The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 9: The Cursewright's Vow, Part 3

 Carala was still asleep. Barthim rose from the chair and bowed Ammas into it, drawing back to sit beside Lena on a long bench that stood against one wall of the chapel and which the cursewright usually used to stow his footwear. Casimir tucked Ammas's shoes under the bench as Ammas tugged his boots on. As he finished lacing them, a low sound came from the princess's throat, somehow less unnerving than the ones she had uttered while in the grip of the poisonous cure.

Ammas straightened up, removing his hat and holding it in both hands on his lap. Slowly the princess climbed her way to wakefulness, her eyes glassy as they turned on Ammas. The delicate shape of her lips curled into a smile that was almost bashful.

"Good morning, Master Cursewright. Is . . . this it? Am I cured?"

Ammas frowned, not having expected this. Lena looked at the ground; Casimir at his master with an anxious gleam. Barthim's eyes were closed, and slowly all of them became aware of a low, somnolent chanting: the Beast at prayer, pleading to the Hethmar to grant mercy and healing.

Carala leaned up on her elbows, her brows knitting together as her gaze moved from Ammas to the enormous Barthim and his intaglio of tattoos. "I am sorry, Ammas. I do not know that -- rather large gentleman behind you."

Barthim opened his eyes and rose to his feet, sinking low in a respectful bow. "Barthim the Beast, so they are calling me, your highness, where I work at the Prideful Lioness next door. And before you are asking, no, I am not on the menu." His laugh echoed off the stony ribs high above them as he favored the princess with a warm smile. "It is being a pleasure to meet you."

Ammas, who had closed his eyes and was already rubbing his forehead, did not see Carala's startled, then angry, expression as she turned her attention back to him. "Your highness? Did you tell everyone who I am, Master Cursewright? Employ a crier? I thought you said you would -- "

"Carala," Ammas said softly, raising his hand and looking at her directly. Although her scowl only deepened at this renewed betrayal of her identity, she did not press further. "Please forgive me. Barthim came only to help me. You have been unwell. You raved in your sleep. You said your name and title numerous times."

Carala paled, her anger dissolving slowly to be replaced by fear. "I raved?"

Ammas nodded.

"Why was I unwell?"

Ammas spoke with obvious reluctance. But it was a bitter brew he could not refuse to drink. "You were unwell because the treatment failed. I am sorry, your highness. You experienced a reaction I have never seen, nor studied. I am afraid your cure may be beyond me."

He had expected rage, that haughty indignation so common to the nobility (and she had shown traces of this, though in Ammas's view hardly unmerited). Instead he saw an aching sorrow. "I see," she said softly. "I overestimated your abilities, then."

"You did not," Lena said angrily. "Ammas is a master cursewright, just as you called him. You weren't just 'unwell,' you nearly died. And he saved your life."

Carala stared wide-eyed at Lena, perhaps surprised to see such fury from someone who had treated her so well just a little while ago. With careful composure no doubt of great use in her father's court, she drew herself up in the bed and turned her gaze back to Ammas. "Is this true, Master Cursewright?"

"Lena exaggerates," he said softly.

"I did not exaggerate!" Lena retorted. Ammas held up a hand. Carala merely waited, displaying the gracious patience a cunning noble affected for an erring servant before deciding on a punishment.

No, that's her father, not her, not that I know, Ammas reminded himself. "I did save your life, your highness. But it was my own error that put it in danger in the first place. For which I apologize, and for which I am obliged to pledge you my service until my error has been corrected."

"Still receiving your payment, no doubt." Carala lightly held up one hand, freshly bathed by Lena's ministrations but innocent of her bracelet.

Ammas reached into his belt and retrieved the bracelet, passing it to the princess's upraised hand. Her look softened at once. "No payment, your highness. If you truly studied the vows I took, you'd know I cannot accept it in a situation such as this. When I pledged you my service, that is exactly what I meant. If, of course, it is wanted."

Carala frowned at him, studying the bracelet in her hand. "I never heard of that vow, no," she murmured. "I learned that cursewrights were always well-paid, even for simple afflictions, that they were . . . greedy."

Ammas smiled crookedly. "Were that true, I might have better lodgings."

Carala nodded, looking about at the old temple. "I may have been misinformed. But I cannot accept your service until I know what happened."

"You would still know everything?"

"Yes! I believe I am entitled to that."

"You are, your highness. Unquestionably." Ammas craned around in his chair and looked at Barthim and Lena. The bouncer's face was inscrutable, but Lena's wore a defensive wariness that made Ammas wonder if she should be near Carala at all, given her likely reaction to the bad news he must give her. "This concerns me, my client, and my apprentice alone. Would you excuse us?"

"Wait," Carala said rather commandingly as Barthim and Lena began to rise. She looked speculatively at Ammas. "May they stay if I wish it?"

"Of course." Ammas's guilt over his failure loosened to be replaced with curiosity, wondering just what his client had in mind.

"Barthim the . . . Beast, is it?"

"It is just Barthim, or the Beast, but I will not be offended if you call me both, highness."

"You are a guardsman for the . . . business next door?"

"The bouncer, yes, highness."

One eyebrow arched, she peered at Ammas. "This is the man who reminds you that you are a criminal, if I remember correctly."

"He is a criminal," Barthim agreed cheerfully. "He is also being one of the smartest men living in this city, and one of the kindest. He rescued Cass here from the Lioness." Barthim's huge hand cupped Casimir's head and roughly tousled it, making the boy's ears ring.

Casimir scowled up at Barthim, rubbing his ears in both hands. "I didn't need rescuing," he said tartly. Carala stared at him in wonder.

Ammas said nothing, his face carefully neutral. Regardless of Barthim's flattery, the decision was entirely in his client's hands. In the old days, if she had wanted him arrested and investigated by both the Curia and the fellowship, he would have turned himself in and surrendered his implements without complaint. Never in his career had he found himself in such a predicament, but his training -- and his upbringing -- told him he could do nothing less.

 Carala, meanwhile had moved her gaze from Casimir to Barthim to Lena (still scowling) and at last to Ammas. "If it is all the same to you, Master Cursewright, I should like them to be present. If you intend to explain this error of yours, I would like to know they find it as convincing as I do."

Lena hissed a soft but unmistakable noise of disapproval at that, but Ammas was elated. Carala had unwittingly made him think of his father in a way no member of the Imperial family had ever made him remember the man. The daughter of Somilius Deyn III had just announced her preference for a man accused of doing her a grave wrong to prove his side of the argument before a group of individuals, though not as disinterested as a careful advocate would hope. Ammas's father had not known all of the Emperor's children, and of those he knew, only Perseun did he consider worth a deacon's piss. But to see the Emperor's youngest child insist a cursewright who might have wronged her through incompetence prove himself before a jury? How Senrich would have loved that!