Isle of Blood and Stone Page 8

  This leper was different, his disfigurement so advanced that he was more monster than man. The bridge of his nose had collapsed in upon itself, leaving two small holes in its place. He had no hair on his head, no eyebrows or eyelashes to hint at the color he had been born with. He could have been Elias’s age, or twenty years his elder. There was no way of telling one way or the other.

  The leper continued, “I have my papers and my castanets, you see?” Misshapen hands, like claws, shook the wooden shells. The instrument rattled cheerfully.

  The pleasant sound did not match what Elias was feeling, standing here in this filthy alley with this ruined man. He was not proud of his first instinct—to grab Mercedes and put as much distance as possible between them and him. He stood his ground and said quietly, “There’s a hospital nearby.” The Brotherhood of our Lady of Fair Wind. Only two streets over. “Is that where you were headed?”

  “Yes,” the leper said.

  Mercedes came to stand by Elias’s side. She took his arm long enough to pull him back a few steps. He had been standing far too close. Close enough to see the mucus running down the man’s face. Near enough to smell the misery and decay.

  She spoke calmly. “Sir, my name is Mercedes. This is Lord Elias.”

  There was a short silence before the stranger understood she meant to observe the usual pleasantries between strangers. “I am Rafael, Lady.”

  If she heard the slight tremor in his voice, she gave no sign of it. “Master Rafael. You’ve not been on the streets very long. Do you have family?”

  Rafael lifted his chin, and it occurred to Elias that a man’s eyes appeared less human without their lashes. “They left, Lady. My wife and mother. Two days ago.”

  Elias and Mercedes avoided looking at each other.

  “I see,” was her quiet answer. “May I ask . . . when did you last eat?”

  “Two days ago.” Rafael addressed his feet, as though the answer shamed him. Elias had to strain to hear his next words. “I’m not a beggar. I have coin. No one will take it.”

  There was a retching sound behind them. The two boys watched from the street; one pretended to be ill while the other laughed, the high-pitched braying of a jackass. Elias fought the urge to chase after them and wring their necks. A malevolent light had entered Mercedes’s eyes. He could see her remembering their faces, for next time. She’d always had a gift for patience, and vengeance. It made him feel better.

  A shudder racked the leper’s frame, from pain maybe, but Elias wondered if he might still be cold, despite his layers and the pleasant day.

  Elias shrugged out of his green cloak and held it out. “Here, take this.” Rafael did not move. “Take it,” he said again. “We’ll see you to the Fair Wind. No one will harm you.” The man would never make it to the hospital without further abuse. Elias hoped onlookers would see him, or at least Mercedes, and think twice before reaching for rocks and rotted food.

  Tentatively, Rafael reached for the cloak. He wrapped it over his own and pulled the hood over his head so that only the bottom half of his face was visible. A muffled “Thank you” emerged.

  The trio made for a strange processional. Mercedes led the way down the street, with Rafael following behind at a safe-enough distance. Elias brought up the rear. The leper’s castanets rattled as everyone around gave them a wide berth. Just as they reached the hospital steps, a red object sailed through the air. Elias caught the apple before it could strike Rafael and snapped it back where it came from. It hit the thrower—a man clutching a second piece of rotted fruit—right between the eyes; he windmilled backward and cracked his head into a wall, stunned.

  Which set the crowd laughing. Elias did not have time to enjoy it. A rock streaked by and struck Rafael square in the back. There was a sharp cry of pain as he pitched forward. Unthinking, Elias leaped ahead and grabbed him even as Mercedes cried out, “Elias, don’t!” A collective gasp rose from the onlookers. As soon as the leper had steadied, Elias snatched his hands away.

  “What is this?” A robed monk had rushed down the steps from the hospital, alerted by the noise.

  Mercedes did not take her eyes from Elias. She said, “Take him inside, Brother.” And to Rafael, “Go inside, please, Master Rafael. They’ll take care of you here.”

