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By the time her ship docked at Chiastelm, Corson was already in a rage of impatience. She was bored by the confinement and monotony of shipboard life, which left her all too much leisure to imagine how Steifann was spending his time-and with whom.
“Rutting stud-bull,” she muttered. “Probably been to bed with everyone on the coast since I’ve been gone, especially that dirty hag Destiver.” And when she saw that Destiver’s cargo ship, the Windhover, was in port, her suspicions seemed all but confirmed.
There was not much work for a skilled mercenary in the peaceful port town of Chiastelm, and Corson was more often away than at home. During her travels she was no more faithful to Steifann than he was to her, but this did not allay her jealousy in the slightest. However she might carry on, in the distant lands where her sword took her, she felt that Steifann ought to be passing the time thinking of her and longing for her return. She knew this was foolishness, and in her more reasonable moments she laughed at herself for it, but Corson’s reasonable moments were few, where Steifann was concerned. And Steifann, a most sensible man as a rule, was just as unreasonable about Corson. Both furiously resented anyone whom they suspected of sharing the other’s bed.
But Corson despised Destiver, the cargo-runner and petty smuggler, more than all the rest. Destiver had known Steifann longer than Corson had, which was an unforgivable offense in Corson’s eyes. Furthermore, she’d recently charged Corson an outrageous fee to smuggle her out of Chiastelm when there was a fat price on her head. That bloodsucking bitch was probably at the Hare with Steifann right now, Corson thought grimly, the both of them drunk and randy as rabbits…
But once she left the wharves behind, her ill humor soon gave way to eager anticipation of her welcome. Whenever she returned to the Hare, her friends made much of her and even pampered her a bit, plying her with food and ale and questions about her adventures. Well, she had tales aplenty for them this time, and the loot to bear them out. When she showed them the gold and the large, uncut diamond she’d earned by her sword, they’d see that she was no common fighter-for-hire. She, Corson brenn Torisk, was a fit companion for gentlefolk.
The jewel, and her fine red-gold earrings, were the gifts of a grateful noblewoman, a lady of the lofty rank of Rhaicime. And there was a gown of gold silk as well, a token of hospitality from a family of wealthy vintners in the Midlands-folk of noble descent they were, too. She would let Steifann know that she’d been wooed by the handsome heir of a distinguished line, while he’d been bedding down with that scrofulous smuggler. And if Destiver was there to hear it, so much the better!
It had been too long since Corson had enjoyed a proper homecoming. The last time she’d come back, she’d hardly been home a day before she had to sneak out of the city in the hold of the Windhover. It had all been monstrously unfair, Corson thought. True, she had cut the throat of a powerful nobleman from Rhostshyl, but that was his own fault, she considered, for abducting the Lady Nyctasia while Corson was her bodyguard.
But now that Rhostshyl was involved in civil war, the rulers of the city had no time to concern themselves with a mere hireling killer. Corson could safely pass the winter with Steifann and his people, who were more of a family to her than any she’d known before.
When she caught sight of Steifann’s tavern her pace quickened, and she thought she could smell the savory stew, roasting meats and baking loaves, As always, she went straight to the kitchen door.
“I’m back!” she announced. “And I’m hungry as a hunter. I’ve been living on ship’s swill for weeks.”
But instead of crowding around to exclaim over her and hear her news, the others went on with their work, barely sparing her a greeting. They seemed busier and more rushed than usual. Steifann was nowhere to be seen-and neither was Destiver.
“Oh, good, Corson’s here,” said Trask. “She can keep an eye on the drunks out front.” He blew her a kiss and went on scrubbing a pot with unwonted industry.
“Corson, my pet, just in time. Here, carry this.” Annin, the head serving-woman, held out a heavy tray laden with mugs of ale.
“Never mind that,” Walden ordered. “Someone has to chop more firewood. We haven’t much left.”
“Where’s Steifann, then?” wailed Corson. “Why hasn’t he cut the wood?”
“He’s sick, we put him to bed. The man’s no use at all.”
“Sick? Steifann’s never sick. He’s healthy as an ox,” Corson said uneasily.
“What ails him?”
“Grippe. Fever. Go see for yourself-but don’t tarry. I need that firewood now.”
“Firewood…?” Steifann said hoarsely, as he lumbered into the kitchen. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes red and swollen. “I’m going out to chop the wood-” He broke into a rasping cough and collapsed heavily onto a bench,
“Soon,” he added, and sneezed.
“I’ll do it,” Corson said reluctantly, “and it’s more than Destiver would do, mark my word.”
“First help me drag this diseased dog back to bed, before he gives us all the grippe,” sighed Walden.
Steifann sneezed again. “Destiver? Is that lazy leech here again? She wouldn’t lift a finger if the lot of us were dying. She only comes by to drink my ale and tell lies about her past as a ferocious pirate.”
Annin bustled in carrying the empty tray. “What’s he doing in here? We’ve enough to do without looking after him.”
“I’m fine,” Steifann protested. “No need to fuss…” He leaned back against the wall and looked up at Corson, bleary-eyed. “So you’re back, are you? It’s about time. Where have you been?”
“Come along, love.” Corson said resignedly, pulling him up by the arm. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
He staggered against her and mumbled, “I don’t need any help. It’s just a chill-” and started to cough again.
Corson removed an accounts-ledger and a stray boot from the bed, then gathered up the tangled quilts and shook out each one. She laid them out smoothly, as Nyctasia had done for her only a few months before, when she’d been desperately ill herself. Corson remembered how curiously comforting it had been to have the bedclothes properly arranged for her, though Nyctasia had received little thanks for her attentions.
Steifann was no more cooperative than Corson had been. “I don’t want blankets,” he said, kicking at them. “It’s hot in here.”
“It’s not. The fire’s gone out. And when you have a fever, you ought to stay warm. I know all about such things.”
Steifann snorted. “And when did you become so learned a physician?”
“I know what Nyc did for me when I was sick-in Lhestreq it was. And I didn’t have just a touch of grippe, I tell you, I was poisoned. I nearly died, I was too weak to move, for days and days-”
“Who’s this Nick,” Steifann interrupted, “and what else did he do for you?”
Corson looked smug. “She’s an old friend. A lady of quality, from the aristocracy. You needn’t think that I spend all my time in the company of louts like you.” She picked up some of his clothes from the floor and threw them over a chest. “This place looks like a kennel.”
“You’ve known plenty worse! When I met you, you were glad of any roof over your head-” He broke into another fit of coughing before he could give full expression to his indignation.
“There! You should be quiet, you see? You’re supposed to rest, and
…” Corson thought for a moment. “And drink something hot. I’ll mull some ale,” she decided.
“Corson!” Trask shouted through the door. “Walden says if you don’t cut that firewood now, he’ll come in after you with the axe.”
Corson sighed. “I might as well. I have to make up the fire in here too.”
“You might fetch in more water while you’re about it, Your Highness,” Steifann suggested.
Corson slammed the door on her way out.
“Corson!” Steifann called after her.
“What now? Do you want me to clean the stable too?”
“I’m glad to have you back,” said Steifann.