Pierrot Writes (h/c)

Connell wound the white tongue of bandage around itself, knotting it as he reached the end. Rolling bandages wasn’t his job; Dr. Quinby had told him as much the last time he’d found him doing it. “Leave that for Jordie and Billy,” he’d said kindly, hand hovering over Connell’s shoulder without making contact. “Goodness knows those two need something to do.” His voice dipped. “I caught the two of them in the supply closet yesterday. Not rolling bandages.”

“I don’t mind, sir,” Connell had said. “I like to be useful.” Hearing himself, he winced; it sounded like something Luca would say.

“You are by far the most useful person in this infirmary, myself included,” said Quinby. There was no hint of mockery in his voice. (Connell was certain; he was listening for it.) “In fact, I found a passage in Herbarium Herbariatum that I was hoping to get your thoughts on…”

(It was astonishing how often Quinby sought out Connell’s opinion. How carefully he listened—as if Connell had anything to say worth listening to.)

Anyway, Connell liked rolling bandages, even if it wasn’t his job. It had become a sort of ritual at the end of the day. And it was a reminder, too, of how far he’d come since this sort of grunt work was all he was allowed.

“Here, let me take that over,” said Jordie, coming up beside him. “You’re needed.”

“Another sprained ankle?”

Jordie shook her head. “Robert Black’s boy. He’s awake and asking after you.”

Connell sprang to his feet. He couldn’t believe his luck. Luca was in that stage of healing when you slept like the dead; he was rarely conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, and so groggy when he was conscious that Connell wasn’t sure he knew who was tending him. His longer waking stretches were co-opted by Robert Black, who seemed to have a sixth sense for when he was awake. Connell would hurry to Luca’s room only to see Black’s shadow behind the curtain and hear the deep rumble of his voice. He didn’t dare disturb them. Luca belonged to Black, after all. Connell had no more right to his company than when they were both slaves.

But when Connell reached Luca’s room, it was empty of Robert Black. Luca was blinking the sleep from his eyes. When he saw Connell, his face lit up.

“Connell!” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow. “You look so well. Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Gods, was that an understatement.

“You work here now?”

“I’m Dr. Quinby’s assistant,” said Connell, trying not to sound too full of himself.

Hearing Quinby’s name, Luca’s face went blank. “At Highcourt, they called him Dr. Quincy.”

“Dr. Quinby was at Highcourt?”

“He treated the boys in the seray.”

“Did he hurt you?” said Connell sharply.

“Not him. Another doctor.” He tried to smile. “But Quinby was kind. I don’t think he wanted to be there any more than we did.”

But of course Luca didn’t want to talk about Highcourt. He never did. He looked away, licking his lips convulsively. Connell fetched him a cup of the honeyberry shrub he’d brewed in consultation with the Herbarium.

“Oh, this is so nice,” said Luca, cradling the cup in his hands. “Thank you, sir.”

Mock-stern, Connell said, “What did Doran tell you about calling us sir?”

“Yes, but—” Luca gestured to the collar lying heavy at his throat, then at the empty space around Connell’s neck.

“That doesn’t change need to anything,” said Connell, knowing it wasn’t true but wanting it to be so desperately that he half-convinced himself.

Luca wasn’t persuaded. He gave one of his vague, vacant half-smiles, void of any opinion, and said, “Dr. Quinby must trust you very much, to have made you his assistant.”

Connell ducked his head so Luca wouldn’t see him flush.

“I’m grateful to him. He’s been good to me, really good. He—” Gods, his face was on fire now. “He gave me a book. With pictures, so I can—learn about anatomy, you know.” He stood abruptly. “I ought to change your bandages.”

Luca’s feet were healing better than any of them had expected. Still, this was probably small comfort balanced against the agony of having the still-raw burns unwrapped. As Connell worked, Luca kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. As always, he made no sign that he was in pain.

Connell felt a stab of worry. At this stage in the healing process, a lack of sensation wasn’t a good thing.

