The Hand That Takes Read online

  “Her throat, it’s bothering her again?”

  Sal nodded.

  Nicola put on a smile. It was meant to comfort him, he knew, yet it did just the opposite.

  “Has it always been this way?” Sal asked.

  “She has always worried,” Nicola said.

  “She seems so sad,” Sal said. “I wish she would get out of bed.”

  “We can wish all we want. It won’t change the way things are.”

  “I could,” Sal said, making fists on the stone parapet.

  “You can’t change the way things are, Salvatori. You’ll learn that when you’re older. The way things are, the way people are, it’s out of your control. All you can do is better yourself.”

  Sal shook his head. “I won’t accept that. She can get better. We just have to remind her—to tell her—” He could feel the tears coming on, welling in his eyes as a knot formed in his throat.

  Nicola stepped close and wrapped him in her arms, hushing him in a soft, soothing voice.

  “I will,” Sal managed to croak before the tears came on in full. “I will save her.”

  5

  Nabu Akkad

  “ N o, nothing permanent, I hope. There was no water in his lungs.”

  The speaker sounded like a woman, but Sal didn’t recognize the voice. He could hardly think through the pounding in his skull. His eyelids were too heavy to open.

  “And his head?” said Bartley. “All that blood, he must have hit it hard. He isn’t—well, he won’t be—”

  “Simple?” said the woman. “I should think not. I was able to stitch things up quite clean, and so far as I could tell there was no damage to the brain. That’s what matters. We won’t know until he comes to, and even then I fear he will have such a headache we may not glean much from him for some time.”

  “How long will it take?” Bartley asked.

  “It’s difficult to tell. He could be days in recovery, he could be weeks. Injuries to the head are trickier than other parts of the body.”

  “I meant, how long before he wakes?”

  “Ah, well, this is equally difficult to predict, as everyone differs. You must understand, every injury damages the flesh, the mind, and the spirit, and while my art mends the corporeal, the mind and spirit are separate matters entirely. He will not be truly healed until his mind overcomes the trauma. Even then, damage to the spirit will linger. Despite all of that, I would predict he should not be long. My patients never are.”

  “Reckon I ought to stick around,” Bartley said. “He may wonder at waking.”

  “I don’t suppose you would want to tell me what possessed the pair of you to take a swim in the Tamber?”

  Silence was the answer. Sal heard only the throbbing in his ears. He saw only the black backs of his eyelids, but he smelled the sweet tang of incense. This, more than anything, made him wonder where he was and how he’d gotten there.

  “I thought not,” said the woman. “It was worth the trying. Ah, but look, someone stirs.”

  Slowly, Sal opened his eyes. The soft, flickering candlelight took only moments to adjust to after he’d blinked a few times. A gently flashing white pearlescent light caught his attention. It was not a flame, more a glowing liquid that moved and swirled within a glass orb.

  Bartley moved to stand over Sal. He breathed hard, with apparent anxiety, as water dripped from his black curls. “All right there, mate?” Bartley asked.

  Sal put two fingers to his temple and began rubbing in a small circular motion. “Never better,” Sal said, a wry smile playing across his lips.

  Sal sat up, and the woman placed her palm against his forehead. She looked older than he’d imagined, her hair more white than blonde. She had slight wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. Yet for all of that, she was attractive.

  The woman put her hand on the side of his head. “Is there pain here when I apply pressure?”

  “No.”

  “And here?” She asked, shifting her hand slightly.

  “No.”

  “Good, very good,” she said. “And your head, is the ache insufferable? ”

  “Not so much that I can’t hear myself think.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Pardon,” Sal said, “but who—”

  “Oh, of course,” said Bartley. “This is Alzbetta. Betta, this is Salvatori Lorenzo.”

  Alzbetta flashed him a wicked grin.

  “A Talent?” Sal asked.

  “A mender,” Bartley corrected.

  Alzbetta harrumphed. “Crude terms. I am an artist. A weaver, if you must. Though I am no ordinary weaver, no crone that blisters fingers at a loom. I am a weaver of flesh, of muscle, vein, and sinew, of bone, marrow, cartilage, and viscera.”

