Prodigal Son
Berend takes a sudden, involuntary breath. Pain digs into his ribs. He kicks at the bedclothes, the ache moving down his legs, and tries to sit up.
The nurse’s hands on his shoulders are firm and heavy. “Be still,” she says. “It’s all right.”
It is most assuredly not all right. At best, there’s a member of the illustrious and unscrupulous Belisia family here to threaten his life, limbs, and everyone he cares about—a dwindling number, these days, and one he can count on one hand, but still. At worst, someone is here to kill him.
“My effects,” he says. Talking moves the pain up underneath his lungs. “Where are my things?” His pistol almost certainly isn’t loaded, and there’s no chance he could lift his saber in this state, but his mysterious visitor doesn’t know that.
“They’re locked away on the lower floor,” the nurse says, pushing him into the bed. “What’s wrong?” Her hand moves to his wrist, gentle but strong as a vise.
A shadow darkens the entrance to Berend’s curtained room. He looks up, his pulse pounding in his ears and under the nurse’s fingers. At least she’s here. There will be a witness.
Standing in the doorway, wearing a wrinkled doublet and scuffed boots, his crumpled hat under one arm, is Herard Belisia. When Berend first met him, he was so hung over he could barely maintain eye contact. Now, arguably, he looks worse.
“Is this a bad time?” he asks.
Berend sets his jaw, trying to portray strength he doesn’t have. “What do you want?”
The nurse relinquishes his wrist, and he pulls his arm in to his chest. If only he had his gun. Herard doesn’t look armed, at least, but there’s always the possibility of a pistol in his trousers or a knife in his boot.
“You look terrible,” Herard says.
“I suppose I could say the same about you.”
Herard looks down at himself, as though he’s noticing his rumpled clothes for the first time. “Oh. Yes, quite. Are you all right? What happened to you?”
Berend frowns. This isn’t what he expected. He’d rather they skip to the part where the firstborn son of the incredibly wealthy man after his head makes an attempt on his life. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Did—” Herard looks at the nurse, who stares him down with a single raised eyebrow. She isn’t going anywhere. Berend could kiss her.
“Ten minutes,” she says. “He needs rest.”
Herard glances between Berend and the nurse once more before he makes his decision. He leans in and lowers his voice. “Did the man my father sent do that to you?”
A sharp bark of laughter escapes Berend’s chest, setting his ribs to throbbing again. “No. Not most of it, anyway. I dealt with him.” He takes a steadying breath. “The rest was…let’s say it was above the rate your father is willing to pay.”
Herard’s mouth opens and his eyes go wide. He’s rather young, now that Berend has another look at him, and it seems he’s having a rough go of it. His murderous brother is younger, Berend reminds himself. I trust this man as far as I can throw him. Which wouldn’t be far in the best of circumstances, as Herard is a tall and strapping young man despite his unfortunate appearance, but right now Berend can barely pick himself up, much less anyone else.
“What can I do for you?” Berend asks.
Herard runs a hand through his dark hair. It only makes it look more like he just tumbled out of bed. “Well, I—I suppose a lot has happened since we last spoke. I won’t waste more of your time regaling you with the story, so suffice it to say that my father has cut me off for reasons I won’t get into now, and at roughly the same time I learned he had hired an assassin to kill you. Having very few resources to speak of, I thought I might check to see if you were still among the living, and if you were, I thought I could propose an alliance of sorts.” He pauses, out of breath. “But I see that you clearly have other concerns—”
“Now, wait a moment,” Berend interrupts him. “I may need a little patching up, but if you’re saying that you’re now opposed to your father…?” The question hangs in the air.
“He’s leaving everything to my brother, Hybrook. The estate, the businesses, my living allowance, everything. Since you were at the house—” he glances over to the nurse, who favors him with an impassive glare— “I assume you have some notion of my brother’s character.”
Berend pushes himself up onto his elbows and, from there, to a half-seated position. It’s the best he can do. “I’d ask you the same thing. Did you know what he did before you hired me?”
Herard sighs. “I didn’t know he killed anyone. Not until…oh, this time yesterday? It’s been—well, my day hasn’t been nearly as interesting as yours, clearly, but a lot has happened.” He shakes his head. “That poor girl. Bessa, her name was. Bessa Kyne. At least her spirit’s at rest now.”
It might be. Or it might be torn apart, like Mikhail’s, and she’s suffering just as much in death as she did in life. Does it feel worse to be strangled or to have your soul damaged?
No one had told Berend her name. That Herard remembers it moves him up an inch in Berend’s esteem. Maybe he can still do right by Bessa Kyne, if Warder lives and Herard proves himself an ally. Both prospects are dubious.
“I kept my end of the bargain,” he says. “We agreed to payment for the job and for my silence. And your father still tried to kill me. I don’t appreciate being double-crossed, especially when I’ve put my professional reputation on the line. I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I had known.”
