In less than a month two of the great cities of the Four Duchies had fallen to an inhuman enemy. The Duke of
The Marches had been killed on the battlefield outside Prentuis. Of the Duke of Romark there was no news.
The snows came early, and the Daroth withdrew. But no-one had any doubts that the spring would bring fresh terror.
Chapter Nine
Brune’s fever was high, his body sweat-drenched. The elderly doctor leaned over him, closely examining the yellow-gold of his skin. ‘It is not the plague,’ he told Tarantio. ‘But I do not like his colour; it suggests the blood is bad. However, I have bled him and leeched him, and there is little more that I can do.’
‘Will he live?’
The doctor shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘To be honest, young man, since I do not know what ails him I cannot say. I have seen yellow skin like this in patients before. Sometimes it indicates the kidneys are failing, at other times jaundice or yellow fever. In this case I do not know. You say the colour of his eyes was caused by the magicker, Ardlin. Were I you, I would seek out the magicker, and find out what he has done.’
‘He left Corduin,’ said Tarantio.
‘As well he might. I have no time for magickers: a tricksy bunch, if you take my meaning. Now a man knows where he is with leeches. They suck out the vileness. Nothing magical there.’
Tarantio showed the man to the door, paid him, then returned to the bedside. ‘You should have made him eat his leeches,’ said Dace. ‘The man was an idiot.’
‘There was something in what he said. I think this illness is down to the magicker. You saw Brune’s eyes.
Both are golden now. There was no magic orb; it is just a spell of some kind. And it is spreading over him.’
‘Yes,’ said Dace cheerfully, ‘it is – and we should have killed Ardlin too.’
‘Is that your answer to everything, brother? Kill it?’
‘Each to his own,’ said Dace. Brune groaned, then spoke out in a language Tarantio had never heard. It was soft, lilting and musical. Tarantio sat beside the bed, laying his hand on Brune’s fevered brow. He was burning up. Fetching a bowl of warm water, he drew back the covers and bathed Brune’s naked body, allowing the evaporation to cool the skin. ‘He is losing a lot of weight,’ said Dace. ‘Maybe you should cook a broth, or something.’
Brune’s golden eyes opened. ‘Oh, it hurts,’ he said.
‘Lie still, my friend. Rest if you can.’
‘I am cold.’
Tarantio felt his brow again, then he covered him with blankets and walked out to the kitchen area. The young woman he had hired to cook for them had fled when Brune’s fever began. There was no food in the house. Returning to the bedroom, Tarantio built up the fire then threw his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the snow. It was a long walk to the Wise Owl tavern and he was frozen long before he reached it. Snow had begun to fall again, and his shoulders and hair were crowned with white.
He rapped on the door and Shira opened it. Stepping inside he brushed the snow from his shoulders. ‘I am sorry to trouble you,’ he said, ‘but I have a friend who is sick, and there is no food. Could you prepare something for me to take back?’
‘Of course,’ she said brightly. As she turned away, he saw that she was pregnant.
‘My congratulations to you,’ he said.
She reddened. ‘We are very pleased, Duvo and I.’
‘Duvo?’
‘The Singer. You remember?’
‘Ah yes. I wish you both happiness.’
‘Sit down by the fire and I will fetch you some mulled wine while you wait.’ She limped away towards the kitchens. Tarantio removed his cloak and squatted by the fire. He shivered as the heat touched him. Staring into the dancing flames he began to relax, and did not hear the soft footfalls behind him. But Dace did, and surged into control – rising and twisting, his sword flashing into his hand.