  For a short time, at least. To the south of del Mar, just beyond its shores, was the leper island of Valdemossa. Every del Marian afflicted with the curse eventually made his way there. By force, if necessary, since banishment to Valdemossa usually meant a lifetime of separation from loved ones. The island was run by monks of the Order of Saint Lazarus and was considered an asylum for those with or without coin, for leprosy did not discriminate. Rafael had known that by seeking out this hospital, he had taken the first step to leaving del Mar forever.

  The monk scrambled to do her bidding. As he hurried his new patient along, Rafael looked back at Elias and whispered, “Forgive me.”

  “Don’t apologize to me—” Elias nearly choked on his words. He had forgotten. His compass pin was attached to his cloak, the one he had handed over without any intention of asking for it back. It was made of gold with tiny emeralds to mark the wind points. But that was not where its value lay. The pin had belonged to Lord Antoni, a gift from his wife. It felt small and mean to ask Rafael to remove it. He said, “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  Master Rafael and the monk disappeared behind the hospital doors. Mercedes asked for the second time that day, “You will scold me on danger?” Then, “What am I to do with you?”

  Uneasy, he answered, “I don’t know.”

  They both stared in consternation at his arm. Master Rafael had not worn gloves. His remaining fingernails had been jagged. One had caught Elias when he’d reached to break his fall, scratching him and leaving a thin strip of blood along his wrist.

  “Here, Lady, hold his hand down,” Mori instructed. “Best if he doesn’t move. Elias!” he snapped. “Be still.”

  “I’m trying,” Elias said through gritted teeth.

  They were back in Mori’s shop. Elias on the stool, arm extended along the table. Mercedes remained on her feet, anchoring his hand to the table with her own. Mori held his Bushido fire leech over Elias’s forearm, where it had attached its fangs to the cut left by Master Rafael. To Mercedes, the creature was even more loathsome up close. Short, bristly hairs covered its plump, wormlike body. The noise it made feasting on Elias’s blood was stomach-churning: wet, pulling, filled with gluttony.

  Best not to look at it. She studied Elias instead. Sweat beaded his forehead. He swallowed convulsively. For both their sakes, she tried not to look anxious. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Clearly, he was lying. She wanted to yell at him. But for what crime? Trying to protect a sick man? If he had been careless, he had also been kind. She asked the barber-surgeon, “Will this work, Master Mori?”

  “I can’t say, Lady,” Mori said, his hands preventing the leech from sliding off Elias’s arm. “No one knows how the leper’s curse is spread, and for every claim, there’s argument against it.” He shifted the leech a quarter inch to the left. “Some believe leprosy is a sign of demonic possession. Others will insist a leper is born a leper, and that the poison manifests itself over time. In which case”—he shrugged—“there’s nothing to be done.”

  Elias hissed sharply, making Mercedes jump. Because both of Mori’s hands were occupied and only one of hers, the barber-surgeon said to her, “Grab the shears there. Give its head a sharp tap.”

  Mercedes did as she was told, rapping the leech on its head with the handle and thinking she would not do this for anyone else. The leech flinched under her assault, then resumed a less aggressive feeding. Elias’s shoulders relaxed.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Miserable brown eyes met hers. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Mori went on. “Many doctors insist it is caused by breathing the same air. This I don’t believe. There are lepers everywhere. If it
were true, surely there would be more of them.”

  “You think it could be passed through the blood?” Elias eyed the leech with revulsion.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” Mori answered. “Sharing a spoon, a kiss, a home. It’s possible. But I’ve heard stories of lepers remaining with their families where no one else grew ill. Ever. There are lepers being cared for at the Fair Wind, but only one monk in the last fifteen years had to follow his patients to Valdemossa.”

  Master Mori’s words made her feel better. She said, “Then this scratch . . .”

  “Probably means nothing,” Mori said. “If there were something new and foul in Elias’s blood, the leech has taken care of it. It was a smart thing, coming back here. There’s no use in worrying.” He lifted the creature off Elias’s arm. Mercedes stepped away hastily. It was plumper than it had been when they’d first arrived. Two small holes had been left beside the original scratch. Elias’s skin was shiny and wet and, grimacing, he grabbed a cloth from the table and scrubbed away.