“I, ah, I’m sorry to ask,” he said, “but are you—well, are you feeling this at all?”

Luca nodded slightly.

“Does it hurt?” Connell pressed.

“A little,” Luca admitted after a moment. “Not as much. Last time—last time was worse.”

There was a world of pain in what Luca wasn’t saying. Cleaning the burns was necessary, but Connell felt no less a beast. In fact, he felt as much a beast as he had when he flushed out the fresh lash-marks on Luca’s back.

“This’ll help,” he said, unwinding a fresh roll of salve-soaked bandages. “It’s a good thing, you know, the pain. I know that must sound awful, but it means your nerves weren’t damaged.”

“I was always told that pain is the best teacher,” said Luca. He’d closed his eyes; a line appeared between his brows. “I just wish I knew what the lesson was.”

“There isn’t always a lesson, Luca. And gods know there are better teachers.”

“Like you,” said Luca after a moment.

“Me?” said Connell, surprised. “What did I teach you?”

“So much. You and Doran both.” His eyes flew open. “Doran. Is he—”

“He’s fine,” said Connell shortly, wrapping the bandage around Luca’s foot. “He’s always fine. No need to waste your time worrying about Doran. He can take care of himself.”

Luca must’ve heard something more than bitterness in Connell’s voice. He touched his wrist. The bruises from the manacles had faded; there were only traces now.

“Doran didn’t do this to me, Con.”

“He might as well have,” said Connell gruffly. Fields of hell, it was Luca who’d been brutalized. So why was Connell the one close to tears?

The curtain rattled as a gloved hand pulled it aside. Robert Black was so tall he had to duck to enter.

Quickly, guiltily, Connell moved away from Luca, possessed by the feeling he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Stupid, he chided. Seeing to patients was his job, after all. But Black was so terrifying that even being Luca’s general area without his express permission felt like trespassing.

Seeing Black, Luca pushed himself up onto his elbows. For a moment all the color he’d lost came flooding back into his face. It was summer again, and he’d caught the sun.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Robert’s hand hovered over Luca’s face. Luca caught it, pressed it to his cheek. The way they gazed at each other made Connell feel even more like a trespasser.

Without sparing him a glance, Black said to Connell, “Quinby was looking for you. He’s in his office.”

Black might not be a proper lord, but he carried himself with the authority of one. As Connell made his exit, he couldn’t help but sketch a bow.

Before he could close the curtain, Luca tore his attention away from Robert for long enough to ask, “Will I see you again?”

The question was directed at Connell, but they both looked at Black for the answer. Both knew that Luca would only be allowed to see Connell—or anyone else—if his master allowed it.

“Of course you will,” said Black soothingly, stroking the hair back from Luca’s forehead. “Now you’re feeling better, I expect you’ll have no end of visitors.”

It could be true, Connell supposed. Black had no reason to lie.

But then, free men lied to their slaves all the time. Even their favorites. Hell, especially their favorites. The Duke had told Cilla he would free Doran, but it was never a promise he intended to keep. Robert Black could keep Luca locked away from everyone, all the people who loved him, and there wasn’t a single thing they could do to stop him.

First Doran, now Luca. Was there anyone Connell wouldn’t lose? Was this what it meant to be free? To have one door after another closed in his face, until he was truly, totally alone?

Stop that, Connell told himself. He would’ve lost Doran and Luca anyway, if they were all still slaves—Luca to Highcourt and Dor to whatever fate awaited when Balkas got fed up enough to sell him, promise to the old Duke be damned.

Besides, you couldn’t lose something you never had. Their friendship might’ve felt real enough, but it was the product of circumstance. Whenever Doran had any choice in the matter, he’d chosen someone else—Annie, the Ibrerran fellow. Mal Fergus and whatever stupid scheme they had going at Redditch. Even those damned bandits. Doran only ever turned to Connell—as a lover, a friend, an ally—when there wasn’t anyone better in the offing.

