Tilim witnessed a pack corner one man dressed in a servant’s outfit. The man raised his hands up high and knelt down in a gesture of submission, reminding Tilim of how a beaten dog shows his belly. The dogs then held back from pouncing; they just watched him with sidelong glances, their ruffs high and heads low.
“If you lay down your weapons and give up, the dogs won’t attack!” Tilim started running about screaming at the top of his lungs. Others took up the call. “Throw down your weapons! Surrender to the dogs!” Men and women, guards and gentry, realized that fighting back meant being mauled to death. They capitulated.
Escorted by watchful canines, Tilim led people who gave in to the stable and locked them in a horse stall.
Hiccuth copied his lead, but just as Tilim realized that the task of locking up all of the Lord Regent’s confederates was too big for the two of them, Chamberlain Vilkit appeared.
“Yes, yes,” the chamberlain said, rubbing his hands. “We will use this stable as a temporary jail: it has several advantages in that it is large enough, away from the fire, and water is handy.”
He organized three dozen staff members to search the palace and outbuildings from top to bottom. They brought in captives who had been hiding in the far reaches of the building such as the pantries, the storerooms, the root cellar, and the attics. So Tilim and Hiccuth stationed themselves at the stables, gathering weapons, searching each prisoner, making sure each stall had water and straw, while Vilkit set up a cask as a temporary desk and neatly wrote down their names and catalogued any injuries.
“Vilkit, this is horseshit! Tell these cads and curs to release me!” hollered a muscular man wearing the jacket of a palace guard, embroidered with much braid, but no trousers.
“Captain Murgn, how nice that you are alive when so many of your men are dead,” replied Vilkit.
Another man had the physique and pallor of a person who worked indoors, not a military man.
“Hostler! You know me!” he protested.
“Indeed, Councilor Prigent,” answered Hiccuth. “I’ve curried your white-stocking mare a thousand times. You’ve never thanked me and never learned my name.”
“Let me loose, man. Fetch me my mare. I’ll reward you well! You know I’m good for it.”
“Aye,” said Hiccuth. “I know you’ve siphoned off a fortune from the royal treasury. In you go, now.”
“Vilkit!” The man appealed to the chamberlain. “At least find Vanilina. When I last saw her, she was fleeing the dogs. I don’t know what happened to her. For the love of Water, man!”
Vilkit regarded Councilor Prigent dispassionately. “If we find her, I’ll let you know.”
More prisoners arrived—some sullen, others weeping, quite a few injured with dog bites or sword cuts. Vilkit’s crew of servants returned to do another sweep of the building.
Vanilina eventually turned up in the grip of two footmen; she had been hiding in her maid’s quarters under the bed. She wore only her nightshift, but still she dripped with jewels. She screamed as if they tortured her when Hiccuth and Tilim relieved her of her seven rings, five bracelets, and two necklaces.
Regarding her intently, the chamberlain said, “Vanilina, I’d hate to order these men to strip you. Give up the rest.”
“I gave you everything, you impudent wretch!”
“Van-i-lin-a,” said Vilkit, in a warning tone.
Leaning on Vilkit’s cask, Vanilina slid off her shoes, each of which was so crammed with jewels Tilim wondered how she’d gotten her feet inside.
“That’s not all,” said Vilkit. “Where is that ruby ring you show off so often?”
It was hidden in her trussed-up hair, as was a ring of sapphires.
“That’s all, I swear,” she said. Vilkit didn’t completely believe her, but he turned her over for locking up.
Hiccuth fashioned bolts for each stall, but they didn’t have to worry much about escape, because the palace dogs had taken it upon themselves to patrol the aisles and watch the stable’s doorways.
Tilim walked down the corridors regarding his prisoners (many of whom had been rude to his family during the wedding week) with no little satisfaction.
Several of the stable’s new residents began coughing, and Tilim realized his own throat felt dry and scratchy. He looked up and realized that the fire had burst out into wicked flames, with smoke darkening the bright morning overhead.
7
Cerúlia allowed herself to relax as Ciellō, guided and escorted by shields, carried her to the Queen’s Bedchamber and laid her on her uninjured side as if she herself were a piece of precious glass. Nana and Stahlia miraculously appeared close behind them. Everyone’s face looked grim.
“Perhaps mine will be the shortest reign ever,” Cerúlia joked with gallows humor. The arrow hurt a great deal, but she had no intention of dying.
“Hold still, damselle,” Ciellō said. Using his sharp dagger, he cut off the arrow’s head where it protruded through the back of her arm. Whaki leapt up on the bed from the other side and began licking her ear, which was annoying, distracting, and very sweet. Stahlia crouched on the floor beside her face, trying to shoo the big dog away.
“Prepare yourself,” Ciellō warned.
Cerúlia reached for Stahlia’s hand.
“One, two, three.” He yanked the shaft of the arrow out. Cerúlia screamed at the pain but managed not to pass out. Nana had grabbed a cloth to stanch the bleeding.
“Now I need the things to sew,” Ciellō said to the women.
“Oh, no! If there’s going to be any sewing, I’m the one who’ll do it,” said Stahlia. “You, whoever you are!—and you, guards! Get out of here! Go outside and watch the door or do something useful. Nana and I have her under our care now. Go! Get! Shoo!”
Such was Stahlia’s forcefulness that even Ciellō backed down. As the crowd of men left the room, Cerúlia called after them, “See to the fire! Ciellō! The fire!”
“Hush now. Let me get a good look at your injury, Birdie,” said Stahlia, sitting on the bed and peering closely at the jagged arrow wounds, front and back. Nana already had water and soap at hand.
“Shouldn’t we send for a healer?” Stahlia whispered to Nana, talking over Cerúlia as if she couldn’t hear and didn’t matter.
“No. You just need something to disinfect it,” the patient managed to insert through clenched teeth.
“I’ve got a nip of brandy in my room,” said Nana. When she returned with the flask, Stahlia hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Cerúlia encouraged, although when the alcohol hit the torn flesh, she screamed lustily. Whaki whined in sympathy.
After too many long moments the burning sensation lessened. “Well!” Cerúlia pulled in a lungful of air. “I think that’s the worst. Sorry if I scared you. Now, you can stitch it up.”
Stahlia threaded her needle, but hesitated before commencing.
“Go ahead, Teta; I’m sure you are the best person with a needle in the palace,” Cerúlia encouraged her. “And I can handle it. I’ve learned a lot about pain.”
“Where did you learn about pain?” murmured Stahlia, talking to distract herself as she planted the first neat stitch and pulled the ripped skin closed.