  Mori crossed the chamber and lowered the leech back in its glass cage. He said over his shoulder, “Unless you wake one day and your arms and legs have gone numb. That’s the first sign. Then I would start to worry plenty.”

  Seven

  LIAS STRODE INTO the arena, trying not to think of plagues and lepers. He found Ulises just finishing sword practice. The field was open to the heavens, and the sun blazed directly overhead without a single cloud to temper its brilliance.

  “What is the score now, Lazar?” Ulises handed his sword to Commander Aimon’s second-in-command and collapsed onto a bench. Both men were drenched in sweat.

  “I’m one over you, my king.”

  “Ha.” Ulises leaned his head against the stone wall and closed his eyes. “Only until next time.”

  Lazar grinned at the challenge. “We will see. My lord Elias,” he added as he walked away.

  Ulises opened his eyes. Elias joined him on the bench, elbows on knees, his carrier behind him. “You’ve left it too late,” Ulises informed him without ceremony. “Mercedes has beat you to it. She’s going with you.”

  Silently, Elias cursed her sneakiness. How had she found Ulises so quickly? They had barely gone their separate ways.

  Ulises answered his unspoken question. “She’s smarter than you. Simpler just to accept it.” The look Elias sent him earned a laugh in response.

  Elias said, “You’ll send her into that forest to face who-knows-what. What sort of relation are you?”

  “The realistic sort,” Ulises answered, unoffended. “You need a female, and you need someone who can keep secrets. Mercedes will do both.” Ulises studied him. “She was as insistent about going as you are about her staying. What is between the two of you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, yes? If that is what you wish me to believe, I’ll pretend to believe it.”

  Brooding, Elias studied his boots, no longer gleaming from Basilio’s care, but splattered with mud and sand. The words nearly stuck in his throat. “I want her safe.”

  An endless silence, followed by a sigh. “She would kick you in the teeth if she thought you were trying to protect her.”

  Elias didn’t bother to deny it. “I know.”

  Ulises took a cloth from beneath the bench and mopped his face. They were alone in this corner of the field. The arena was rapidly emptying as men headed to their midday meal. A handful of soldiers remained in place on the perimeter, keeping company with Commander Aimon’s training catapults and trebuchets pushed up against the walls. The king’s personal guard. Never too far away. Elias wondered what it must feel like to be constantly watched, and he said so.

  Ulises glanced at his men and shrugged. “Most days I forget they’re there.”

  “What about other days?”

  “It’s like having bearded nursemaids,” Ulises confessed, then returned to the topic at hand. “Even with Mercedes, I would feel easier if you took more people. Trusted men. Commander Aimon could choose.”

  “No.”

  Ulises scowled. “It’s madness to go into that forest, Elias, without more men to watch your back.” Whatever he saw on Elias’s face made him throw his hands up in irritation. “I could order you to do it; you realize that?”

  “Would you order me?” Elias demanded. Is this what it would be like for the rest of their lives? Ulises would spring his kingship on him with a threat?

  Ulises didn’t answer straightaway but scowled off into space with his arms folded, one finger tapping against his arm. “Do you trust your friend Mori?”

  “Yes,” Elias said without hesitation.

  “Then I do, too. Reyna is your only other choice, and that is no choice at all. So. You and Mercedes will watch over each other.” He held up a hand as Elias opened his mouth to speak. “No, listen to me. I’ll have both of you safe. The sooner we decipher these maps and learn what happened to my brothers, the bet—”

  A sound came from behind them. The inhalation of breath so faint, Elias would have dismissed it as the wind . . . except Ulises had heard it, too. They turned.

  The arena’s curved wall was inches away. Several feet above their heads, rectangular openings had been left in the stone to better circulate the air. On the other side of the wall, he knew, was a long tunnel that led to work chambers used by the kingdom’s weapon makers: sword makers, crossbow makers, shield makers, engineers, armorers. Anyone passing by could have heard their conversation. He saw that Ulises had come to the same conclusion.

