Irons in the Fire by McKenna Juliet E

Author:McKenna, Juliet E. [McKenna, Juliet E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: Solaris Books
Published: 2011-02-23T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Faila

Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

9th of Aft-Summer

Hearing the knock at the door, Aremil hastily set his book aside and reached for his crutches. "Is that the carrying chair?" He heard the door being answered and brief conversation on the step. "Lyrlen!"

"You shouldn't be going out, my lord." Entering the sitting room, his nurse set her hands on her hips. "Let me send for Master Sempel."

Aremil managed a rueful smile. "He's an excellent doctor, but he cannot cure what ails me."

"He can make you more comfortable, my lord." Anxiety furrowed Lyrlen's brow. "Don't tell me you're not in pain. You're not eating and you're not sleeping."

He shouldn't have tried getting out of bed in the night. He'd underestimated just how tired his limbs were and thus more than usually recalcitrant. Though Lyrlen must have been lying awake herself to hear the noise of him losing his grip on the bedpost and falling to the floor.

"I ate my breakfast," he reminded her.

"Little enough of it," she retorted.

"Because I agreed to that dose of poppy tincture when you helped me back to bed," he said with some asperity. "You know it kills my appetite."

"You need to rest, my lord." Lyrlen was twisting her apron between her hands, always a sign she was unhappy. "Gallivanting up and down to the lower town has left you at a standstill."

Despite his irritation, Aremil had to laugh. "Lyrlen, I couldn't go gallivanting if I wished to."

Lyrlen smoothed her apron with angry hands. "That girl has no notion what you can and cannot do without harming yourself."

Aremil's smile vanished. "Branca has no more say over what I do than you have, Lyrlen. Please don't blame her. Now, I am already late, thanks to that cursed poppy tincture making me oversleep. Kindly pass me my crutches and help me out to the chair."

"Very well, my lord." Lyrlen escorted him over the threshold, as anxious as a black-feathered hen cherishing one precious chick. "When shall I expect you back?"

"No later than noon." He settled himself in the chair. None of the muslin drapes at his neighbours' windows twitched. The sight of his ungainly progress on his crutches was evidently no longer a novelty. "I'm only going to Mistress Charoleia's house."

Lyrlen looked somewhat mollified. "Very good, my lord."

The chair-men picked him up. This particular pair didn't need directions any longer, they were getting so used to carrying him the few streets to Charoleia's door.

Aremil listened in vain for bells. What time was it now? How long had it taken him to get up and dressed and send Lyrlen to find some urchin to summon the carrying chair? He shifted uncomfortably. Last night's dose of poppy tincture had long since worn off.

Lyrlen was right, not that he was about admit it to her. He was nowhere near recovered from his exertions over the Solstice Festival. His shoulders, back and legs all ached. Cramps had wracked him for at least a day after his visits to the lower town. But such visits were essential, if this undertaking was to prosper.

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