Free Web NovelChapter 1205: Summer’s child(1)
The warmth hit him first, thick and cloying, carrying the heavy scent of vinegar and unwashed bodies. Basil kept his head up this time, refusing to let his gaze drop to his boots. He walked with a steady, purposeful pace, the soft squelch of the damp floor marking his progress through the aisles.
The geography of the tent had shifted since his last visit. There were new faces, wrapped in fresh, pale dressings,alongisde that a few beds stood empty, the hay stripped away to leave nothing but the bare wooden frames.
He watched a soldier nearby struggling to master a pair of crude wooden crutches. The man’s leg was a pillar of white bandages from heel to knee, and his face was tight with the exertion of a simple step. Their eyes met, and in that silent space, a mutual nod was exchanged.
Basil watched the man wobble away and wondered if the healers were clearing space or if the men were simply desperate to escape. These four walls must have been a cage of boredom and pain; had he been in their stead, the silence and the smell would have drilled a hole through his mind until he begged for the grey sky outside.
Even during afternoon, the staff moved like frantic ghosts. The nurses and medics were a blur of motion, carrying basins, changing linens, and delivering meals. Yet for every man they tended, two more seemed to slip into the shadows of neglect. The air was thick with a chorus of small, desperate needs.
"Can I have another dose of poppy?"
"How long until the stew is ready?"
"My shoulder... it’s burning again."
"Help me up, I need the latrine." freēwēbnovel.com
The questions were pebbles thrown into a very deep, very dark well.But it was in that well that a familiar face appeared.
"Your Grace? Is that truly you, or has the fever finally come for my other eye?"
Basil turned, a small smile breaking through his somber mood. "Moly!"
He walked toward the familiar bed where the man with the skeletal grin sat propped up against a bundle of straw. Moly looked much the same, though the skin around his scar seemed a bit tighter, a bit more silver in the dim light.
"How are you?" Basil asked, stopping at the foot of the bed.
"As shitty as I was two days ago, little Lord," Moly rasped, his lone arm gesturing vaguely at his missing limb. "Perhaps a bit more seasoned, like a piece of meat left too long near the fire. But what brings you back to this pit? Is the Prince with you? I should straighten my coat if the Fox is on the prowl."
Basil shook his head, looking around to ensure no officious medic was listening. "No. It was my idea to come. My father doesn’t know I’m here."
Moly’s good eye widened, and he let out a low, whistling chuckle through the gap in his cheek. "Deserting your post, are we? Why come down from the high table for the company of the broken and the bitter? That’s a dangerous game, your Grace. If the Prince finds out you’re spending your days with the likes of me, he might think I’m a bad influence. And he’d be right."
"I think he’d just say I was being a dutiful boy looking out for demented old men," Basil replied, pulling a small stool closer to the bed. "Whatever the case, I couldn’t stay in my tent. The silence was starting to itch."
"Well, aren’t you in a streak of luck then? We were just mid-wager with Otho and Demeus," Moly said, gesturing with his lone hand to the neighboring bunks. They exchanged nods and quick greetings. "The pot is up to two silver silverii. The bet is simple: what do we hear first, a fart from the back row, or a nurse losing her temper? Double the stakes if you can name the victim."
"I brought no coin with me," Basil admitted, patting his empty pockets.
"What, your father doesn’t give you an allowance? Stingy Fox," Moly chuckled. "Well, I’m sure the boys will accept a Prince’s word as collateral. I know I do." He flashed that skeletal, lopsided smile.
"Well then, double the pot for me. And I say..." Basil put a finger to his chin, his emerald eyes scanning the tent with surprisingly great focus. "I’m going for that one."
He pointed at a young, blonde nurse who looked gentle as she knelt down to check on a man coughing in his hand.
"Oh? Bold choice,though I cant’ say wise." Moly said, leaning back into his hay. "Check back this evening and we’ll see if she’s broken yet.Promise we are gonna keep our words"
"No need to wait that long," Basil said, hopping down from his stool with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"What do you mean?" Moly asked, but the Heir of Yarzat was already moving.
An heartbeat later, Otho saw the boy leaneing in and whispering something into the young nurse’s ear, his face a mask of perfect, innocent concern, while pointing a small finger directly at Otho.
He even tilted his head to look like a innocent dog.
An heartbeat later Otho was in his bed getting manhandled by her.
"YOU FILTHY, PIG-HEADED SLOP-BUCKET!" she shrieked. A wet cloth flew through the air, slapping Otho across the face with a sodden thwack. "A WHORESON WOULD HAVE BETTER MANNERS! IF I CATCH YOU SAYING SUCH THING TO A BOY, I’LL STITCH YOUR EYES SHUT!"
