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mistaken for a maid, with a long stretch of the imagination. There were cooks and the like
who would be perfectly able to identify her as "Tanager," and for a noble, there wasn't a
great deal of difference between a "maid" and a "street-musician."
"So the man is gone, and we have no suspects whatsoever." T'fyrr clacked his beak
with anger. "This is not cheerful news, Captain."
"Do tell," the man retorted heatedly. "At the moment our best hope is that Lord
Harperus regains consciousness and can tell us what he saw. That is probably why the
physician was sent I expect it was by the Captain of the Watch." The Captains tone
turned condescending. "I'm afraid that he hasn't had much experience with injuries. I am
certain he thought a head injury was no more serious than a drunken stupor and could be
dealt with in much the same way."
His tone implied that the Watch Captain had no combat experience, which was
probably true and the scars on his own face and hands spoke volumes for his expertise.
"So your best hope is to keep him safe." T'fyrr turned the full force of his gaze on the
Captain. "I am the nearest you have to an expert on Deliambren medicine although, if
you want a real expert, there is a Deliambren running a tavern in the city, a place called
Freehold. His name is Tyladen. He probably has a great deal more knowledge than I."
"I know the place," the captain replied. "Many of my men have been there, now and
again, and they speak highly of the place. I've been there myself."
For entertainment? Not primarily, I warrant. Probably to see if it was a hotbed of
Fuzzy subversion. But it wasn't, and so he permits his men to visit it recreationally.
"Tyladen of Freehold might be persuaded to come attend to his fellow countryman's
needs," T'fyrr said, and Nightingale sensed his fragment of ironic pleasure at the notion
that Tyladen just might be forced to do something besides sit in his office like a spider in a
web, collecting information at no cost or danger to himself. She was beginning to have a
very poor opinion of Tyladen's courage, and she knew T'fyrr shared it. "Other than
Tyladen, I am your nearest source, and I assure you, it would be much better to wait
until Lord Harperus wakes of his own accord. It could be dangerous to try to bring him to
consciousness at this point."
The Captain acknowledged T'fyrr's expertise with an unwilling nod. "I'll have that
noted, Sire T'fyrr," he added politely. "Now, by your leave, I'll take mine."
T'fyrr bowed slightly, and the Captain walked out, at a slightly faster pace than he'd
arrived. T'fyrr had impressed him with a level head and good sense, at any rate.
They both returned to their seats beside Harperus' bed. Nob had long since closed the
curtains against the night and lit a lamp or two, turning them low. Most of the room was
in shadow; the rest in half-light. Curtains pulled halfway around the bed to keep the light
from disturbing the occupant left the bed itself in deep shadows, in which Harperus' white
hair gleamed softly against the pillow.
The Haspur turned to Nightingale and touched her hand, as lightly as a puff of down,
with the talon that had just come close to crushing the wrist of the interfering physician.
She smiled tremulously at him.
"When do you think he'll wake?" he asked her in a tense whisper.
She closed her eyes and again dropped briefly into the healing-spell with three key
notes of the chant. The song Harperus wove about himself was coming to a close, winding
in and around itself the way that all Deliambren music ended, in a reprise of the
beginning, a serpent swallowing its own tail. "Soon, very soon," she said, opening her eyes
again. "Within an hour or two at the very most, I suspect."
T'fyrr sighed with relief. "It cannot be too soon for me."
"Nor for me," she replied. "I still need to invoke healing on you again "
"And I on you," he interrupted, and a gentle warmth washed over her as he touched
the back of her hand again. "But we may be sitting here guarding Harperus until "
"Until what?" came a weak voice from the shadows. "Until the moon turns blue? Until
the Second Cataclysm?"
"Until you wake, old fool!" T'fyrr said, turning quickly toward the head of the bed. "By
the winds, you had us worried!"
"Not half so much as I worried myself," Harperus replied with a groan and a sigh as he
tried to sit up. "I'm too old to be practicing self-healing. It is a bad habit to get into,
relying on self-healing too much."
"It is a worse habit to put yourself in situations where you need to practice it,"
Nightingale scolded. By now the guards just outside the bedchamber had heard the third
voice, and one had come to investigate. He had come in at least twice so far today, fooled
by T'fyrr's mimicking ability while they were practicing their music.
"Lord Harperus is awake and ready to speak," T'fyrr told him, as the man opened his
mouth to ask what was going on. "While you are notifying those in authority, you ought to
send a servant to bring some food for Lord Harperus "
"Light food," Nightingale interrupted. "Suitable for an invalid. And make sure it is
tested before you serve it to him. Remember, we do not know who attacked him, or what
positions his attackers hold. They could work in the kitchen."
"Oh, not tea and toast!" Harperus complained, but subsided at her glare, sinking into
the shadows of the bed. "Well, all right. I suppose you know best, Nightingale, you are
healer-trained. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you wouldn't promise to
come here!"
"I wouldn't," she said, tartly, in the Gypsy tongue. "And this is the reason why! I've
been here all along; I'm T'fyrr's accompanist. I just didn't want you delightful people to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]