The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XXIX

There was a great deal for me to attend to in Timras that first week, so much that I didn't really have time to spend looking in on Anakreon as often as I should have. I visited him maybe twice a day, but the visits only consisted of sticking my head in to satisfy myself that he was not wallowing in his own vomit or choking to death. I knew he was recovering well. After all, I had been pestering Prince Hethra's physicians to do all they could for him, but I hadn't seen him awake until the fourth day after Quinquius' departure with the remainder of the troop.

I went into his room and found him looking up at the ceiling, his hands folded across his breast, an expression of boredom and pain on his face. I went to his bedside and looked down at him, thinking that I had been seeing things, but his eyes were open, and they shifted to meet mine.

For a few minutes it was as though we were strangers again. "Hello," I said, and pulled up a chair.

Anakreon looked around the room. His gaze lingered on the rich curtains that fluttered in the summer ocean breezes. "Whose prisoners are we?" he asked.

I stared. Had he been too proud or stubborn to ask? "We're in Timras," I said. "We've been here a little more than a week. And we're no one's prisoners, but guests of Prince Hethra."

Anakreon shot me an odd look. "Timras..." he said, his voice faint and considering. "Has the Prince named our ransom?"

I toyed with the idea of naming a huge sum that would cover our entire treasury but dismissed it.  "I just told you we're guests, not captives. Do you want me to spell it for you? All is well, Anakreon. Don't worry."

"If I could only believe that..." he sighed, closing his eyes.

That made me angry. "I'm not in the habit of lying," I snapped.

His eyes opened. "Maybe not," he conceded. "But you ARE in the habit of beating around the bush.   Are we safe?"

"Of course we are," I said. "I just told you so." Then I looked at him and saw just how weak and ill he still was. "But the question is whether you are recovering."

He didn't appear to hear that. "Timras," he said again. "Was this your idea?"

"Of course it‑‑" I began, then I stopped. "No," I amended. "It was Mourner's idea. He thought to steer here. I thought it would be smarter to head back to Hirstad, what with his friendship with Lord Torkal... I still think it was the best idea, but there was a strong nor‑easter blowing, and we had no choice but to head this way. Prince Moryan is a friend of his, I gather."

Anakreon wasn't listening. I went to the jug of water and poured some in a cup for him, and moistened a cloth, too, to bathe his face.

Anakreon drank the water and tolerated having his face washed, but he didn't like it much. He looked at me when I had finished and said, "How many men are left in the troop?"

"Sixty‑seven," I said, knowing that a soothing lie would only upset him. He could always tell when I was hedging, and it annoyed him when I did. I spoke without emotion. "We had maybe a hundred living after the fighting stopped, but then it was stormy, and we lost the rest."

A crease appeared between Anakreon's eyes. "That's three hundred and seventeen left," he said. "Counting the force under Praecas. If he doesn't decide to desert, now that I am sick and the rest of the troop wiped out." He moved his head from side to side on the pillow, his eyes tightly shut.

"Don't be a fool," I said. "Praecas won't desert. I'll send a message to Lord Torkal through Mourner. The Guild of Swordsmen has a system of couriers and archivists throughout the world‑‑I can send the message through them. Mourner won't mind. Torkal can handle Praecas. Come on, Anakreon, cheer up. You're alive, you're under the protection of a mighty prince, and on a real bed and between clean sheets‑‑and it isn't costing you a single copper penny. You should be happy on all counts. Right?"