Gilded Serpent, page 9
LYDIA
Mudaire was where she was meant to be. And apparently what she was meant to be doing was reorganizing a library.
Dust puffed in Lydia’s face as she pulled out another mis-shelved volume and moved it to the correct section, the total lack of order making her head ache. There was a system, if not one she would have selected, but it appeared no one had been serving the function of librarian in quite some time. Which wasn’t entirely surprising given the war.
And the fact almost all the healers were now dead.
Logically, she knew this wasn’t the best use of her time, that she should find a suitable volume and start reading, but diving into the middle of things was not how she was in the habit of conducting research. And as it was, she’d yet to even find a volume with a subject that related to the blight. Oh, there were endless volumes on infection, but all focused on diseases of the natural variety, and this was decidedly supernatural. There were also volumes on the Marked, including a jaw-dropping 240 editions of Treatise of the Seven. They were in many different languages, seeming to tell the stories of the Marked from different nations, and they also dated back centuries. She flipped through the crumbling tomes, struggling to read the archaic Mudamorian, but as with the edition Teriana had given her, none told any stories of the corrupted.
Books moved to piles on the table, then onto their appropriate shelves, her mind slowly cataloging the extent of the collection. She felt herself drawn to the many texts written by other healers detailing how they used their marks to repair injuries and remedy illness. Finding one that discussed an outbreak of plague, she sat on one of the chairs and began to read.
What she learned was that Hegeria’s mark had its limits.
Symptoms and damage from illness could be remedied, but the sickness itself couldn’t be cured. The author likened it to poison: The illness must be purged through natural means, a healer able only to temper the symptoms and thus allow the patient’s body opportunity to expel the infection itself.
Similarly, natural defects that an individual was born with could not be remedied with a healer’s mark, though the author suggested another text that discussed how a mark might be used in conjunction with surgery to remedy such afflictions. Natural degeneration and aging were yet other things that marks could not reverse, and it occurred to Lydia that was likely why her eyesight had not improved when she’d been marked.
She read until her eyes grew heavy with exhaustion, yet while she found answers to many questions, none solved the dilemma of the blight.
* * *
“You are supposed to be in your room during the curfew hours, Lydia.”
Lydia lurched up from where she’d fallen asleep at the library table. Turning, she saw Quindor standing at the entrance, his arms crossed and brow furrowed.
“Grand Master,” she said, leaping to her feet and inclining her head. Then her eyes took in the mess she’d made, stacks of books filling the tables and sitting on the floor in front of shelves, and she internally cringed. “I was … The library has obviously not had the resources to see to organization in some time. I thought to remedy that.”
“It still does not have the resources,” he answered, the furrow in his brow deepening. “This is not a priority, Lydia. Your strength and your mark are required for hunting those infected with blight, not organizing shelves.”
Her jaw tightened, both her mind and her heart rejecting the idea that hunting people be the foremost of her mandates. “My goal was research,” she said. “To see if I might find something that would help us treat the infected rather than sentencing them to death.”
“One cannot heal the dead any more than one can breathe life into a stone.” He gave his head a sharp shake of annoyance. “Wasted time, and I have no choice but to allow you to waste more of it to clean up this mess. Which you will do during your free hours, while at the same time, adhering to the curfew placed upon trainees.”
Biting down on an argument, she nodded.
“But for now, you need to go make yourself presentable,” he said. “King Serrick, as well as several of the High Lords, have arrived in Mudaire in the company of the Royal Army. He has requested your presence at the palace.”
The Royal Army. Her heart skipped. That meant Killian was here.
17
MARCUS
He’d slept like the dead, and for the first time in a very long time, he might’ve slept past dawn.
Except the tent started to leak.
Splat. Marcus twitched as something wet smacked him on the shoulder. Splat. Another drop.
“What’s dripping?” Teriana muttered, and he realized with a start that he’d curled around her during the night, and his traitorous body was not displeased with the situation.