And Luca had never had a choice. That was as true now as it had been when Connell was a slave, too.

When Connell arrived at Quinby’s office, he found the door ajar. Voices echoed inside—two voices. Quinby had company, then. Connell was about to leave when Quinby pushed the door open.

“Ah, Connell!” he said, beaming. He stepped aside, ushering Connell into his office. To the trim, good-looking man standing at the window, he said, “Denis, this was the fellow I was telling you about. Connell, this is Sir Denis Chiswick, personal physician to Lord Ambrose.”

“Former personal physician,” Chiswick corrected him. He gave Connell an apologetic smile. “I hope you won’t hold my previous employer against me. My revolutionary awakening may have been belated, but I can assure you that it’s very much in earnest.”

He reached out to shake Connell’s hand. Connell had never shaken a free man’s hand before. He’d never shaken anyone’s hand. He wondered if the gesture felt as awkward to Chiswick as it did to him.

“Quin and I were at medical school together,” said Chiswick. “Where did you train, Dr. Connell?”

“Oh no, sir—no, I didn’t—I’m not—”

Chiswick saw the brand on Connell’s forearm. He dropped his hand like a piece of rubbish. There was a long, long silence.

Connell mumbled, “Is there anything else you wanted with me, Dr. Quinby, sir?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you, Connell.”

Before the door closed, Connell heard Chiswick say, “If that was some sort of bloody joke, Quin—”

Connell stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to Chiswick’s angry voice and Quinby’s soothing one. He couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. He knew what they were saying.

It hadn’t been a joke, Connell was sure of that. Quinby wasn’t that sort of man. He was the sort of man who didn’t think twice about introducing a gentleman to a former slave like they were equals.

At least that’s what Connell’s mother Reenie had said. Doran had protested: surely Connell, who regularly dug up grubs, was more like a badger than he was. (Yes, Connell dug up grubs to draw rather than to eat, but still. The point stood.)

“My Connell is a quail,” said Reenie decidedly. “He blends in when he needs to and he knows how to take care of himself. You, my lad, are a badger. Tough, clever, stubborn as anything. Hardy, too. When the weather changes, you’re the first to adapt.”

Even as a child, Doran had known Reenie wasn’t just talking about the kind of weather that spun the metal rooster on the barn roof. The Duke’s estate had its own climate, a complex system of currents and atmospheric conditions which produced storms no less intense than the ones outside. Doran often found himself caught in the crosswinds. He knew, without anyone having to tell him, that this was because the Duke loved his mother, and Lady Amelia hated her.

(The Duke told Doran’s mother he loved her, anyway. He said the same thing to his horse, and with much the same tone of voice.)

Now, a dozen years later and hundreds of miles from home, Doran had new reason to appreciate his badger-like adaptability. He’d found a nice little place for himself among the soldiers at Redditch, and there was no reason he couldn’t do the same at Guye. 

From what Doran had seen so far, Robert Black’s encampment outside Castle Guye was like and unlike the garrison at Redditch. It was full of soldiers, obviously, and soldiers were more or less the same wherever you went, but these soldiers were unusual (in Doran’s experience, at least) because observed no strict hierarchy between themselves. Once Doran got over the shock, he found this arrangement quite suited him. He had as little patience for hierarchy as a freedman as he had when he was a slave. 

And thank the gods for that. He’d feared the opposite might be true—that he might turn into one of those men hated by everyone, who shun the class they come from even as they’re kicked at by the class they want to join. A man like Hector Balkas.

Doran tried not to think about Balkas. It made his back itch. His back and his fists.

Anyway, there was no need to think about Balkas. Doran had been one to look back over his shoulder; he certainly wasn’t going to start now. Not when there was so much behind him he’d like to forget. 

That smarmy prick Robert Black had ordered him to find an occupation. Well, Doran planned to do exactly that.

