you?” Bast hissed, then his eyes widened. “No. You kept a piece of the one Carter killed. I can’t believe you. You lied to me. To me! ”
Kote sighed as he trudged up the stairs. “Are you upset by the lie, or the fact that you didn’t catch me at it?” he asked as he began to climb.
Bast spluttered. “I’m upset that you thought you couldn’t trust me.”
They let their conversation lapse as they opened one of the many empty rooms on the second floor, undressed Chronicler, and tucked him snugly into bed. Kote left the man’s satchel and travelsack on the floor nearby.
Closing the door to the room behind him, Kote said, “I trust you Bast, but I wanted you safe. I knew I could handle it.”
“I could have helped, Reshi.” Bast’s tone was injured. “You know I would have.”
“You can still help, Bast,” Kote said as he made his way to his room and sat heavily on the edge of his narrow bed. “I need some stitching done.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “I could do it myself. But the tops of my shoulders and my back are hard to reach.”
“Nonsense, Reshi. I’ll do it.”
Kote made a gesture to the door. “My supplies are down in the basement.”
Bast sniffed disdainfully. “I will use my own needles, thank you very much. Good honest bone. None of your nasty jagged iron things, stabbing you like little slivers of hate.” He shivered. “Stream and stone, it’s frightening how primitive you people are.” Bast bustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Kote slowly removed his shirt, grimacing and sucking his breath through his teeth as the dried blood stuck and tugged against the wounds. His face went stoic again when Bast came back into the room with a basin of water and began to clean him off.
As the dried blood was washed away a wild scoring of long, straight cuts became clear. They gaped redly against the innkeeper’s fair skin, as if he had been slashed with a barber’s razor or a piece of broken glass. There were perhaps a dozen cuts in all, most of them on the tops of his shoulders, a few across his back and along his arms. One started on the top of his head and ran down his scalp to behind his ear.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to bleed, Reshi,” Bast said. “Bloodless and all that.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear in stories, Bast. They lie to you.”
“Well you aren’t nearly as bad off as I thought,” Bast said, wiping his hands clean. “Though by all rights you should have lost a piece of your ear. Were they wounded like the one that attacked Carter?”
“Not that I could see,” Kote said.
“How many were there?”
“Five.”
“Five?” Bast said, aghast. “How many did the other fellow kill?”
“He distracted one of them for a while,” Kote said generously.
“ Anpauen, Reshi,” Bast said, shaking his head as he threaded a bone needle with something thinner and finer than gut. “You should be dead. You should be dead twice. ”
Kote shrugged. “It’s not the first time I should be dead, Bast. I’m a fair hand at avoiding it.”
Bast bent to his work. “This will sting a bit,” he said, his hands strangely gentle. “Honestly Reshi, I can’t see how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”
Kote shrugged again and closed his eyes. “Neither do I, Bast,” he said. His voice was tired and grey.
Hours later, the door to Kote’s room cracked open and Bast peered inside. Hearing nothing but slow, measured breathing, the young man walked softly to stand beside the bed and bent over the sleeping man. Bast eyed the color of his cheeks, smelled his breath, and lightly touched his forehead, his wrist, and the hollow of his throat above his heart.
Then Bast drew a chair alongside the bed and sat, watching his master, listening to him breathe. After a moment he reached out and brushed the unruly red hair back from his face, like a mother would with a sleeping child. Then he began to sing softly, the tune lilting
Kote sighed as he trudged up the stairs. “Are you upset by the lie, or the fact that you didn’t catch me at it?” he asked as he began to climb.
Bast spluttered. “I’m upset that you thought you couldn’t trust me.”
They let their conversation lapse as they opened one of the many empty rooms on the second floor, undressed Chronicler, and tucked him snugly into bed. Kote left the man’s satchel and travelsack on the floor nearby.
Closing the door to the room behind him, Kote said, “I trust you Bast, but I wanted you safe. I knew I could handle it.”
“I could have helped, Reshi.” Bast’s tone was injured. “You know I would have.”
“You can still help, Bast,” Kote said as he made his way to his room and sat heavily on the edge of his narrow bed. “I need some stitching done.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “I could do it myself. But the tops of my shoulders and my back are hard to reach.”
“Nonsense, Reshi. I’ll do it.”
Kote made a gesture to the door. “My supplies are down in the basement.”
Bast sniffed disdainfully. “I will use my own needles, thank you very much. Good honest bone. None of your nasty jagged iron things, stabbing you like little slivers of hate.” He shivered. “Stream and stone, it’s frightening how primitive you people are.” Bast bustled out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Kote slowly removed his shirt, grimacing and sucking his breath through his teeth as the dried blood stuck and tugged against the wounds. His face went stoic again when Bast came back into the room with a basin of water and began to clean him off.
As the dried blood was washed away a wild scoring of long, straight cuts became clear. They gaped redly against the innkeeper’s fair skin, as if he had been slashed with a barber’s razor or a piece of broken glass. There were perhaps a dozen cuts in all, most of them on the tops of his shoulders, a few across his back and along his arms. One started on the top of his head and ran down his scalp to behind his ear.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to bleed, Reshi,” Bast said. “Bloodless and all that.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear in stories, Bast. They lie to you.”
“Well you aren’t nearly as bad off as I thought,” Bast said, wiping his hands clean. “Though by all rights you should have lost a piece of your ear. Were they wounded like the one that attacked Carter?”
“Not that I could see,” Kote said.
“How many were there?”
“Five.”
“Five?” Bast said, aghast. “How many did the other fellow kill?”
“He distracted one of them for a while,” Kote said generously.
“ Anpauen, Reshi,” Bast said, shaking his head as he threaded a bone needle with something thinner and finer than gut. “You should be dead. You should be dead twice. ”
Kote shrugged. “It’s not the first time I should be dead, Bast. I’m a fair hand at avoiding it.”
Bast bent to his work. “This will sting a bit,” he said, his hands strangely gentle. “Honestly Reshi, I can’t see how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”
Kote shrugged again and closed his eyes. “Neither do I, Bast,” he said. His voice was tired and grey.
Hours later, the door to Kote’s room cracked open and Bast peered inside. Hearing nothing but slow, measured breathing, the young man walked softly to stand beside the bed and bent over the sleeping man. Bast eyed the color of his cheeks, smelled his breath, and lightly touched his forehead, his wrist, and the hollow of his throat above his heart.
Then Bast drew a chair alongside the bed and sat, watching his master, listening to him breathe. After a moment he reached out and brushed the unruly red hair back from his face, like a mother would with a sleeping child. Then he began to sing softly, the tune lilting
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