Face burning, Marcus sat upright and glared upward while he got himself under control, seeing the spot where the rain had soaked into the waxed canvas and several other dark spots that suggested it would soon have company.
And it was no wonder.
Rain hammered in great sheeting torrents, the faint roll of thunder the only sound in the quiet camp.
“Shit.” Teriana had sat as well, and she was pointing to the corner. “We’re flooding.”
“Amarin!” Cursing loudly, he rose and strode out into the main tent, only to find his servant frantically storing maps in their chests as water rained from above, filling the bowls and cups he’d placed under the leaks. “I see you’re aware of the problem.”
The older man scowled. “Never seen rain like this. What a mess.”
Discomfort was one thing, but the endless damp was a breeding ground for disease. Stepping out into the deluge, Marcus shielded his face from the pounding rain, walking barefoot through the mud to the sodden guards. “I need the engineers in my tent, now. And find some dry canvas to tarp over command. Send someone into Aracam to buy it, if needed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Striding back into the tent, he found Teriana busy helping Amarin. She was fully dressed, and Marcus became abruptly aware that he wore only undergarments, which were soaked through so he might as well have been naked. And despite modesty having been driven out of him by life in a legion camp, his face once again burned red. Fortunately, Teriana was looking anywhere but at him.
“Expect another couple months of this,” she said. “When it rains in Arinoquia, it rains.”
“Noted,” he managed to say before hurrying to the back to dress.
When he returned, his head engineer, Rastag, arrived, sparing him having to talk to Teriana. Which was well, because he couldn’t think of anything to say and the thought of suffering in silence made him want to run back out into the rain.
A full head shorter than Marcus, Rastag was about as wide as he was tall, his black hair shaved regulation short and a pair of spectacles balanced on his nose. He had light brown skin and the look of someone with more than a few provinces contributing to his bloodline. Rastag was a terrible fighter, infamous for his ability to trip up an entire line of men and for the time he accidentally stabbed himself. But he could build anything.
“Sir.” Moving to the table, the engineer slapped a schematic down on a dry spot, not bothering to ask why Marcus had called him here. “My proposal for a drainage system for the camp.”
Glancing at the detailed illustration, Marcus said, “I think we need more than that.”
“Undoubtedly, sir, but it’s always best to build on—”
“A good foundation,” Marcus finished for him. “You’ve mentioned that once or twice.”
“Wooden—”
“I’d prefer something more permanent,” Marcus said, then felt Teriana’s questioning eyes on him and lost his train of thought. “Umm … Something made out of stone, like Aracam and Galinha—”
“But with more bloody headroom,” Servius interrupted, having arrived in the middle of the conversation. “Morning, Teriana.”
“Morning, Servius.”
A quick glance revealed that she was now sitting on one of the stools, sipping from a steaming cup, her eyes currently swirling seas of turquoise. She twisted one of her black braids around her index finger, gaze fixed on her tea. So deeply and profoundly beautiful that he couldn’t help but question his sanity for taking intimacy off the table. It was the right choice, he silently told himself. We need to be able to trust each other.
If that were even possible.
“Marcus?”
He jumped at Servius’s voice. “Right. More headroom. Speak to Felix about which men to use for the construction. And speaking of Felix, where is he?”
“Sleeping off a hangover,” Servius said. “He made close friends with a bottle of rum last night.”
Unbidden, the memory of how Felix had looked at him when he’d returned filled Marcus’s head, along with the knowledge that Felix only drank to excess when he was upset. Shoving away the thought, he said to Rastag, “Give him another hour and then have someone rouse him.”
“Understood.” The engineer saluted and started for the exit, passing Gibzen on his way out.
“You got Racker’s report yet?” the primus asked without preamble.
Marcus took his time answering, sitting on one of the stools and taking a sip of water even as he noted how the scar along the primus’s jaw pulled as the muscles beneath flexed. Given Gibzen was alarmingly devoid of empathy and sentiment, his displeasure wouldn’t be over the loss of lives. “No. Why?”
