Pen did so, but thought unshipping his purse and paying in advance for the guard, and a few other details he didn’t inquire into too deeply, did more. When he finished he didn’t have enough left for boat fare back to the Isle of Gulls.
Borrow it from Iserne, Des suggested. I imagine she’ll be good for it.
Though by now, he’d have emptied out every last coin just to get Merin safely into a cell. Vastly more efficient and less trouble than, say, chasing the fugitive through Lodi till he pitched into a canal and drowned from the weight of his stolen money belt.
Less satisfying, though, said Des. Have I mentioned I actually like your overactive imagination?
Speak for yourself. Bloody-minded demon. Yet the vivid picture of having to pull the rotting bodies of Chio and Ree out of some similar canal, had Merin had his way, drained Pen’s thought of ire. Lodi canals were a deal warmer and less preserving than the chill Martensbridge lake.
The watchmen still squinted at them all, but the prospect of transferring the entire mess to the hands of the day shift probably did more to sway them than had Pen’s coins and Learned Iserne’s name and direction combined. They divided their tasks, one standing sentry and the other trotting off for reinforcements, and Pen seized the chance to slip his party away before yet more questioners arrived and he’d have to go over it all again.
Ree’s dismasted leg was still not working right, so Pen heaved him up with his arm over his shoulder. He choked down a whimper.
Pen tried to herd the saint ahead of them to the ruined door, but at the last moment she darted back and searched out an ornamented hair stick from where it had rolled into a bale. Setting her teeth, she then bent, wrapped her fist around the glass ball of the one still in Merin’s arm, and yanked it back out. Blood spattered on the wooden floor as he jerked and whined. Efficiently, she wiped the wet shank on his gray jacket.
Rejoining Pen and Ree, she wound her messy braid back up on her head and pinned it crookedly in place. Ree watched this firm gesture with, apparently, great admiration.
“Good,” she said, collecting Merin’s walking-lantern as well. “Let’s go.”
I’m not in charge of this parade anymore, am I, Des, Pen thought as they limped after the girl.
You haven’t been all night. God-touched, if you didn’t notice. I did.
…Aye.
It was the deadest hour of the night. Even the most determined celebrants had staggered home, and early workers were not yet abroad. The lantern, held aloft by Chio as Pen supported Ree, guttered out of oil before they reached Iserne’s house. The moon served, just high enough for its pale light to angle down between the close buildings.
Chio glanced over her shoulder. “Your whites make you glow like a ghost.”
“Ghosts are grayer, usually.”
“Oh? Not the ones I see.”
“Maybe the god gets them fresher?”
Ree’s brow wrinkled at this exchange.
As they made the last turn, Pen could see a single light still burning on the street, suspended from its chain over Iserne’s door. This was one lamp that wasn’t going to be allowed of run out of oil before dawn, he wagered.
“Up we go,” he told Ree as they reached the steps, preparing to hoist, but Ree got more power out of his one working leg than Pen expected. His intent face lifted; Pen could feel his body shaking from more than just painful effort.
Rapid footfalls sounded from inside even as Pen raised his hand to the lion-faced doorknocker. He stepped back hastily before his second tap lest they be bumped back down the steps as the door was flung wide.
“Ohfivegodsbethankedyou’resafe!” Pen staggered a bit as Iserne fell on them, or rather on Ree. For a moment, she seemed to have four or six arms, not two, as she alternated between hugging her son, and inspecting him for injuries.
Chio’s smile, as she watched this from the side, was secret, tender, and deeply pleased.
“What’s wrong with your right arm?” Iserne demanded, taking up Ree’s limp hand. She drew back only a little when she finally thought to ask Pen, “Is he all right now?”
Pen didn’t think even the wild demon could have impeded this welcome-home. “Yes, thanks to Blessed Chio and our god, he’s all himself again.”
Iserne exhaled in vast relief.
“I’m afraid the numbness in his arm and his leg is the doing of my sorcery, but we had to hold”—he probably shouldn’t use the nickname Madboy in front of Ree’s mother—“the demon down for the saint to do her work, and it was, of course, resisting us.”
“But—what—but come in, come in, all of you.” She drew them into her hallway, casting a last look into the darkness. “Is Ser Merin not with you?”
“Not anymore,” said Pen. “Long story, which we’ll get to in a bit.”
“Oh. Good.” She shut the door firmly and shot the bolt. Turning back to them, she said to Ree, “Should you lie down? Should I send for a physician? I made you food.”
“Learned Penric has some skills as a physician,” Chio put in. “I don’t think we need another tonight.”
Yes, and how much did she know about that? Another private aspect of himself Pen knew he had not discussed. “Ree’s few days at the Gift of the Sea helped the worst of his exposure and exhaustion. He could hardly have been delivered into more expert hands for that. The numbness should pass off in a while.” Duration prudently unspecified.
“Yes, but what exactly did you do to him?” Iserne’s scowl was more puzzled than angry, fortunately.
“Let’s just say that learning sorcerous healing also teaches everything one could want to know about sorcerous hurting,” said Pen. “Two sides of one coin.” Which was why sorcerer-physicians were the rarest and most closely overseen of Temple servants. Pen was relieved when Iserne did not follow up with more questions, dismissing Pen and his late craft in favor of her more immediate concerns.
“Food would be good,” said Ree. “And sitting. Then lie down. I’m so tired. But oh, Mother, I have so much to tell you. It was all such madness, and I’m still reeling.” In truth, as he hung on his rescuer’s shoulder, but only the physical part of that was Pen’s doing. “Is Father back yet?”
“Not till next week, but I may hurry him with a note.”
“Good. There are things he’ll need to know, and Uncle Nigus, too.”
“I have a meal laid out in the dining room. Please join us, Learned, Blessed.” Her attempt to curtsey and beckon them on simultaneously resulted in a sort of hand-waving bob. Pen helped the halting Ree through the indicated archway off the entry hall—his left leg was getting more movement now, good. Chio set the spent lantern and their masks on a side table and followed.
Iserne had not been jesting. Enough fare for ten people was scattered across the Richelon family’s dining table. The array was very miscellaneous, everything an invading army of one woman could possibly forage from a kitchen after midnight when she could not rest: ends of cold meat, cheeses, fruit and dried fruit, boiled eggs, cabbage salad, nuts, fresh-baked bread and cakes, custards, jam tarts, restoring herb tea, wines and water.
“So much food,” muttered Pen. “How many people was she expecting?”
“I believe it was a prayer,” Chio murmured from his other side.
Aye, Des agreed.
As Pen helped Ree into a chair, Iserne scurried to fetch a hand basin and towel, which, along with a sliver of fine white soap, she presented first to Chio, then Pen, then her son. Chio, who’d seated herself on Ree’s right, helped his half-working hands with the washup.