The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [139]
Much to Neb’s further surprise, they followed the orders, even Gerran. While Gerran’s silver dagger helped his hire up the stairs, Neb hurried to his own chamber and grabbed his saddlebags, which contained his precious supply of herbs. They would meet a better wyrd now than financing a lad’s folly. He hurried on to Gerran’s chamber.
With an anxious Nicedd hovering nearby, Gerran lay facedown on the mattress, his shirt off. Old blood and dirt crusted over the healing tear in his skin, a line of scabs inside a livid bruise.
“I can smell it now, too,” Nicedd remarked. “Septic it is!”
“I’ve got to get that clean,” Neb said. “I hope Clae hurries with that water. Here, go get me some mead, will you? Gerro, my apologies, but we’ve got to burn away the corrupted humors. The mead will do that.”
Gerran made a grunting sound that might have been an answer.
“I’m on my way.” Nicedd trotted out of the chamber.
Near the bed stood a brazier, filled with charcoal left over from the winter’s cold. Neb summoned the Wildfolk of Fire and lit the coals. It was glowing nicely by the time an out-of-breath Clae returned with the full kettle. Neb set it among the coals to heat.
“Did you run all the way?” Neb said to his brother.
Clae nodded wordlessly.
“You may not want to watch this,” Neb said, glancing around. “Get me that basin from the washstand, will you?”
Clae followed orders, then stepped back against the wall. Neb rummaged in his saddlebags, found the prunella and healall leaves, and put a big handful of each into the washbasin. He needed one more botanical—what was it—comfrey root, and he had not even a scrap of that. I can find some on the morrow, he told himself, it grows all over pastureland.
He slopped a good portion of hot water on top of the herbs he’d selected and put the basin on the floor to let the mixture steep. Among his scribal tools he found a clean rag, which he dipped into the heating water in the kettle. When he applied it to the abscess, the rag ran red with old blood, streaked with the dark brown of ordinary dirt. Neb was still washing Gerran’s wound clean when Nicedd returned with a flagon of mead.
“I didn’t know how much you’d need,” the silver dagger said. “So I got a lot.”
“Good,” Neb said. “He may need to drink the rest when I’m done.” He glanced at Nicedd’s pale face. “You might need some yourself. Put that down! I’ll need you to hold your lord steady.”
Gerran’s shoulder looked even nastier once Neb could see it clearly. Not only did the split in the skin ooze pus, but a thin web of red lines spread outward from the bruise. Neb had a bad moment of wondering if he were too late, but the red corruption stretched only an inch or two beyond the blue-and-purple edges of the bruise. No use in giving up, he told himself. He got out his penknife, then considered his own hands, more than a little dirty. He washed them and the knife blade both in the remaining hot water.
“Gerro,” Neb said, “can you put your hands over your head? Stretch out, like.”
“I can,” Gerran said. “It’s not that bad.”
Neb decided against telling him the truth, that actually it was worse than he knew. Gerran slid down a little on the mattress to give himself room, then raised his arms over his head. Without being asked, Nicedd sat down next to him and caught his lord’s wrists. He’s seen this before, Neb thought.
“Hold on,” Neb said. “This is going to hurt.”
He grasped the penknife twixt thumb and forefinger as if he were cutting parchments against a straightedge, focused on the suppurating stripe running down the half-healed wound, and slashed the abscess open. Gerran let out a noise that almost amounted to a cry, then sucked his breath in sharply. Greenish matter welled in the wound and oozed in a trickle of blood.
“Get me more water,” Neb said to Clae. “Just take the kettle from the coals and don’t look at this. Use Gerran’s old shirt