The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [71]
“Paint,” said von Stein, waving his gun in the air with a flourish. “I’ll commission a piece for my wife, and another for my mistress. Just don’t go getting them mixed up!”
“Paint.” Manuel sighed, knowing too well just how poorly that paid.
“Don’t worry, Manny,” said von Stein, putting his free hand on Manuel’s shoulder and leading him back toward the door. “I’m flush as a virgin’s cheek on her first poke, so expect a fair price for your work. Which hand do you paint with?”
“My right,” said Manuel, still distracted from the wine and his pardon and his diminished prospects, and so he failed to notice von Stein stepping behind him until the gun went off. He shot the fucking bottle, Manuel thought as the glass exploded and smoke enveloped them both, and then he realized his left hand had caught fire. Stumbling forward, he held his arm in front of him and saw a ragged hole punched through most of his palm, his middle two fingers attached to the rest of his hand by nothing more than raw, scorched skin. Then the blood came and he reeled, collapsing on the carpet as von Stein delivered a few lazy kicks to his backside.
“— orders, you self-righteous little shit,” said von Stein, and through the massive gaps on either side of the door Manuel saw the guards storming the room. The last thing he heard as two men scooped him up was von Stein saying, “And don’t take him to the good leech, give him to that batty fraud. The boy’s fond of witches.”
Syphilis and the Magus
“Theophrastus Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim,” said the ugly little man as he bowed. “But you may call me Doctor Paracelsus.”
For a moment Awa could not speak, amazed by the length of his name and trying to commit it to memory.
“Right,” said Manuel, cracking his knuckles and trying desperately to forget that if his reunion with his captain did not go exceptionally well he might be dead within the hour. “And remember, Doctor, von Swine hates Moors, so not a word.”
“The lady’s presence in my clinic will be a secret known only to the inner sanctum of we three now present, for I shall adorn her as a bandaged nun upon your departure,” said Paracelsus. “In truth, I doubt your commander’s prejudice to those of the darkest land can compare with my aversion to his good graces, and so upon calling in the future request Sister Gloria instead of whatever unpronounceable, to our honest tongues, and esoteric name the Moor has gone by in the past.”
“The Moor?” Awa blinked. “Me?”
“Know thyself, Sister Gloria, and be free!” said Paracelsus. “What herbs do you use in your practice?”
“Ah, wormwood,” said Awa, looking fearfully at Manuel. This so-called doctor was barely older than she and very clearly blind drunk. “Lots and lots of wormwood.”
“A fine plant, useful in so many applications! Those with trouble of stomach would do well to sample its leaves, and the root, when mashed and mixed with—”
“Right, take care, Sister Gloria,” said Manuel, backing out of the small room Paracelsus had ushered them into. “I’ll be by to visit from time to time.”
“Be careful,” Awa called after him, but then Paracelsus had seized her arm, looked her up and down for the umpteenth time, muttered something in a language even she did not recognize, and then set to swaddling her with a roll of thin white linen bandages. After this layer he provided her with a musty, oversized habit that had a small cut and a large dark stain on the right shoulder, and finally gave her white gloves. Only her eyes, nose, and shards of her temples were not obscured by the bandages, and he then smeared a pale ointment on these visible patches of skin.
“Fortunate for you I had this Spirit of Saturn, Sister Gloria,” Paracelsus said as he rinsed the lead paste off his fingers. “I wish you to know that in this mortal flesh you have found an ageless hunger for knowledge, a timeless receptivity