Gibzen shifted on his heels, but before he could speak, Racker stepped inside. Casting a glare at Gibzen, the Thirty-Seventh’s surgeon said, “I have my discharge report.” Pulling out a wax-wrapped sheet of paper, he handed it to Marcus. Eighteen names and numbers, one set of which belonged to Miki. Feeling Teriana’s scrutiny, he asked, “And Quintus?”
“Will be in fighting form within a couple weeks.”
Gibzen snorted, and Marcus bit down on the insides of his cheeks to keep from reprimanding him. “What of his state of mind?”
“He is distressed, as is expected, but he’s steady enough.”
“Bullshit,” Gibzen snapped. “Everyone here knows he’s going to snap the moment Miki boards that ship.” He leveled a finger at Marcus. “I want him out. He’s too dangerous and too unpredictable.”
“That’s Felix’s call.” And as the Thirty-Seventh’s tribunus, he should’ve been here for this conversation.
Scowling, Gibzen turned on Racker. “Discharge him. You know full well what’s going to happen.”
The surgeon crossed his slender arms, using his greater height to loom over the primus. “If I were to request discharge for men based on what I thought they might do, I’d need stacks of paper to record all their names. If he breaks, I’ll revisit the issue. But not a heartbeat before.”
Gibzen kicked a stool across the tent. His temper was not good at the best of times, and for him, the answer was always violence. Servius rose from his stool, and Marcus readied himself to leap into action if the primus decided to attack the surgeon. “Get yourself under control,” he snapped. “And then get out before I consider punishing your behavior.”
Gibzen glared at him, but then the tent flaps parted and Felix appeared. At the sight of him, the primus relaxed. “Sir, it’s Quintus. I want him out.”
Felix took the cup of water that Amarin offered, staring at it as though he wasn’t certain whether to drink or vomit. But his voice was steady as he answered. “You’ve mentioned that. I take it Miki is to be discharged?”
“So says Racker. And you know Miki’s the only thing that keeps him together.”
“I disagree—” Racker started to say, but Felix held up a hand, turning to Marcus. “I’m inclined to support Gibzen in this. His men undertake our most critical missions—it’s stressful work.”
“So you’re suggesting we assign Quintus to something less taxing?” Marcus stared him down. “Idle minds have a tendency to go to dark places.”
Felix looked away, his golden skin slightly greenish.
How much did he drink?
Taking a sip of water, Felix said, “As it is, none of the other centurions are clamoring to take him on.”
“It’s not their call,” Marcus said. “It’s yours.”
Silence filled the tent, broken only by the dripping of water into basins and cups.
“Assign him to me.” Teriana’s voice cut through the growing tension. “I need a proper bodyguard, and who better than Quintus? He’s been with me almost since we arrived in Arinoquia, so I’m comfortable around him and I trust him to keep me safe.”
Jealousy flared through Marcus’s veins. That she trusted Quintus over him. Wanted it to be the other soldier guarding her back. Don’t be an idiot, he reprimanded himself. You can’t exactly follow her about, and even if you could, Quintus is twice the fighter you are.
Gibzen barked out a laugh, stealing Marcus’s attention back to the moment. “You sure you didn’t take a head injury, Teriana? Allow me to impart a bit of information to you that might change your mind: our man Quintus has the highest number of kills in the entire Thirty-Seventh legion. He’s an assassin of the first order, which is well and fine when he’s on the level, but the second his boy departs, Quintus is going to snap. Which would be bad enough, but considering that his woe has all come as a result of protecting you…”
“He’s angry with the situation, not with me.” Teriana’s voice was calm. “I trust him.”
That word again.
“He’s a murderer, girl. What part of what I’m telling you don’t you understand?”
“Pot,” Racker said, giving the primus a dark look, “kettle. And his kills were all sanctioned by the Senate, which is more than I can say for some.”
