Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(36)

Gianni Patto stared at me across the square. I stared back. He did not look like he had in my visions. That is, he was physically the same, but there was an intelligence in his eyes, something I knew but could not name, a cat-like deviousness.

The wild man roared inarticulately, then roared again, saying words this time and turning my insides to ice: “Sera! Feee-nah!”

How could he know my name? I asked Abdo, but he did not respond. I glanced over in alarm; Nan was on horseback, holding the wilting boy before her on the saddle.

Josquin plucked at my sleeve; he’d been speaking, but I hadn’t been listening. “… Abdo to the palasho,” he repeated, his voice a balm to my frantic heart. “The baronet will have the best physician. We need to hurry.”

I nodded numbly and mounted my horse. Our guard rode ahead, two soldiers carrying the bundled body of the monk between them, two pulling Gianni by his bound wrists, and two flanking him with their swords drawn. Nan carried Abdo, and Captain Moy took up the rear with me. Gianni Patto docilely allowed himself to be led, his taloned toes scrabbling at the cobbles of the square, but he never took his eyes off me. I lagged as far behind as I dared; he twisted halfway around just to stare at me.

“I wish you had told me it was Gianni Patto you were after,” said Moy, sighing heavily. “We could have done this differently.”

“I didn’t know he was famous,” I said.

Moy tugged on his beard. “I wasn’t sure he really existed, but he’s the bogeyman at this altitude. My mother used to say, ‘Behave, or we’ll tie you in a tree for Gianni Patto.’ They’ll tell tales of him killing that monk for generations, you may be sure.”

“The monk tried to kill Abdo first,” I said, my throat tightening.

A monk of St. Abaster’s Order. Had he followed us from the monastery? Did he know what we were?

The track to the palasho was steep and rugged, winding around boulders and stunted trees. Josquin galloped ahead, spurring his horse hard up the track. By the time we arrived, he had talked the portcullis open and was directing people this way and that. Two burly smiths helped wrangle Gianni toward a round tower as servants bore the monk’s body to the chapel. Nan carried Abdo to the barracks infirmary. Grooms took our horses.

I stared at nothing, unfocused. Josquin touched my arm and said, “I’ve arranged a privy meeting with Lord Donques, since I expect you aren’t up to the usual—” I met his eye and he stopped short. “No. Of course, Abdo first. Let’s make sure he’s all right.”

We hurried across the courtyard and into the barracks. Nan blocked the infirmary doorway, her helmet under her arm, strands of blond hair stuck to her cheeks with sweat. “You don’ want to see zis,” she said.

“Seraphina can decide for herself,” said Josquin. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and said in a lowered voice, “Find me in the keep when you’re done here. I’ll speak to Lord Donques myself. He’s going to want to try your wild man for murder, I don’t doubt. Do you still want the creature brought back with us to Segosh?”

“I do,” I said. “That monk was here with murder on his mind. He had a second knife. Gianni Patto killed him to save Abdo’s life—or maybe mine.”

“Agreed. I will make that argument.” Josquin bowed gravely and departed.

Nan moved to let me pass. Abdo lay upon a simple straw pallet on the floor; a middle-aged woman in a kerchief had unwrapped his arm and was washing it in a basin. The wash water had turned pink with blood. “How bad is it, Doctor?” I asked in Goreddi.

The woman turned serious eyes upon me and said something in Ninysh. Nan translated: “She not a doctor. Ze garrison is hunting bear. Ze doctor goes to zem. She is palasho’s … eh …” Nan snapped her fingers, but the Goreddi word didn’t come.

“Midwife,” boomed a voice behind Nan. Moy squeezed past her in the doorway.

I met Abdo’s eyes. He reached for me wordlessly, and I sat on the floor beside him. The midwife glanced over but didn’t shoo me away. She carefully palpated Abdo’s wrist; he gritted his teeth and cringed. I held his good hand, and he squeezed painfully. The midwife spoke and Nan translated again: “Move fingers, sweet apple. One by a time, starting from …” She wriggled her thumb illustratively.

Abdo curled his left thumb. He curled it again.

“Now ze rest,” said Nan, but Abdo burst into tears. The midwife’s eyes welled up in sympathy.

“Tendons are cut.” It was Moy translating this time. “She can’t fix them. She’s gonna stitch you up and give you good poultices to prevent infection.”

Nan muttered something in an uncharitable tone.

“The baronet’s doctor could do no better,” said her father grimly. “Maybe Count Pesavolta has a surgeon who can repair tendons, maybe not. It’s delicate work.”

“He need zat hand,” growled Nan.

The midwife mixed a draft of herbs and wine for Abdo; I helped him sit up to drink it. As it took effect, some of his shock dissipated and he began to speak groggily to me. That monk tried to kill me. It’s chance that he missed. I’m alive by chance.

I held his good hand. That’s your god, isn’t it? Chance?

But what chance sent him after me? Abdo said, his voice slower and looser.