  Sal’s attention was once again captured by the softly glowing orb of white light. Distracted, he merely asked, “How did we . . .”

  Bartley seemed to know what he was asking. “Fisherman, off the Little Island, pulled us both out and took us to shore. I had to carry you all the way here by myself.”

  Alzbetta cleared her throat. “As I recall, the two of you arrived behind a pair of cart horses, a beautiful chestnut mare and a flea-bitten gray. Though I dare say that driver looked a tad shady.”

  “As I recall, no one asked you, woman,” said Bartley.

  Alzbetta cleared her throat once more, and her eyes narrowed.

  “M’lady,” Bartley corrected.

  “And the steel caps?” Sal said. “Did they see us getting out of the river, were we followed?”

  “None came downriver,” Bartley said. “Most like they thought we’d drowned. Even still, we’d do best not to be seen for a time.”

  “Mayhap you’d like to tell me why the two of you jumped into the river to begin with?” Alzbetta said, with another of her wicked smiles.

  Sal could feel himself start to blush, but he swallowed his timidity and did his best to be charming. “Ah, well, you know how it is under the scorching autumn sun,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm. “The cool water looked right for a swim.”

  Alzbetta’s smile turned from seductive to genuine. “I see. And you were swimming with the city watchmen? ”

  “More like away from the city watchmen,” Sal said. “We leaped from the Bridge of the Lady.”

  Bartley coughed and nudged Sal’s shoulder, but Alzbetta only smiled all the more.

  “That would explain quite a lot. Is there any particular reason you chose to jump from the Lady?”

  “I put a leg in the path of a steel cap,” Sal said with an easy shrug, his attention again captured by the softly glowing orb of white light. The thing was small, but Sal couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Pardon, My Lady, but what is that?”

  Her gaze followed to where he pointed. “Ah,” said Alzbetta knowingly. “A little device one of my associates cooked up. He gave it to me as a sample, in hopes that I would come back to him for more. A flasher, or so he named it. Told me that little orb held the power of a star. I imagine it must be some variant of snap powder, possibly a flash oil. He claims I need only break the glass and light shall burst forth as though the Lord that is Light himself appeared in our midst. For the life of me, I can’t think of a good use for the thing, though it is pretty, in an eerie fashion.”

  “Captivating,” Sal said with a nod.

  “Like it, do you?” said Alzbetta.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sal said. “Haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of it since I woke.”

  Alzbetta picked up the orb she’d called a flasher. It was no bigger than a chicken’s egg.

  Sal accepted the flasher for a closer examination. The orb was lightweight and smooth to the touch. The light within glowed pearlescent white, slowly swirling like thick liquid.

  “Would you be willing to sell this?” Sal asked, looking up from the orb.

  Alzbetta arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know if that would be responsible. I’m not even certain what this orb does. I’ve only some unsubstantiated claims, made by
a madman—a friend, mind you, but a madman all the same.”

  “I know my share of madmen,” Sal said, flashing the mender a reassuring smile. “If it’s repercussions you fear, I assure you there shall be none.”

  “It is not repercussions from you, but my conscience, that concern me.”

  Sal shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing a few krom and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

  Alzbetta frowned. “I couldn’t.”

  “Oh, but you could.”

  “No, I cannot,” Alzbetta said firmly, holding out a hand for the flasher.

  “I think we’d best be off,” Sal said, handing back the orb and getting to his feet. “What do we owe you for your services?”

  Alzbetta placed the orb back on the shelf. “Your friend has already paid.”

  Bartley gave him a sheepish grin, and Sal shook his head, thinking of their talk about loan sharks just that morning.

  “I fear he has only begun to pay,” Sal said seriously, eyeing his Yahdrish friend.

  Bartley’s cheeks turned the color of cherry blossoms, but he didn’t bother with a retort.

  Sal took a shaky step. His knee buckled and he stumbled into Bartley, shoving him just so.

  Bartley stumbled into a rack containing glass vials of various sizes. Two vials fell, one of which Bartley managed to catch; the other shattered on the floorboards, filling the room with a sharp vinegar scent.

