The old woman's hands disentangled themselves and fluttered nervously for a moment until with a noisy effort, she bent down and picked up the spluttering torch. Drayner's defender somewhat sulkily sheathed his sword, as did Arwain, and the three guards raised their pikes. Eron Drayner was not only Duke Ibris's personal physician, he was highly respected both in Serenstad and beyond, and was one of the few men in public life who could stand contemptuously aloof from the perpetual bickering and scheming that marred it.
He also had a tongue ‘worth ten pikemen’ according to those who had cause to know, and pointing a weapon at him was a decidedly unwise act.
Drayner's face puckered indecisively for a moment, as if he had lost his train of thought, then the woman he was supporting gave a low moan and with a brief grimace of self-reproach he took abrupt charge of the proceedings.
'Anyway, now you're here, you can help me get this young lady to my surgery,’ he declared. He turned to the servants. ‘You two can go back now, Lord Arwain will escort us from here.'
The manservant bowed and turned to leave, but the old woman laid a hand on his arm to restrain him. She cast an anxious look first at the young woman and then at Drayner. ‘Go, go,’ Drayner said urgently, but gently. ‘She'll be all right.’ Adding significantly, ‘Look to yourselves.’ The old woman hesitated a little longer, then, at another nod from Drayner, she made a brief curtsy and left.
Without being asked, Arwain stepped forward and put his arm round the young woman, but she started violently at his touch and shook it off, taking hold of Drayner's arm tightly. ‘I can manage, now,’ she said, her voice muffled and distressed.
Arwain looked at Drayner, puzzled.
'Let the lord support you. He's stronger than I am,’ the physician said, patting her arm reassuringly. ‘And he's not like…’ He stopped in mid-sentence and turned away from Arwain sharply.
'Dirkel, run ahead with one of the guards and make the surgery ready,’ he said briskly to cover the apparent slip. Arwain nodded his confirmation to the guards and then hesitantly reached out to support the young woman again. This time she accepted his arm.
'What's happened?’ Arwain asked as they walked slowly back. ‘And why were you trailing through the cellars?'
'The young lady's had a nasty fall,’ Drayner said. ‘And we came this way because it's the quickest way and because the fog will chill this poor girl into a fever in her present condition.’ His voice, however, was a little too loud, as if he were anxious not to elaborate on the incident. For a moment, Arwain considered pressing him, but the woman was obviously in need of attention and if Drayner was choosing to lie about what had happened then it was not a matter to be aired in front of the guards: Drayner might be above politics but he was not oblivious to them.
Arwain nodded but remained silent until they eventually arrived at Drayner's surgery where he dismissed the guards.
'Thank you, Lord Arwain,’ Drayner said as they entered the surgery. ‘I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but your help was most timely. If you'll excuse me I'll have to look to my patient now. I'll let you get back to your bed.'
He was leading the woman into a nearby room while he was speaking and he concluded his comments over his shoulder, almost offhandedly. Arwain made no reply, but instead of leaving, sat down on a long wooden bench.
The surgery was warm and bright after the journey through the cold cellars and the even colder fog, but welcome though the warmth was, Arwain felt uneasy.
Apart from the effects of his strange early rising, and his curiosity about the events that had brought no less a person than Drayner from his bed, the room held old childhood memories for him, most of which were not particularly pleasant. Drayner had been the court physician for many years before he had risen to become the Duke's, and Arwain had been his reluctant patient on more than one occasion.
As he sat waiting Drayner's pleasure, he did as he had done as a child-he stared around at the shelves that lined the room. A battle array of ancient mysteries defied his adult gaze: tall bottles, green and bulbous; short ones, brown and squat; dull ones, red and menacing. Dusty bottles with peeling, faded labels, strangely stained; shiny, freshly labelled bottles; bottles with strange fluted spouts and twisted necks. Then there were the flank guards: ranks of small boxes and solid commonplace clear glass jars full of pills and powders and … other things.
Arwain's gaze yielded the field and drifted to the cupboards. Some were glass-fronted, dimly revealing the fearsome weapons of Drayner's art; others, mercifully, were blank-faced with polished wooden doors and polished brass hinges and handles.
Briefly, he took in the rest of the room: the large cabinet with its ridiculous little legs and its row upon row of tiny drawers; the pictures and charts; the occasional mournful bone; that damned skull with its hollow eyes, and finally, the table. Then the vividly evocative smell of the room reached through his fog-stifled senses and he puffed out his cheeks unhappily.
Straight from his childhood came the urge in his legs to flee and, urgently, and rather self-consciously, he brought his hands to his knees to still them. Then, sitting up stiffly, he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand.
There was some coming and going in the adjacent room and the occasional muffled comment which Arwain could not distinguish. Once or twice, Dirkel, a round-faced, earnest-looking youth, came out to retrieve a bottle or a jar, but he avoided the gaze of his erstwhile adversary.
Finally, partly out of curiosity and partly to assert his authority over his legs, Arwain stood up and walked over to the door of the room. As he did so, Drayner emerged, looking both pleased and angry. He started slightly when he saw Arwain.
'Go back to bed, Dirkel,’ he said back into the room hastily. ‘She'll be all right now, and I don't want you yawning all day, we'll be busy after this fog.’ Then, fatherly, he took Arwain's arm.
'There's nothing you can do, lord,’ he said understandingly, endeavouring to shepherd Arwain away from the door.
Arwain, however, did not move, leaving the physician heaving awkwardly on his arm for a moment.
'Some goblin saw fit to wake me at this ungodly hour and draw me to the window just as you were passing,’ Arwain said. ‘I'll see this matter through to its end.'
Drayner bridled briefly but he was unable to meet Arwain's gaze and, reluctantly, he stepped to one side to allow him past.
The room was small and simply decorated, and a soft lamplight gave it a restful quality. Along one wall was a bed in which lay the young woman.
'She's asleep,’ Drayner said. ‘And will be for several hours. I've given her a draught. There is nothing you can do.'
Arwain ignored this last effort to deflect him and walked over to the bed.
As he looked down at the sleeping figure his frown deepened. The young woman was probably very pretty, and really little more than a girl; Arwain doubted she was twenty years old. But it was difficult to judge, for though her features were relaxed in sleep, they were swollen and discoloured by bruising; her lip was badly split and there was a gash over one eye. He had seen similar injuries often enough-on men.
'This was no fall,’ he said quietly, turning to Drayner. ‘She's been beaten. And savagely at that. Who did this? And why does it warrant the attention of my father's personal physician in the middle of the night?'
This time Drayner held his gaze, but he did not reply. Arwain was about to pursue his questioning when the memory returned of teeth accidentally gouging his hand as he lashed out in his fury. Gently he reached down and parted the swollen lips; a bloody cavity squired a milk-white partner. Arwain frowned, then he looked at the side of the woman's face; four great weals scarred it such as would result from a powerful blow with an open palm. He knew that if he pulled back the sheet a little, he would see bruising on her throat.