The smithy seemed the obvious place to start. Doran had a strong arm and no fear of open flame, which were, as he understood it, the basic requirements for forge-work. He’d always fancied himself as a blacksmith, or maybe even a farrier. He liked horses well enough, and the leather aprons the smiths wore. Besides, he had a vague idea there was money in it. 

Money, now, that was something to be thinking about now he was free. Annie would be waiting for him on the other side of this war, and he wasn’t about to make her a pauper’s bride. She deserved better than that.

Building had started on the smithy on the moor at the same time as the privies were being dug, and while it was nothing to the mighty forge at Redditch, it was still in better nick than the rest of the camp. The crackling fire cast a ring of light and warmth that defied the gloom of the moor. In the glow, Doran saw a familiar figure straighten, hammer in one huge hand.

“Finn?”

“Doran! By the gods, it’s good to see you.”

Finn pulled Doran to his great chest and gave him a bone-cracking squeeze. 

“I see you lost the chain,” said Doran, when Finn released him. “The collar, too.”

“Mislaid it at Redditch,” said Finn cheerfully. He gestured at Doran’s bare neck. “I see you’re short a bit of metal, too.”

“Me and Connell both.” Before Finn could ask about Luca, Doran rushed on, “Tell me what happened at Redditch.”

It was the right question to ask: the garrison’s fall was still blazingly clear in Finn’s mind, and his description was absorbing enough to distract both of them from Luca. Doran hadn’t thought he had any sentimental feelings for Redditch, but hearing about the gates going up in a hail of flame and cinder gave him a funny feeling in his chest. Still, he was cheered to hear that Davies was dead. 

“The forgemaster, too,” said Finn. “Smoke poisoning, of all things.” He shook his head in disgust. “Ah, well, at least he’s gone. Gods forgive me, Doran, but it’s a better world for him being out of it.”

Doran agreed. As far as he was concerned, there were still far too many men like the forgemaster left in the world, and smoke poisoning was far too kind a fate for any of them.

Unfortunately, at this point Finn turned to far less interesting topic, namely the valor, gallantry, and general heroism of Robert Black. 

“He came out of the fire with his sword flashing, like something out of a legend. Rallied the men with a word. They say Roland had Melchior’s blood, but I never believed it til I saw Black in action. He’s a commander, all right. The real thing, not a pretender like Davies and Balkas.”

Doran must’ve winced. Finn gave him a sympathetic look.

“No fond feelings for your old master, eh? I don’t blame you. Balkas was a brute. I’ll never forget that whipping. No wonder Luca was passing the bastard’s secrets on to Black.”

“You knew?” 

“Yeah, he told me,” said Finn, shrugging. “Needed me to make him a contraption to smuggle information out of Breakwater. And here, listen to this—turns out my daughter joined up with the rebels! She’s alive, Doran, can you believe it?”

“That’s fantastic,” said Doran, his mind still on Luca. “Is she here at Guye?”

“Black left her with friends in the Midlands. A gentleman by the name of Fourteys. He’s got an daughter Wilma’s age. Good people, Black says. They won’t treat my girl like a drudge. And Black wrote to tell Fourteys about me, so he can tell my Wilma that papa is coming for her just as soon as he can.” 

Finn had gone wet around the eyes. Doran pretended not to notice, to spare the big man his dignity. 

As Finn pulled himself together, Doran thought back on what he’d just learned. Finn had known Luca was a spy. Toby knowing was bad enough, but at least Toby had figured it out himself. Luca had actually told Finn. Luca never told anyone anything about himself if he could help it. Connell said they shouldn’t pry; Luca would share when he was ready. And he had shared—a little, anyway—and even if most of it was fucking horrifying, Doran was still grateful to hear it. He knew it wasn’t easy for Luca to tell. That made sense, Doran supposed. If he’d been stripped down as often as Luca, maybe he would’ve clung to his secrets, too. Maybe it made him feel a little less naked, knowing there parts of him the men would never see.

