Tainted

Chapter Eighteen

Whoever stands beside Camden sighs audibly.

"A hatchet to the arm. Can you fix it?" he says. It must be Camden's patron.

The healer tsks. "Of course. I'll clean it, then stitch it. Three silvers."

"And the medicine?" Camden's patron asks.

"I don't have much. It will cost extra," the healer answers.

There's a low, almost inhumane growl. "Did you use it all on that Thief?" the patron spits.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Please don't say yes, I beg.

"Not all," the healer answers honestly.

A crash sounds against the flagstones and my eyes snap open. I try to see through the thick blanket, but I can't even make out the speakers' silhouettes.

The smell of basil permeates the air. Camden's patron must have smacked the mortar and pestle from the table, spilling the healer's poultice across the floor.

"That will cost you," the healer says evenly. It's against the prison rules to injure the healer. A patron could be heavily fined; a prisoner, killed.

Camden's patron huffs a laugh. "What? A few pieces of broken pottery? My fighter is dying. I need him back out in the battlefield. How else am I supposed to make money?"

It doesn't escape me that Camden's own feelings are not asked after in this exchange.

"Please, healer," Camden says, "my arms are my best feature."

Like a knee-jerk reaction, I roll my eyes.

"Hush, boy," the patron chides.

I hear the healer move around the base of the surgical table toward his cabinet with the suturing kit. He returns to Camden's side, and for the first time since they entered, I'm glad I can't see through the fabric of the blanket.

A whiff of alcohol lets me know that the healer is cleaning Camden's cut. There's a sharp intake of breath, and my heart goes out to Camden. He's sounding brave, but I wonder if he's as terrified to get stitches as I am.

"Make it a pretty scar, Healer," Camden says through his teeth.

The healer says nothing.

There's silence as the healer preps his kit. I can hear him unrolling the fabric pockets that hold his tools and choosing which needle to use. It turns my stomach.

There's a hiss, presumably from Camden, and I wonder if the healer's begun his work.

"Death Duel?" the healer asks, breaking the silence.

Metal rings as the patron shakes his head. I can only imagine what sort of jewelry he's adorned himself with.

"Nah. Exhibition. First to draw blood. Ever since Thief died the crowd's been mad. They want their heroes to live," the patron says.

I allow myself a moment of relief. The warden will want to cater to the nobles, at least for a little while. But exhibition duels can see cause injuries leading to infection...and death. Nothing's changed yet, we're all still in danger.

A sickening feeling hits my gut. For the first time I wonder, ff the nobles think I'm dead, then does my father think I'm dead? Has that information spread to the Laplands? And if it did, would my dad even know who "the Thief" is?

Of course he would, I think. Take one look at your arm, you can't hide that reputation.

"Done," the healer says loudly, snapping a thread.