  As Alzbetta rushed to Bartley’s aid, Sal swiftly pocketed the pearlescent flasher before joining in to help.

  “I apologize, My Lady. I fear I felt a spell of dizziness,” Sal said. “Please, take some coin to cover the costs. What was that worth?”

  “It was only distilled vinegar,” Alzbetta said. “There is no harm done. Are you feeling all right now?”

  “Much better,” Sal said, giving her a reassuring smile. “Still, I think we’d best be off before anything else is broken.”

  Alzbetta smiled warmly. “So long as you are feeling well, there is truly no harm done. ”

  Sal and Bartley left Alzbetta’s home together, Sal covering his pocket somewhat awkwardly with his wet cloak, which he’d bundled beneath his arm.

  The sky was clear, and although the sun was directly overhead, the salt air was brisk with the chill of autumn. Bartley was quiet. More than like, he was worried about the coin he owed. They’d both lost their day’s taking when they’d jumped—a good thirty krom in coin and jewels, now scattered at the bottom of the Tamber. Bartley had used the coin in his boot to pay Alzbetta. It was the last of the recent loan—a loan Bartley would no doubt struggle to repay now that he’d lost his takings from the bridge.

  When they’d reached the Hog Snout, Bartley offered a cap, but Sal made up something about his head hurting, and they parted ways beneath the wooden sign with the crudely painted likeness of a boar. In truth, the memory of falling from his window after the last time he’d smoked a cap with Bartley was still fresh in his mind, and with the injury he’d sustained in the river, Sal had no desire to repeat the incident.

  W hen Sal made it home, he found the door locked, Nicola must not have been back yet, likely out enjoying End, as Sal should have been. Still, nothing about the celebration sounded half so good to him as his bed. He was forced to scale the wall and pry open his bedroom window to get inside. Without hesitation, he went directly for the straw-stuffed mattress. Lying beneath his blanket felt as good as the warm embrace of a lover. His eyelids were heavy, and he let them close.

  No sooner had he closed his eyes than they began to itch. He lay there, doing all he could to remain still, breathing deep, pushing away thoughts of moving.

  Yet something seemed to tug at him.

  Sal opened his eyes. He could hear something, like a call of distress, an urging, though he knew the sound was only in his mind.

  The room was silent .

  Still, he felt a tug, and without thinking, opened the drawer to his bedside table and removed the locket. As his fingers touched the tarnished gold, a surge of cold energy flowed into him. Thick as two silver krom stacked together, and only slightly larger around, the small gold locket felt right in his hand—as though without it he’d been missing a part of himself. It was a strange feeling, and he wasn’t sure he was comfortable with it.

  He ran a finger across the smooth gold surface and over the rune engraved upon the locket’s face. Sal had never seen the mark elsewhere, three vertical lines closely placed to signify a cohesive symbol, the leftmost stripe blood red.

  He slipped his fingernail between the two halves of the locket and attempted to pry it open, to no avail. It seemed the locket was sealed, though Sal could not see how.

  To get his mind off the locket he stood and walked to his window, looking out on the bustling market. He watched peddlers move from person to person hawking their wares, as vendors cried out the contents of their carts and flapped their arms for attention. The market-goers walked like cattle in a run, pushing and scrambling for a place to spend their coin.

  Sal should have been out there, practicing his soft touch, picking until his pockets were so full he could hardly move. But even for all the gold in Dijvois, he couldn’t convince himself it was worth leaving his bedroom.

  He glanced at the Godstone, standing tall at the center of South Market. About the foot of the stone were small white petals—hundreds, maybe tens of hundreds. It had become a tradition on the day of End to scatter the petals of the hadrisk flower about the Godstone. The hadrisk bloomed in the late autumn and lasted until the first snows fell. It symbolized the good and long-lasting health of the duke upon his return. Sal had heard it said the hadrisk itself was full of healing properties, though he’d never tested this himself.

  Downstairs, the door screeched open. Someone entered.

