The Master of Ceremonies led them a third of the way down the chamber, then halted.
“The physician Joseph Baxtor and his son, Garth Baxtor,” he announced with an audible sniff.
Joseph bowed gracefully beside him, and Garth hurried to do likewise. Where had his father learned such courtly manners?
“Come, come,” a pleasant voice said, and both Joseph and Garth rose. “Don’t hesitate. Come talk to me, Joseph. It has been many years.”
The Master of Ceremonies sniffed again, then stepped aside.
Joseph smiled encouragement at Garth, then he stepped forward confidently towards the throne. Precisely five paces from the dais he fell to one knee, bowing his head deeply. “Sire, I am yours to command.”
Garth almost fell in his haste to kneel a pace behind his father, and he heard several sniggers from the watching courtiers. His face flamed as he studied the ivory patterns in the floor in intimate detail.
There was a rustle of material from the dais, and the sound of steps, then a shadow as someone halted in front of his father.
“Joseph, arise from that knee. And this is your son? A fine boy, Joseph. Has he your Touch?”
Joseph rose to his feet, waving Garth to do the same. He bowed again, only slightly this time. “Garth trains with me, sire. He will make a gifted physician some day.”
Finally Garth dared look at the man before them. The king was in his early forties; a fit, well-built man who looked a warrior even in his court silks. He had a stern but just face, with dark grey eyes warm with humour, a straight nose above a thin mouth, and dark hair just beginning to silver with the burden of his office. He was, Garth decided, one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.
Cavor smiled at Garth’s stare, and even Joseph’s mouth curled in amusement.
“It is the boy’s first trip from Narbon,” he said quietly.
“Then I shall take care that he shall have only pleasant memories of Ruen,” Cavor said, his smile widening slightly. “Now, come,” he waved at a doorway to one side of the Throne Room. “I would speak with you in private, Joseph.”
Joseph hesitated and looked at Garth. “Sire…”
“Yes, yes, he may come. Two sets of hands with the gift are better than one, Joseph. Now, this way.”
Whispers and the lingering touch of incense followed them from the Throne Room.
The king led them into a small chamber furnished only with several chairs, a table, and a chest or two. Even so, Garth realised that the furnishings were richer than anything the best houses of Narbon could boast.
A servant waited inside, but Cavor waved him impatiently away. “You know the reason, Joseph?” he asked as the servant closed the door behind him.
“The mark,” Joseph murmured, and handed his bag to Garth.
“Yes.” The king’s face had lost its smile now, and Garth could see that pain underscored his eyes. He hunched off his brocade jacket, and his voice became suddenly harsh. “The cursed mark! It plagues at me both night and day. If I had known…” he hesitated. “If I had known, then I would have refused the damned throne!”
The king’s demeanour had changed, and Garth busied himself undoing the bag and setting healing powders and unguents across the table where his father could easily reach them.
Cavor glanced at him, then took a deep breath. “I apologise,” he said, his tone now mild again. “The pain…”
“Pain can make a demon of the most saintly mind,” Joseph said soothingly, his hands turning the king’s silken shirt down over his shoulders so that his upper body was exposed. He was as muscled as the wrestlers that plied their sport in Narbon’s market square on sixth-day, Garth noted, as he handed his father a small pair of scissors to cut away the stained dressing about Cavor’s upper right arm.
Both father and son stilled when they saw what lay beneath the dressings.
Every king of Escator was marked with the symbol of the royal house—the legendary Manteceros. Its bright blue, thick-legged, stiff-maned form fluttered from every pennant atop the royal palace, and Garth had seen it any number of times emblazoned across the chests of the royal militia whenever a unit of them had passed through Narbon.
And so it should have been emblazoned across Cavor’s right biceps.
That the tattoo had originally been carved into the man’s skin was easy enough to see, but its clear blue lines were marked and blurred with festering sores. A sickening, sweet stench rose from the man’s flesh, and Cavor half-turned his head away, his jaw tightening.
No wonder the incense in the Throne Room.
Joseph shared a glance with Garth, then gently probed the flesh above and below the infection. “Sire, you should have called before now.”
“Oberon Fisk is a fool. For months he has been assuring me that he was but a day or two away from a complete cure.”
“I am sure he has done his best, sire.”
Cavor winced as Joseph probed a little too deep. “Are you willing to reconsider my offer, Baxtor? A place at court?”
“My home is in Narbon,” Joseph said, frowning at the sudden light of excitement in Garth’s eyes at the king’s offer. “But I will do what I can in what time I have. You know that Garth and I are on our way to the Veins.”
The king shrugged. “I can have your duty transferred to court, Joseph.”
Joseph hesitated. He did not like court, and thought his talents would be largely wasted here.
And despite the fact that he hated the Veins, he knew that the prisoners needed him there as much, if not more, than Cavor. “I can set you on the road to healing in but a day or so, sire, and check you on my return home again in three weeks’ time. Now, be quiet while I examine your arm.”
For almost twenty minutes Joseph worked on the king’s arm, mostly in silence, but sometimes murmuring to Garth. He probed with his fingers, and occasionally the entire surface of his hand, easing his way in from the edges of the festering area to its centre, Garth moving swiftly and efficiently with gauze to wipe away the exudate as Joseph’s fingers worked it out of Cavor’s flesh. Occasionally the king grunted in pain, but he kept his arm still and his face averted, letting Joseph do what he would.
Eventually Joseph had cleaned most of the inflamed flesh. Now the lines of the tattoo showed more clearly, although the sores still exuded yellow fluid.
“Now,” Joseph breathed, and he wrapped his hands about the king’s arm.
For long minutes he stood there, his face tight in concentration, his hands flexing and then contracting about the king’s biceps. Garth knew that his father was letting healing force flow with all the strength he had, encouraging and persuading the king’s flesh to heal itself. As he watched, Cavor started to relax, and his face lost some of its harsh lines.
“You are a wonder worker,” he eventually said.
Joseph, his own face lined now, stood back a half step. “Sire, would you let Garth touch you? He has the gift as much if not more than I, and his raw ability will only help you. It will not harm.”
The king nodded, and smiled at Garth. “Perhaps I can tempt your son, Joseph, if I cannot tempt you.”
Garth smiled uncertainly as he wrapped his hands about the king’s arm. Already he could see how his father’s Touch had helped. The skin was paler now, and the tattoo showed clearly.
“He still has several years of his apprenticeship left, sire,” Joseph said smoothly. “He will be free to go where he likes at its conclusion.”
Garth let the small talk flow over his head. Now that he was concentrating on the Touch, he forgot that it was a king’s flesh he grasped between his hands. He frowned, trying to feel the flesh, trying to feel its need, trying to understand what it was that it needed to heal.
His fingers and palms tingled, as they always did when he let the power flow through him.
But something was…odd.
“Do you feel it?” Joseph asked softly at his side.
Garth was used to his father’s voice and questions while he was working, and it did not break his concentration.
He nodded. “Yes. It feels…unusual.” He couldn’t explain it any more than that. Each wound, each person, felt differently under his hands, but there was always an underlying “sameness”. With this wound it was, simply, different. The “sameness” was almost non-existent.
“It is the blue ink,” Joseph whispered. “Some say the original batch was made from the blood of the Manteceros itself. Whatever, the ink changes the flesh that it bonds with.”
“Curses it, more like,” Cavor muttered to the side, but his voice was relaxed, almost sleepy. Damn it, he thought, these Baxtors are good. What can I do to win either one to my court?