So, fine, let Luca keep his secrets. He’d a right to them. But to trust one of the biggest to Finn! Finn was a nice bloke, but he was a fucking stranger compared to Doran. Hell, Luca one of Doran’s closest friends. He’d thought Luca felt the same.

Maybe he’d thought wrong.

“Twinge in my head,” said Doran, seeing Finn’s questioning look. “Anyone else we know come to Guye from Redditch?” 

Finn rattled off a few names, mostly free laborers or freed forgeworkers. “And Mal Fergus, of course. Never one to pass up an opportunity, eh? His brother’s here too. Ned. Joined the rebels at Absalom. Nice as anything, Ned is, and honest as they come. Dunno how Mal came out so crooked and his brother so straight, but that’s family for you.”

Doran thought of Toby and winced again. No mystery as to which of them was the crooked one.

He’d been wondering how to ask Finn about apprenticing at the forge—as a slave he’d always just been assigned work; he had no idea how to go about asking for it—but luckily Finn gave him the perfect opening. They’d set up Redditch as a sort of arms factory for the Midlands, and most of the smiths had been left behind to run it; they were badly undermanned here at Guye. Oh, no doubt the Dogs of Guye had their own smiths, but Finn wasn’t keen on the chances of peaceful collaboration, not after all the trouble over Luca when they arrived.

Here Finn broke off, and Doran could tell he was about to ask if Doran had heard anything about Luca. To cut him off, Doran blurted out his plan (stupid, now he heard himself stammering it aloud) to train as a blacksmith, or maybe a farrier—something along those lines, anyway, and might there be a place for him at the forge?

To Doran’s relief, Finn responded so enthusiastically it was clear that help was badly needed indeed. 

“You won’t be at an anvil right away, mind,” Finn warned him. “It’ll be fetch and carry work, cleaning tools and the like, but you’ll learn as you go, and the lads’ll be glad of the help.”

Fetch and carry work sounded unpleasantly like what Doran had done as Balkas’s drudge, but he supposed even free men had to start somewhere. 

Mal Fergus wasn’t hard to find. He’d found a plum spot to pitch his tent and was dealing out a hand from his “lucky” (for which read “rigged”) deck of cards to a group of soldiers. They were a mixed lot, three Solasans and an Enkaaran, plus a Guyish-looking fellow chewing a birch twig. All watched Fergus deal with the keen avidity of seasoned gamblers.

Fergus, of course, looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. That was his real gift, Doran thought, even more than quick hands and a devious mind: the ability to appear totally plausible even as he was swindling a group of heavily-armed men. 

As Doran approached the table, a boy stepped out from behind the table to block his path. He looked barely old enough to have left home.

“We’ve got a full table,” he said, crossing his arms.

At this, Fergus looked up to see Doran and broke into a broad grin.

“Doran, as I live and breathe! Fellows, excuse me a moment. My lieutenant here will take over.”

“You set up your new operation fast,” said Doran once he and Fergus were out of earshot. (He bit back the sir just in time.) “Got a new flunky and everything. Did you ditch Carnaby and Graeme at Redditch?”

“I buried them at Redditch.”

Fergus said this so casually that Doran gave him a sharp look. But he wasn’t joking. He wore his usual mild, mocking expression, but his jaw was tight, his eyes remote.

“They died when Black’s men took the garrison?” Doran asked.

“They were Black’s men by then. I recruited them. Maybe if I hadn’t, they wouldn’t’ve been killed by their own barracks-mates.” He tried to smile. “Well, here we are. Out of the ashes and all that. Are you happy to see me?”

“Delighted.”

Now it was Fergus’s turn to give Doran a sharp look.

“Still haven’t forgiven me for cutting you off, eh?”

“I know that was Mouse’s doing.”

“Yeah, but your Mouse is hard to hold a grudge against. Especially now.”

Doran forced himself to shrug. A tense, effortful gesture. Like shouldering a stone.