  Sal slipped the locket into the pocket of his jerkin and felt his insides go cold. He headed to the stairs and heard his sister laugh.

  Sal relaxed and considered walking back to his bed and lying down, when he heard another laugh, deep and carefree. There was a man in the house.

  Sal rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time until he found himself on the ground floor, face to face with his sister.

  For half a heartbeat Nicola seemed startled, but she quickly regained her composure. “What are you doing here?” said Nicola.

  “I live here,” Sal said. “What, might I ask, is he doing here?”

  Nicola darted a nervous glance at her gentleman companion. They were holding hands, and she had been leading him toward the stairs. “But why aren’t you out celebrating?” Nicola asked, letting go of the man’s hand.

  “I could ask the same of you,” Sal said defiantly, putting his hands on his hips the way their mother always had.

  The man stepped forward. He was a good head and a half taller than Sal, but Sal didn’t back up. He stood his ground, his features set in an expression of defiance.

  “Oliver Flint,” the man said, extending a hand.

  Not of the merchant class, but the gentry, the son of some landed noble, no doubt. Sal looked the man over once again, in case he’d missed something. Oliver’s clothing was fair and richly made, yet slightly threadbare and out of fashion. His hair was meant to be styled, but seemed to have grown too long. On top of it all, the man had an oily smile that made Sal feel greasy just for looking.

  “Cute,” said Sal, making no move to accept the nobleman’s gesture, “but I was speaking with my sister. You have my leave to go.”

  “Cute?” asked Oliver Flint.

  Slowly, Sal turned back to the man. “Yes, you are quite cute. Like a kitten in a rainstorm, or a muddy little street urchin. Cute enough at a distance, but I’d not touch it.”

  “Excuse me?” said Oliver, a look of pure incredulity on his noble visage.

  “Yes, by all means, you are excused. As I said, you have my leave to go.”

  “Salvatori!” said Nicola. “That will do. Apologize to Oliver and leave us be. ”

  Sal ign
ored his sister and addressed the nobleman. “Sweetest, what are you still doing in my home? You were asked to leave.”

  “I do believe your sister asked you to leave, boy.”

  “Do you think I’ll stand by and let you lay my sister? If so you’d best be prepared to pay the bride price and take her to wife.”

  Nicola gasped, but Oliver Flint only smirked.

  “Salvatori, get out of my home this moment,” Nicola said, “or I swear on the gods, I will never speak to you again.”

  Sal had been in enough fights to know when it was time to admit defeat and run. He huffed loudly and headed for the door.

  Nicola took the noble’s hand, and as they went up the stairs, Sal felt a pain like a punch to the gut. He didn’t know what irked him more, the thought of his sister lying with that oily toff, or the fact that he’d lost the fight.

  Once out in the street, he couldn’t help but think of that line from “Piddle on the Diddler”:

  And if the diddler diddles your sis, go on and give that diddler a kiss .

  In truth, Sal would have preferred to give the toff a kick in the teeth. However, Nicola was his older sister, and as it was she who’d kept a roof over his head, he had little to no say in whom and how she chose. He only wished she had better taste in men.

  S al had walked without thinking. The din of his headache still throbbed, and he had hardly realized where his feet were leading him. He found himself standing before a pawnshop on Penny Row, one of the few streets in Dijvois that wasn’t bustling with the celebration of End. He tapped the pocket of his jerkin and felt the reassuring lump of the locket. Touching the opposite pocket, he felt the small glass orb the mender had called a flasher. Sal pushed through the door of the pawnshop.

  The shop smelled of mildew and the sweet spices of incense. Cobwebs clung to every corner and sconce, while dust collected about the baseboards. The rugs were Miniian spun, but stained and heavily trafficked .

  The man leaning behind the counter was preposterously fat. His skin was the color of tanned leather, and his braided black mustache glistened with oil. He wore a brightly colored orange turban and an absurdly small red vest over white robes. Upon his thick brown fingers he wore rings of gold and silver, set with precious gems that sparkled in the candlelight. With a look of curiosity in his black eyes, the whale of a man rested on one elbow and drummed his fingers on the countertop.