Through the Darkness

The next thing he knew, they were lifting him out of the crate again. He had a new pain in his broken leg, and a new one in his flank, too, with no memory of how he’d got them. He also had no sure way of knowing whether they’d left him in there an hour or a couple of weeks. One of the attendants offered him a little glass cup filled with a viscous, purplish fluid. He gulped it down. It tasted nasty. He’d expected nothing different. After what seemed forever but couldn’t really have been too long, the pain drifted away--or rather, it stayed and he drifted away from it.

He dimly recalled taking the purplish stuff a few more times. Then, instead, a nurse gave him a thinner yellow liquid that didn’t taste quite so vile. Some of the pain returned, though without the raw edge it would have had absent the yellow stuff. Some of his wits returned, too.

He didn’t notice Grandmaster Pinhiero coming into his room, but did recognize him after realizing he was there. “How are you today?” Pinhiero asked, worry on his wrinkled, clever face.

“Here,” Fernao answered. “More or less here, anyhow.” He took stock. He needed a little while; he could think clearly under the yellow distillate, but he couldn’t think very fast. “Not too bad, all things considered. But there’s a good deal to consider, too.”

“I believe that,” Pinhiero said. “They tell me, though, they won’t have to do any more really fancy repairs on you. Now you’re truly on the mend.”

“They tell you that, do they?” Fernao thought some more, slowly. “They didn’t bother telling me. Of course, up till not too long ago I wouldn’t have had much notion of what they were talking about, anyhow.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back with us, and not too badly off,” Pinhiero said, which only proved he hadn’t been through what Fernao had. The yellow drug took the edge off Fernao’s anger, as it had taken the edge off his pain. The grandmaster went on, “That army colonel and I have had a thing or two to say to each other lately.”

“Have you?” That drew Fernao’s interest regardless of whether he was drugged. “What kinds of things?”

“Oh, this and that.” Pinhiero sometimes delighted in being difficult. Who was the Kuusaman mage who acted even worse? Ilmarinen, that’s what his name was. Dredging it up gave Fernao a brief moment of triumph.

“For instance?” he asked. He knew he had more patience with the drug than he would have without.

“For instance? The business the Kuusamans are playing with. You know what I mean. Is that an interesting enough for-instance for you?” Pinhiero waggled a finger at Fernao. “I know more about it now than I did when I sent you east to Yliharma, too.”

“Do you?” Fernao also knew he should have been more excited, but the drug wouldn’t let him. “What do you know?”

“I know you were right.” Pinhiero swept off his hat and gave Fernao a ceremonious bow. “The Kuusamans have indeed stumbled onto something interesting. More than that I shall not say, not where the walls have ears.”

Had Fernao still been taking the purple distillate, he might have seen, or imagined he saw, ears growing out of the walls. With the purple stuff, it wouldn’t even have surprised him. Now his wits were working well enough to recognize a figure of speech. Progress, he thought. “Are they talking more than they were?” he asked.

“They are.” The grandmaster nodded. “For one thing, we’re allies now. They aren’t neutral any more. But I think the whack Yliharma took counts for more. That’s what showed them they can’t do everything all by themselves.”

“Sounds sensible,” Fernao agreed--but then, Pinhiero was nothing (except possibly devious) if not sensible. After a little more slow thought, the mage added, “When they do finally let me out of here, I want to work on that. I already told Peixoto as much.” He touched one of the scars--scars now, not healing scabs or open wounds--on the arm he hadn’t broken. “And I’ve earned the right.”

“So you have, lad; so you have. Even more to the point, you know where they took flight, and that’ll help you get off the ground.”

“Here’s hoping,” Fernao said. “After dealing with the Ice People for so long, I don’t know if I know anything anymore.”

“You’ll do fine,” Pinhiero told him. “You have to do fine. The kingdom needs you.” As Peixoto had before, he waved and left. He could leave. Even with the yellow distillate dulling his senses, Fernao knew how jealous he was of that.

Three days later, the attendants heaved him onto his feet for the first time since he’d come to Setubal. They gave him crutches. Getting one under the arm still encased in plaster wasn’t easy, but he managed. By then, he was down to a half dose of the yellow drug, so everything hurt. He felt like an old, old man. But he was upright, and managed a few swaying steps without falling on his face. He had to ask the attendants for help in turning him around toward the bed. He made it back there, too. Progress, he thought again.