The insults flew like arrows—Pork-brain! Sewer-rat!—while Otho could only sputter and cower behind his pillow. Demeus and Moly were howling, clutching their sides as they realized the foul play.
Laughter bubbles from the other beds too.
Basil strolled back to the man, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"That wasn’t very noble of you, Your Grace," Otho grumbled, rubbing a red mark where the nurse’s fingernail had caught his cheek.
"The rules said nothing about outside interference," Basil countered smoothly. "Though I’ll forego the silver. If my father discovered I was gambling on the staff’s temper, I’d have my arse handed back to me on a silver platter.Mayhaps I’d pay you with that then."
"Already speaking like a soldier, are we?" Moly wheezed, wiping tears of mirth from his face. "Gosh, a lifetime spent in service to the prince, and it turns out his son is a little card-sharp and a cheater. You’ll fit right in with the Legions, lad. Right at home.Too bad you were born with a silver spoon’’
Basil watched Moly settle back into his straw, the laughter dying down into a series of soft, whistling breaths. The boy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his curiosity getting the better of his mischief.
"But truly, Moly," Basil asked, his voice dropping to a more serious note. "What will you do now? You mentioned retirement... and your arm..."
Moly looked down at the empty space where his sleeve was pinned. He didn’t look sad; he looked like a man who had finished a very long, very exhausting book. "Aye. The ’Stump of Valor’ they’ll call it, though it’s a bit of a nuisance for pulling boots on. His Grace is generous with the veterans. I could take a plot of land in the outer provinces. Be a lord of dirt and rocks, watching the wheat grow until I turn into a scarecrow myself."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I’ve got no business farming. A man needs two hands to wrestle a plow and even more patience to deal with the rain. No, I think I’ll forgo the dirt. I’ll take a small property in the Capital. Somewhere with a bit of foot traffic
"The Capital?" Basil’s eyes brightened, perhaps he could go visit.... "To do what?"
"Baking," Moly said, the word sounding strange coming from a man who looked like he had been forged in a furnace. "My mother was a baker’s daughter. Before I was big enough to hold a spear,and before I threw myself in the legions eight years back, I was covered in flour up to my elbows. You don’t need two hands to knead dough if you’ve got a sturdy table and a heavy lean, plus I can get an apprentice for that there are a lot of orphans around...I just need to go to a orphanage. And I figure, folks in the city always need bread. It’s a quiet life, I won’t have to pay taxes no more, and no one tries to stab you when you’re pulling a loaf out of the oven."
Basil tried to imagine the scarred, one-armed soldier in a white apron "You’d be a baker? With that face? You’d scare children and mothers away."
Moly let out a barking laugh, his side-teeth gleaming. "Scare ’em? Lad, I’ll tell ’em the scar comes from a dragon I fought to get the secret ingredient for my cakes. I’ll be the most famous baker in Yarzat. ’Moly the Mangled’s Sweetmeats.’ Has a ring to it, don’t it?"
"It sounds... nice," Basil giggled, his voice soft as the image of the bakery took hold in his mind. "I’ll try your bread one day. I promise."
"You are more than welcome, little Lord. I’ll bake a crown-cake just for you, five layers and enough honey to glue your teeth together. It’ll be quite the attraction if the word gets out that the Prince’s heir prefers my crusts to the palace chefs’,"
Basil smiled, his heart feeling lighter than it had in days. He stood from the stool, stretching his legs and looking around the dim, bustling expanse of the tent. "Do you know where the man from last time is? The one who was... shouting? I wanted to exchange a few words with him." He gave a shy, small smile. "He was the one who let me taste vinegar for the first time, you know? I wanted to tell him I didn’t think it was as bad as I remembered."
Basil watched the mirth melt away from Moly’s face. The soldier’s jaw set tight, and a long, heavy exhale hissed through his side-teeth. His good eye didn’t waver, but the light in it seemed to dim.
Basil felt the cold creeping back into his fingers. He didn’t need to be his father’s son to read the silence.
"He..."
Moly nodded slowly. "Last night, lad. It wasn’t just the axe-bite on the outside. Broke something in his guts too when he fell."
Moly reached out, his calloused thumb brushing against the edge of the hay mattress. "I knew you’d ask. They gave him the poppy. He went to sleep and never woke. He didn’t hurt at the end. He just... drifted off into the long quiet.There may be five gods, but there is only grave.You ought to light a candle for him."
’’Oh...’’
"Aye," Moly said, his voice a rough whisper. "And the Weaver has one more thread to spin for another muck. Don’t let it weigh you down, little Lord.Tis’ our thing, we live, we fight and sometimes we die. It is a weary thing indeed, but that’s our story. A soldier’s story.’’