  They waited, unmoving, but there was nothing: no voices, no footsteps, no ill-timed sneeze to give anyone away. Finally, Elias stood. “We’re being careless.”

  “Or maybe high-strung, imagining ears at every window.” Ulises tossed his cloth onto the bench. “Stop looking so suspicious. There was no one there.”

  Elias found the navigation chambers empty save for Luca, who worked at a table covered with parchment, paints, and ink.

  Those admitted to del Mar’s School of Navigation were a mix of noblemen’s children and those less wealthy whose intellect had earned them royal patronage. Luca was the fifth son of a cobbler, who, from an early age, had shown far more interest in longitude and latitude than in the soles and arches of a man’s foot. He was Elias’s age, with a brawler’s build—thick arms and rolling shoulders—which made the delicate, round spectacles perched on his nose all the more incongruous. He would also be sailing off in six weeks, as geographer for the Palma.

  Luca wiped his hands on his apron, smearing ink across the white cloth. “I’m relieved to see you here,” he said, by way of greeting. He clapped Elias on the shoulders, kissed him on each cheek, and grinned. “I heard you were in the dungeons after challenging the king yesterday. I heard it was over a woman.”

  “You think everything is over a woman.” Glancing around the empty chamber, Elias added, “Since when are you so industrious? I’ve never known you to miss a meal.” Everyone else must have gone to seek their lunch in the great dining hall.

  “I blame you.” Luca gestured toward the parchment spread across the table. Elias recognized his maps from Hellespont. “Madame wants these copied. She didn’t say so outright, but I don’t think I’m supposed to stop for meals or rest.” He looked Elias up and down, noting the bruises. “I heard about your ship. How many lives do you have left, I wonder?”

  Elias shrugged. “Seven, maybe.”

  Luca made a rude sound. “More like three. Where have you been all morning? Your friend has been very patient.”

  “My . . . ?” Only then did Elias notice the small face peering at him from across the chamber, nearly hidden behind the immense statue of Saint Cosme. Reyna. When she saw that he had spied her, she ducked behind the marble.

  “I told her it could be hours before you turned up,” Luca said, “but she wanted to wait.”

  Elias walked over, footsteps echoing, and rounded the statue. Three wide marble steps served as a base. Reyna sat upon the top step, her back pressed agai
nst the long-suffering Cosme’s ankles. A white, dust-covered apron protected her blue dress. She was industriously polishing an astrolabe with a rag. More astrolabes were piled around her on the steps in a tangle of metal.

  Elias leaned one shoulder against Cosme’s bared, muscled legs. “Hello, Reyna. Are you being punished for something?”

  She looked up from her polishing, startled. “What do you mean?”

  He indicated the astrolabes. “Whenever your grandfather disapproved of something I did, I found myself here. Scrubbing the astrolabes.”

  She did not smile exactly, but at least she no longer looked afraid of him. “I like to scrub them. It helps me think.”

  Not something one usually heard from a nine-year-old. He asked, “Did your grandfather send you?”

  She shook her head. “He’s having his meal with Lord Braga. Master Luca said I could stay as long as I wasn’t idle.” She glanced at Elias’s carrier and then looked away, her gaze dancing about his shoulders, his hair, before finally meeting his. “I’m very sorry for yesterday.”

  She spoke softly; still, he glanced over at Luca, whose back was to them. Elias kept his own voice low. “Why should you be?”

  “I didn’t think about how much trouble the map would cause,” she confessed. “I shouldn’t have told anyone of it.”

  He had frightened her with his temper—snarling at Mercedes, snarling at Ulises—and had likely caused a sleepless night. There were shadows beneath her eyes that he didn’t remember seeing yesterday. He felt like a horse’s ass.

  He moved a handful of astrolabes to the bottom step and sat beside her. “You did right, showing it to the king. I was surprised yesterday, but I still shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

  “But what about your family? I like your sisters. And your maman, very much.”

  He’d spent his own restless night, imagining the malice that would spread if these maps came to light. His poor maman, with two husbands living. “I’ll just have to make sense of these maps quickly, before anyone else learns of them.”