“Very well.”
The older woman entered, pushing the door closed behind her. Leona sat tall in her chair, quill in hand, a fresh picture of poise. Her magistrae stood before her, twisting her braid of long gray hair and bowing her head.
“What is it, Anthea?”
“… Domina, you know that ever I have served you faithfully.” Trepidation shone in Magistrae’s eyes as she glanced to that bottle of goldwine. “And I would never seek to do you hurt.”
“Of course.”
“I know your father presses your finances. I did not wish to place one more trouble upon your brow. I’ve struggled with whether or not to bring this to you, bu—”
“Anthea,” Leona said calmly. “Speak your piece.”
“… It is Arkades, Domina.”
Leona looked to the door her executus had just left by.
“What of him?”
“He knows.”
Leona put aside her quill and sat back in the chair, frowning.
“Knows what?”
“Leona,” Magistrae said. “He knows.”
*
Mia sat in the infirmary, listening to the nevernight winds blowing off the ocean. The turn in temperature was a welcome relief, but not nearly enough to let her breathe easy. Squinting at the horizon earlier, she’d fancied she could see the third sun, poised at the world’s end. Soon it would rise, truelight would begin; awful heat and thrumming crowds and oceans and oceans of blood.
The sounds of the other gladiatii at evemeal filtered through the stone walls, and Mia could hear Butcher complaining about the quality of Finger’s “stew.” To the hoots and cheers of their fellows, the emaciated cook loudly informed the Butcher of Amai where he could stick said stew if he didn’t like it.*
Mia’s smile became a wince as Maggot swabbed her cheek with aloe and evermint, the vague sting crawling in her wound. Maggot nodded to herself, wrapping Mia’s face in fresh bandages and tying a gentle knot.
“It’s healing well,” she said. “We can leave the wrappings off next time.”
“Aye,” Mia said. “My thanks.”
“Cheer up, little Crow,” came a groggy voice behind her. “Pretty as you were, you’re not true gladiatii without a few scars.”
Mia turned to Bladesinger, yawning and sitting up on the slab beside her.
“Well, if that’s the case,” the girl smiled, “you’re the truest gladiatii that ever walked the sands, ’Singer.”
“Aye,” the woman smirked. She held up her swordarm, still wrapped in bandages. “It’s going to be a beaut, that much is sure.”
“Can you move it yet?” Mia asked softly.
Bladesinger looked to Maggot, shook her head.
“It’s early turns,” the little girl declared. “Far too early to tell.”
Mia and the older woman exchanged an uneasy glance, but said nothing. Finger shuffled into the infirmary, carrying four steaming bowls on a wooden tray. As he set down his burden with a flourish, Mia looked the cook up and down, wondering how many people parts he’d used in his creation this time.
“Dinner,” he declared. “Eat it while it’s hot.”
“Scrumptious,” Maggot smiled. “Thank you, Finger.”
The man scruffed the girl’s hair and shuffled back out. Mia raised an eyebrow.
“Scrumptious?” she said, once the cook was out of earshot. “Of every word in creation, the last I’d use to describe Finger’s cooking is ‘scrumptious,’ Maggot.”
“Depends how you grew up,” the girl shrugged. “Once you’ve eaten raw rat with your bare hands, you become far less choosy about cookery, believe me.”
Mia nodded, sucked her lip. Again she was struck by how much this little girl reminded her of herself. Growing up rough and brash, just as Mia had done after her parents were taken. Unafraid to speak her mind. Maybe a touch too clever for her own good. She knew she shouldn’t. Knew it was weakness.
But Mia liked her.
“Fair point,” she smiled. “Apologies.”
“You want any or not?”
“Give it over, then.”
Maggot passed Mia a bowl, raised an eyebrow at her second patient. “Bladesinger?”
“My thanks.”
The woman set the bowl on the slab beside her. Mia watched her carefully spoon a mouthful with her off-hand. Wondering what would become of her if she never regained use of her swordarm. How quickly would this world dispose of a gladiatii who couldn’t lift a blade?
Fang wandered into the infirmary, the big mastiff looking up at Mia’s bowl and wagging his tail hopefully. She leaned down and scruffed his ears, but kept her dinner to herself.
“How does Furian fare?” Mia asked.
Maggot nodded at the Unfallen, speaking around her mouthful. “Take a look.”
Mia set her bowl aside and rose with a wince—her ribs were still bothering her, and there was no real remedy save working them as little as possible. She stepped to the sleeping Furian’s side, shadow trembling, a familiar hunger rising in her belly that had nothing to do with her waiting meal.
Truth told, the Unfallen looked a little better. Color was returning to his face, and touching his brow, Mia found his fever lessened. Wincing with trepidation, she pulled back the bandages to take a peek. The injuries were ghastly, no doubt about it; the silkling’s venom had burned through muscle and skin across his chest and throat. But instead of the rotten, weeping mess she’d last seen, the wounds were clean, healthy, pink. The sight of fat, wriggling maggots crawling over the fissures in Furian’s skin still made Mia sick to her stomach, and the smell was far from roses. But Black Mother be praised, the blighted flesh was all but gone.
“It’s incredible,” Bladesinger murmured.
“It’s disgusting,” Mia said.
Utterly nauseated, she finally surrendered her bowl of dinner to Fang, who wuffed and began chowing down with relish.
“But aye, it’s incredible,” Mia admitted. “Fine work, Maggot.”
The girl waved her wooden spoon like a queen. “Too kind, Mi Dona. Too kind.”
“What comes next?”
“It’s more an art than a science, aye?” Maggot replied, wiping her nose on her arm. “I think in few turns we might rid him of the larvae. My ma told me to drown them in hot vinegar, but I feel bad about that with all the work they’ve done. After that, we keep it clean, keep it salved, keep him dosed. His fever is still fluxing, and the infection could creep back with bad luck. He’s a long way from out of the desert, but between you and me, his odds are passing fair.”
“Will he be able to fight in the magni?” Bladesinger asked.
“Steady on,” the little girl said. “I’m not a bloody miracle worker.”
“Seems like a miracle to me.” Mia shook her head in admiration, smiled at the girl. “Your ma really taught you all this?”
“Aye. She could have taught me more, if she was given time to. Sometimes I wonder about all the knowings she took to her grave.”
“Aye,” Mia sighed. “I know what you mean.”