Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [203]
Ista cut though a plethora of plans by requesting a wash, food, and bed, in that order; Divine Tovia, always more practical than most of Ista’s attendants, and with an eye to the blood on her gown, backed her up. The elderly physician managed to run off all but two maids, her own acolyte-assistant, and Lady dy Hueltar from the tent where she guided Ista for a bath and treatment. Ista had to admit, it was both comfortable and comforting to have those familiar hands about her, applying salve and bandages to her hurts. Tovia’s curved sewing needle, too, was very fine and sharp, and her hands were quick about the wincing task of mending flesh where it was required.
“What in the world are these bruises?” Divine Tovia inquired.
Ista craned to see the back of her own thigh where the physician was pointing. Five dark purple spots were spaced around it. Her lips curved up, and she twisted about to spread her own fingers between them.
“Five gods, Ista,” cried Lady dy Hueltar in horror, “who has dared to handle you so?”
“Those are from . . . yesterday. When Lord Illvin rescued me from the Jokonan column on the road. What excellent long fingers he does have! I wonder if he plays any musical instruments. I shall have to find out.”
“Is Lord Illvin that odd tall fellow who rode in with you?” asked Lady dy Hueltar suspiciously. “I must say, I did not like the very forward way he kissed your hand.”
“No? Well, he was pressed for time. I shall make him practice, later, until his technique improves.”
Lady dy Hueltar looked offended, but Divine Tovia, at least, snorted a little.
Ista was laid down in a tent under a guard of ladies, but rose again to peek out, despite her nightgown, at the sound of many horses thundering out of the camp. It was only late afternoon; on this long summer day Oby’s cavalry would be descending on Porifors with hours of light still left for their work. The timing, Ista thought, was excellent. Maximum confusion, disorder, and dismay would have spread through the Jokonan forces from the dire events of noon, and the chances that competent leadership had yet reemerged—especially from the habits of sullen mindless obedience extracted by Joen—were slight.
She let herself be coaxed back to bed by those who loved her. Though the Ista they thought they loved, she supposed, was an imaginary one, a woman who existed only in their own minds, part icon, part habit.
The reflection did not depress her unduly, now that she knew someone who loved the Ista who was real. She fell asleep thinking of him.
ISTA AWOKE FROM UGLY DREAMS NOT, SHE THOUGHT, ENTIRELY HER own, to the sound of female voices arguing.
“Lady Ista wants to sleep, after her ordeal,” said Lady dy Hueltar firmly. “I will not have her troubled further.”
“No,” said Liss in a puzzled tone, “the royina will want the report from Porifors. We started before dawn to bring it to her as swiftly as we could.”
Ista lumbered up from her sheets. “Liss!” she cried. “In here!” It appeared she had slept the short summer night through; it sufficed.
“Now see what you’ve done!” said Lady dy Hueltar in aggravation.
“What?” Liss’s bafflement was genuine; she had not Ista’s years of training in deciphering her now-senior lady-in-waiting’s oblique locutions. Ista translated it handily as I didn’t want to travel again today, and now I’ll have to, drat you, girl.
A leap from her cot, Ista discovered, wasn’t going to occur. She did manage to lever herself painfully to her feet before the tent flap was thrown back, admitting