Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [224]
"Joscelin." Gilot smiled back at me. "Wish he'd been there, eh?"
"Ah, well." I thought about Daršanga, the Mahrkagir's festal hall, and the circle of bodies rising, rising ever higher, Joscelin at its center. "I don't know, Gilot. There were innocent people out there, caught up in the rioting. He might have wreaked an awful lot of Cassiline havoc."
"Still." Gilot drew a breath, then coughed and winced. "It worked, this salve?"
I nodded. "It helped, I think. But it was a Tiberian chirurgeon who set the arm in the first place." It wasn't, not really. Phèdre had done it, following the mortally wounded Drucilla's instructions; both of them weeping, Joscelin pale and sweating, cursing in terms no Cassiline Brother should know. Remember this, Phèdre had said to me. Remember her courage. Remember them all.
I did.
But I didn't think Gilot needed to know.
I told him another story, about how Phèdre had suffered broken ribs after falling from the cliffs of La Dolorosa into the ocean. A Tiberian physician had tended her, too; a Hellene, actually, a former slave. But he was trained in Tiberium, and it made Gilot feel better.
"So I have somewhat in common with them both," he mused.
"You do," I said, touching his good hand. I didn't tell him that Phèdre had never mentioned a persistent, stabbing pain when she sought to draw breath, or that it had been Joscelin's left arm that was broken and not his sword-hand. Anna's gaze dwelled upon my face, shadowed and somber. She knew, the way women do. "Have a care, Gilot. I'll be back."
I sat in the sunlight-drenched grotto, thinking. The effigy of Asclepius gazed across the isle, his shadow pooled at his feet in the burbling spring, pierced with golden glints from the coins that had been thrown there. I propped my own foot on the ledge of the fountain. The swelling in my ankle had gone down, and it was turning the hues of Gilot's face. Asdepius' serpent coiled the length of his staff, whispering counsel in his ear. Votive-offerings hung all around. For a while, I'd been able to pick out ours, but already it was hard. New offerings eclipsed the old. The paint on the fired clay was fading, turning muted.
I unstrung Canis' medallion from around my neck, pondering it.
Wisdom. What was wisdom?
"What is it you have there?"
I looked up to meet the priest's gaze. "A luck-token, my lord," I said, handing it to him. "A gift of a philosopher-beggar, who may be more than he seems."
"A Cynic," the priest acknowledged, seeing the crude lamp stamped on the clay disk. He sat beside me, turning the medallion in his long, clever fingers. He paused, frowning. "Who gave this to you?"
"Canis." I felt silly, saying it. "He lives in a barrel."
"Canis, the dog." The priest bowed his head, his bearded lips moving in a smile. "Here," he said. "Feel."
I nearly pulled away; I still didn't like to be touched without my leave. But I relented, and suffered the priest to grasp my hand and guide it. With my fingertips, I felt a series of notches etched into the rim of Canis' medallion.
"Once," said the priest, "there was one such as me, a healer, a priest sworn to the vows of Asclepius. But his eyesight failed as he grew older." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Still, he believed in his calling. And he continued to treat his patrons, experimenting with different treatments. He devised a system of notation that he might read with his fingers. His notes have all been transcribed, of course, but I saw one of his tablets once. My teacher showed it to me. On every tablet, he began with this inscription."
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. "What does it say?"
The priest pressed the medallion into my palm, folding my fingers over it. " 'Do no harm,'" he said simply. "It is the first thing we learn. It is our precept. And that is what it says here. 'Do no harm.'"
"Canis!" The word emerged in a hiss. The snare of intrigue tightened around