

I was about to deal when the ship rolled more than usual, and I had a mental image of Flier rolling from his bed while drugged and hurting himself in the fall. “Tomorrow,” I said to them as I stood, which turned out to be a lie, although not an intentional one.