Since they’d been boys training together at Lescendor, there’d been no love lost between these two. Racker considered life sacrosanct and refused to take it, under any circumstance. Gibzen killed even when he didn’t have to and made no effort to hide that he enjoyed it. Marcus did his best to keep them separate.
“You’re just full of opinions today, aren’t you?” Gibzen wiggled his first two fingers, pantomiming a figure walking. “Why don’t you head back to medical and to playing nursemaid and leave those of us with military minds to make these decisions.”
His own temper frayed, Marcus snarled, “Gibzen, shut up and get out! You’ve said your piece.”
Face dark, the primus saluted and then stomped out into the mud and the rain.
Retrieving a pen and ink, Marcus signed the discharge papers and handed them over to Servius. “Get them underway.” Then he glanced at Teriana. “If there’s a message you want to send to your crew, give it to Servius.”
Servius glanced at Teriana. “You want to come with me? We can stop for some grub and you can write a note.”
“All right.” She picked up a piece of paper and a pencil, then she met Marcus’s gaze for the first time since last night and said, “Make the right choice, Marcus.”
He didn’t answer, only waited for them to depart before turning to Felix. “What do you think?”
Felix’s jaw worked back and forth. “Respectfully, sir, I think this is Teriana’s call. And yours. Now if you’ll excuse me, now that I have a full casualty list, I need to look at reorganizing the ranks.”
“Bring the changes to me when you’re done.”
Felix nodded, then with a sharp salute, exited the tent. Leaving Marcus alone with Racker.
“For what it’s worth, I think it’s a good role for Quintus,” the surgeon said. “Unlike that blackhearted creature you replaced Agrippa with, Quintus takes no pleasure in killing.”
It was a struggle not to scowl at the mention of the Thirty-Seventh’s only deserter, but Racker wasn’t wrong about Quintus. Or Gibzen. “I need to think about it.”
Racker was silent for a moment, then he said, “You’re in no small way responsible for Quintus’s nightmares. Do right by him and give him a purpose, or whatever happens to him is on your hands.”
Give him a purpose. A thought rolled to the forefront of his mind. Something he’d never considered before and yet now found strangely enticing. “I’ll think of something.” He stood. “Dismissed.”
18
TERIANA
“That was tense.” Rain soaked her within an instant of stepping out of the tent, water filling her boots as she followed Servius through the camp, which resembled a giant mud puddle.
“The wet is making everyone cranky.”
Undoubtably true, but that wasn’t the source of the tension she’d witnessed in Marcus’s tent. She’d seen them argue with one another before, but they’d always given off the sense of being unified, their arguments directed toward achieving a common purpose. Whereas what she’d seen in there was anything but unified. “Thought you lot were used to discomfort?”
“We are.”
They passed a pair of young men shouting at each other, both their chests tattooed with a 37. They silenced when Servius cast them a dark glare, but it picked right back up again. And it wasn’t just them. The half of the camp occupied by the Thirty-Seventh felt sullen and on edge, whereas the Forty-First seemed business as usual, groups not on duty congregating under tarps while they ate, banter and laughter drifting into her ears.
The Thirty-Seventh had taken more casualties, partially because they alone had participated in the battle with the mercenary army, but also because the older, more experienced legion had undertaken the more dangerous positions during the siege of Aracam. Except she’d witnessed their grief, and this … this was something else. “It’s not the rain, Servius. What’s wrong with everyone?”
Her big friend scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, sending droplets flying. “When the top dogs quarrel, it affects the whole pack. I have to hand it to you, Teriana. If your goal was to fracture this legion, you’ve done a mighty fine job of it.”
“You know that’s not what I want.” The words came out in a rush. And on their heels, she reminded herself that only last night, she’d been visited by a Gamdeshian spy. But while playing with relationships and jealousies might be the way some people created trouble, that wasn’t who she was. She had her limits when it came to deception.
