Page 43 of Remmen

“That’s good to hear. What’s the shed for?”

“Storage.” He didn’t expand and I didn’t prod more. Zarcal liked the silence, and I had no way of making him talk. That wasn’t really my job. I wasn’t here to force him to come to terms with anything twisted inside of him.

And it was almost peaceful to sit in quiet for an hour with no distractions.

I wondered if Zarcal would mind if I read a book. I didn’t ask.

So we sat. Everything in New Knossos was built minotaur-sized, my office included, and my first week the chairs had come up past my ribs and I’d felt like a kid at the grown-ups’ table every time I climbed into one. Somewhere in the last month that had worn off. The big chair with the cushion shoved into it was just my chair now. The desk I had to reach up to was just my desk. Even the door, tall enough to clear a set of horns, had stopped looking strange.

Outside, the town got on without us. Somebody was hammering away off toward the north lots, slow and steady. A cart creaked past over the ruts. Two brides went by under the window laughing at something, gone before I caught what. A goat lost a fight with a fence. I thought about the book in my bag again and again left it there, because it felt rude to read in front of a man who’d dragged himself all the way into town to sit in a chair and say nothing. So I watched the light move across the floor instead, and Zarcal watched whatever Zarcal watched, and god help me, it was the most restful hour I’d had in days.

The hourglass on my desk was down to its last handful of sand when Zarcal spoke. “I get nightmares sometimes.”

“What kind?” I asked as if we hadn’t just spent most of an hour staring at the walls. I could imagine: arena sand, blood, the screaming crowds. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but it was impossible not to.

He slouched a bit in his chair. “I’m falling through the deepest darkness you’ve ever seen. Just falling and falling and falling. I never hit the ground.” The final grains of sand hit the bottom of the hourglass and Zarcal planted his hands on the armrest of his chair and stood. “Looks like it’s time to go.”

I almost invited him to stay a bit longer. I didn’t have another client coming, but Zarcal was already moving toward the door. “Same time next week?” I asked.

He considered me for a moment and then nodded before he walked out.

It was only a dozen words, but I’d call that progress.

I waited about fifteen minutes after Zarcal’s session to see if he’d come running back, finally ready to talk, but there was no sign of that happening.

I straightened things on my desk that didn’t need it. Squared a stack of intake forms nobody had filled out. Capped a pen, uncapped it, capped it again. Then I got up and dragged one of the big chairs a foot to the left so it lined up with the other one, which did nothing at all except kill ninety seconds, which was the whole point.

What would Nezara say if she saw this? It was almost worse than being caught in flagrante with Remmen.

If I couldn’t be helpful here, there was always the clinic. I slipped the medical kit bag that I’d taken to stocking over my shoulder and headed out to Otho’s.

The walk over went easier than the walk back from the tavern had. Or I’d talked myself down. Couldn’t tell which. A bride I’d sat with at the welcome night flagged me down just to show me a basket of eggs like she’d laid them herself. One of the bulls from Otho’s ward lifted his good arm at me. Nobody went quiet, nobody stared, and by the time I got to the clinic I’d pretty much decided I’d spent half the day scaring myself over two women at a well. Felt like an idiot for it, and glad to be one.

A look of relief washed over Otho’s face when I stepped in. “We should give you some official hours to be here,” he said. “Not that these fools break their bones when it’s convenient.” He glared at a bull cradling his arm and the bull bowed his head.

“I’m just volunteering when I can,” I reminded Otho. “And I’m not a doctor.”

“How do you think doctors are trained?” Otho demanded. “Go and be useful.”

I went and was useful. The ward ran along the back of the clinic, four long beds for the men who filled them, and today all four were full. The bull by the door was flat on his back snoring loud enough to rattle the shutters, one splinted leg up on a folded blanket. The next one had a bride perched on the edge of his mattress, the two of them murmuring over something that made him duck his big head and almost smile. The third had a book propped open on his chest and didn’t look up when I passed.

The fourth was Mestyn.

Mestyn looked angrier than usual. His red skin was darkened in patches from bruises he’d taken fighting Rauf, but the bandages on his stomach were an almost pristine white. Whatever he’d done to his stitches, he hadn’t completely undone the healing.

“Has the mayor’s pet come to rub salt in the wounds?” Mestyn scowled.

I froze for half a beat and hoped he didn’t notice. “I don’t think Otho would approve if I did that. Can I check on that?” I pointed to his bandages.

“Like I can stop you.”

“I won’t force you. If you’d rather wait for Otho, that’s fine.”

He huffed. “You can do it.”

I set my bag down and pulled back the dressing on his stomach. He let me, watching my face the whole time instead of the wound, which I didn’t love. Underneath, it had closed up clean, the stitches holding, no heat and no smell to it. Loud as he was, the man healed fast. I taped a fresh pad down and kept my mouth shut about what I was fairly sure of, that Otho would send him home today, tomorrow at the latest.

“What do you think?” Mestyn asked. He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers against my wrist, so quick I almost pretended it didn’t happen.