“Anyway,” he said, “I figure you owe me a drink, s—Fergus. Now I’m a free man and all.”

Fergus laughed.

“That’s right! I promised to take you out on the town, didn’t I?” 

“And rent us a pretty girl.”

“Too bad there’s none of those around. Nancy and the rest stayed back in the Midlands.”

“Good,” said Doran, with a vehemence that took both of them aback. He cleared his throat. “You’ve set up quite the a nice little operation here, s—Fergus. Not worried about Black bringing the hammer down?”

“Ah, well. The thing about Black is, he wants everyone to get along. And cards, they’re the great unifier. A common language, see? Solasans, Enkaarans, Northmen—we all speak aces and spades.”

Doran was about to retort when his gaze was caught by a passerby. Words fled.

It was the young man from Black’s tent, of course, the one with the honey-colored eyes and scar on his cheek. He moved lightly, in long strides, like a stalking cat. His clothes hung well on him; Doran could imagine the tapered waist and lean, muscled thighs beneath the fabric.

He was brought back to earth by Fergus jabbing a sharp finger into his ribs.

“Better watch that roving eye of yours, Doran. That lad’s not on the market.”

“He’s got a lover?”

“A protector, anyway.” 

“How protective of a protector?”

“Put it this way: I’d rather steal a boy from the King’s seray than try to chat up Robert Black’s adoptive brother.”

Oh, fields of hell. Doran was beginning to think that Robert Black had been sent by the gods to thwart him. 

“They’re that close, eh?” said Doran weakly.

“I hear Tam Tregeryth himself wanted to court the lad, but when he went to Black for permission, Black threatened to cut off his head and post it on a pike. He’d do it, too. Gods know he’s ruthless enough. And you must’ve seen that barbarian bodyguard of his. Inseparable, the two of them. Anyway, after that, Black put the word out: Asher Lacey is strictly off-limits.”

“You’re well-informed,” said Doran, trying not to sound bitter. “Been collecting gossip like a fishwife, have you?” 

“I keep my ears open, that’s all.”

“You hear anything about Lord Tobias?”

“Balkas’s shitty little squire?” said Fergus, surprised. “Yeah, he’s up at the Castle. Best-treated prisoner in the kingdom, from what I hear.” He eyed the healing bruises on Doran’s cheek and temple. “A fair sight better than the Dogs treated you, I don’t doubt.”

“They had their reasons,” said Doran. He couldn’t explain without telling Fergus what had happened with Luca, and he’d rather have Robert Black’s bodyguard cut off his head and post it on a pike. 

“Well, if you’re keen on revenge, we’ve had more than a few Northmen sneak out to the moor for a bit of action,” said Fergus. “Would be nice to have a strapping fellow like yourself around to keep an eye on things, like you did at Redditch.”

By keep an eye on things Doran knew Fergus meant stand between me and the pissed-off fellow waving a knife. Doran hadn’t minded when the fellow in question was Solasan: their soldiers were generally willing to let themselves be talked down from a fight, especially if there was a bribe in the offing. But the weeks Doran and Connell had spent as the low men in the Dogs’ hierarchy hadn’t exactly left him impressed with their restraint. And the Enkaarans were a totally unknown quantity.

Seeing his hesitation, Fergus said, “At Redditch, you wanted a free man’s cut. You’re worth more than that to me now, especially with Graeme and Carnaby gone. What d’you say to ten percent of the winnings?”

“Call it twenty, if I’m worth that much to you.”

“Cut the difference at fifteen and I’ll shake your hand, freedman.”

Doran hesitated. Could he get more if he pushed? 

But he was tired of pushing. Whatever fight was left in him after that nightmare journey through the Wychwood had been leached away in the cold void of the pit. Besides, knowing what Fergus took in from the punters at Redditch, fifteen percent was nothing to sneeze at.

As they shook hands, Doran thought of Robert Black ordering him to find an occupation. Well, hark at him now: two occupations before noon, and hardly any work at all to get.