“And I wouldn’t have offered it to you,” Herard agrees. “I’m sorry for your involvement in this. I truly am.”
Berend almost believes him.
“And I’m sorry that my father tried to sacrifice your life for my brother’s reputation,” Herard continues. “You were only ever honest. You don’t deserve all this.”
It’s not much, but it’s something. Maybe Berend is being too harsh on him. It’s not Herard’s fault he has Hybrook for a brother and Lord Edwan for a father, and he looks like he’s been wrung out like wet laundry.
“Why is he willing to sacrifice so much for your brother?” Berend asks. “I don’t know much about him, other than what I saw in the house.”
Herard snorts, twisting his mouth into something that might have been a smile but was more of a grimace. “Do you have brothers, Mr. Horst?”
“I do.” He hasn’t spoken to any of them in years—decades, if he’s being honest—but as far as he knows, they’re getting along all right. Alloch inherited their father’s land, being the eldest, and Aldulf, the youngest, had signed on with a ship as soon as he came of age. Berend was the second, so he joined the Sons of Galaser, and now look where he is: beaten all to hell by ghosts. Maybe he should have been a sailor too.
“Hybrook has always been our father’s favorite,” Herard continues. “They’re too much alike. On the other hand, I’ve been a disappointment, especially since—well, I won’t get into it, but foremost among my many sins is that I was going to tell Bessa’s family what had happened to her. They were worried. Hadn’t heard from her in weeks.”
Gods’ bleeding mercy. “Have you told them?”
Herard shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“You should. Or I will.”
A nod, followed by a heavy sigh. “I think it would be better coming from me, for what good that’s worth,” Herard says.
Berend pushes himself up another inch. He’s sorely missing his dignity, and Herard looking almost as bad only helps a little. “Well, Mr. Belisia, I believe we can work together. Bessa Kyne needs justice—” and her soul might need to be put back together, but he’s not going to mention that— “and you and I both need protection from your father.”
“I don’t have very many resources at the moment,” Herard says. “I have friends who will take me in, but…”
“You know your father, and your brother, and how the estate operates. That’s valuable. It will be a few more days before I’m in fighting shape again, but I assure you, I’m quite competent at what I do.”
“I’m staying with a friend.” Herard produces a calling card from under his hat. Its wrinkled from his hands, and the lettering is smeared. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
Berend takes the card. The name Enryn Marner is inked at the top in block capitals, followed by an address in the University quarter, written in a short, wide script.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone where I am,” says Herard. “Just to be safe.”
“You have my word. As long as you value it better than your father did, you’ll have no trouble from me.” Berend folds the card in half. “I look forward to working with you.”
“I wish I could pay you. I’ll be in your debt.”
“Who knows?” Berend says with a smile. “Perhaps your brother will be arrested and the estate will end up in your hands. We can talk about settling our accounts then. In the meantime, I have a few loose ends I need to tie up in the city, and the distinguished lady here isn’t going to let me leave just yet.”
The nurse is having none of his flattery. She gets to her feet and moves to herd Herard out the door. “He needs to rest,” she says.
Herard backs out of the room, giving the nurse a slight bow. “Thank you for letting me trouble your patient. And you won’t tell anyone what I said, will you?”
“Out.” She closes the curtain behind her, leaving Berend alone.
It must be night by now. There are no windows within his limited field of view, but the light overhead has gone dark, replaced by lamps placed closer to ground level. He’s exhausted again. He’d told Herard he’d be back in fighting condition in a few days; now he thinks it might be a few weeks. He might be able to bluff his way out of a fight, once the frostbite goes down and he can stand.
If the gods are merciful, nothing terrible will happen until then, but Berend wouldn’t bet on his luck.
He falls asleep again, and dreams of ghosts, screaming and reaching for him with icy fingers. When he wakes, the sun shines through the hospital’s high windows. It only hurts a little to open his eye. He can stand, too, and walk around a bit, and with the permission of the stern-faced head nurse, he collects his belongings.
His clothes are in shreds. An attendant who looks like a student, with patches on the elbows of his jacket, gives him a shirt and trousers from a wooden crate behind the desk. Berend dresses and puts on his sword, pistol, and boots. Stuffed into his coat are the remains of Warder’s notes, mostly untouched. Berend peers at them under the nearest window.
It’s all diagrams and illegible scribbles. He can’t even tell which end of each page is up.
He doesn’t know what he’ll find, but he goes up to the third floor to check in on Warder. The man is unrecognizable, his skin a pallid gray and his neck wrapped in stiff bandages. Another bandage is tied around his elbow. His breath barely disturbs the dust hanging in the air above his face.
A nurse appears to send Berend out. He must look a sight, armed and dressed in borrowed clothes over his own bandages, clutching the sheaf of diagrams.
“Will he live?” he asks.
The nurse shakes her head. “Can’t say right now. I’m sorry.”
Everything continues to be extremely haunted, but at least Berend’s fortunes are looking up a bit. Thanks for reading!
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