“Stop moving,” Agrippa said. “And it will not hurt so much.”
Juan did as he was told, and went still. But he kept moaning piteously as Agrippa touched up the stitches.
“You said it would be easier today!” Juan howled.
“I did not,” Agrippa said. “But I did tell you not to move too strenuously. You didn’t listen, and this stitch was torn. Which is why I must repeat work that was already done.”
Juan grimaced. Isabel held his hand tightly. Agrippa saw her expression out of the corner of his eye. If there had been any doubt how Juan had pulled a stitch, it was dispelled by the flash of embarrassment on her face.
Agrippa had never really understood such embarrassment, in truth. There was no shame in lovemaking. And even when it resulted in an error such as this, he didn’t see the purpose in feeling shame about it. Errors were inevitable. The more errors, the faster one learned. The faster one improved.
A wise man would remember whatever position had caused the stitch to tear, and not repeat it until healed. No need for any particular negative feelings. But so many seemed incapable of such a simple truth. They would swing from one extreme to the other, either insisting on sex however they wished regardless of consequence, or so full of embarrassment and shame that they abstained entirely.
It was something he respected in his companions, strange though they might be. Hubert constantly violated Agrippa’s maxims of moderation, but even he learned lessons from every foray into excess. Hubert sought excess precisely because he saw it as a new experience to learn from. Agrippa could not endorse the consequences such a lifestyle wrought on Hubert’s health, but Hubert went into such choices knowingly.
Leona might pretend that she was nothing but a simple musclebound soldier, but she, too, quickly learned from her mistakes. Agrippa knew that the times Leona repeated a particular mistake over and over—as she had been especially prone to do when they first met, but less so by the time they’d last parted—were not out of ignorance. Nor foolishness, nor stubbornness. She did it out of some deep anguish, a sort of self-punishment not unlike the strange stories Hubert told of penitent monks flagellating themselves. So far, since she had come to Tarraconesis, it seemed to Agrippa she still kept good control of herself. She drank to excess, but not terrible excess.
“There,” Agrippa said, tying off the fresh linen bandage. “Now, do not move too much. If you have sex, do not contort into unusual positions. Best if Isabel remains on top, and you below.”
Juan seemed less embarrassed than Isabel, but even he blushed a little when he said “Yes, um, yes, alright. I understand.”
Agrippa cleaned up his tools and washed his hands before packing everything back into his leather satchel. He glanced at where Leona stood near the door. She had entered the room while he worked. “Everything alright outside?”
She nodded. “No sign of Hubey, but otherwise it’s fine. I thought maybe someone followed us inside, but—I don’t think so. Just a coincidence, I’m pretty sure.”
“How do you know?” Isabel asked. She sounded worried, her embarrassment forgotten.
“The staff knew him,” Leona said. “He’s just drinking now.”
“Well then,” Agrippa said. He slung his bag over one shoulder and turned to face Isabel. “Shall we give you space to fornicate now?”
He heard Leona snort in amusement. Isabel’s face flushed. “Ah, I suppose… some privacy would be good. Yes. Thank you.”
Once they were out in the hall, Leona nudged Agrippa. “I bet they miss Hubey now,” she said.
“And why is that?” Agrippa asked.
“He knows all the words,” she said. “You know. The courtesies and stuff.”
Agrippa frowned. “I’m very sure my Spatalian vocabulary is as large as Hubert’s. Larger, even. He speaks the language well enough, but he has so many others competing for space in his brain.”
“I said courtesies, Agrippa. He knows how to be nice. Polite.”
Agrippa nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “So do I.”
“But you’re not. You probably ruined the mood.”
“I’m a doctor. It’s helpful for doctors to speak plainly, so that they will not be misunderstood, especially when speaking to patients. Which I was.”
Leona rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, Agrippa.”
He did. But he also knew what she had said, and he was, technically, correct. He just shrugged.
The door behind them opened, and Isabel stepped out. She gave them both a thin smile that did not reach her eyes. “We can go,” she said.
As Isabel stepped past them, Leona gave Agrippa an amused look with arched eyebrows. The look Agrippa returned to her was, he hoped, suitably stoic.
Of course I ruined the mood. Juan needs a day of rest, not another half-hour pounding away at the princeppa.
They walked out of Dewdrop House in silence, which suited Agrippa nicely.
Hubert was not waiting for them outside Dewdrop House. Nor did he find them on the streets as they made their way back to the Duke’s palace. Nor was he waiting for them there.
When Isabel asked if he was alright, Agrippa and Leona were quick to reassure her.
“He does this sometimes,” Agrippa said.
“If something distracted him, it was probably important,” Leona added.
Agrippa thought she was perhaps being slightly charitable. Hubert had once vanished for nearly three days because someone he met at the tail end of a night of drinking had offered him a taste of Svardish mushrooms. The stranger apparently promised they would give Hubert the spirit of a bear. By the time he turned up again, he told them he had not been possessed by the spirit of any animal, but he had experienced some extremely vivid hallucinations. And his purse had been stolen. Well worth it! Hubert had insisted.
But this much was true: “I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Agrippa offered.
Isabel seemed to accept that. And their agreement with her father required only one of them to be present at any given time, so they could cover for Hubert. For a time, at least. With or without Hubert, Isabel’s duties went on.
And so Agrippa found himself standing guard, fighting boredom, as Isabel entered the Duke’s Hall to meet some of the noble guests that had recently arrived. He tried to focus on them, as he knew Hubert would have—these were not just guests, after all. As Duke Garibaldi had said, the guests were also the most likely conspirators. He fully expected that whoever wanted Isabel dead was going to be in attendance at the wedding.
So Agrippa took note of each of them as they approached the Princeppa to greet her.
“Sergius Anthimus, Princep of Carthagenesis,” announced the Duke’s seneschal.
Of all the animals I have heard of, Agrippa decided, this man most reminds me of a weasel.
Sergius Anthimus had dark hair, oiled slick against his scalp. He wore a wispy mustache, similarly oiled into two thin points. His clothes looked expensive, and Agrippa knew enough to know that a less arrogant tailor would not make them look so expensive. Isabel, for example, dressed well, but with an air of modesty. One might doubt Sergius even knew the word.
He bowed low, and when he took Isabel’s hand to plant a kiss on it, Agrippa could hear the wet smack of his lips on her skin.
Did he just lick her? It was hard to tell, but from the way Isabel winced, Agrippa thought maybe he had.
“Princeppa,” Sergius said. “I have heard tales of your poise and beauty. Clearly, they understated both.”
“Princep,” Isabel said, her tone cool but civil. “Welcome to my father’s hall.”
“You know, my father once promised me he would secure an alliance between our city-states,” he said. He was still holding her hand.
“Perhaps so,” Isabel said. “An alliance between our cities would benefit all, I think.”
Sergius shrugged. “Perhaps. But he had always indicated our futures would be sealed by marriage.”
“Alas, I do not have any siblings,” Isabel said. “My youngest brother was born dead, and took my mother with him.”
“Nor do I,” Sergius said. “Aside from half a dozen bastards my father has foisted on us, anyway. I always expected him to secure for me your hand in marriage.”
She knew what you meant, Agrippa thought. He knew he could be excessively blunt, but there was a world of difference between a medico and a nobleman. Isabel was straining to keep the banter civil, and Sergius seemed dead set on the opposite.
“Perhaps your father and I could not reach an agreement,” Isabel said stiffly.
“Perhaps,” Sergius agreed. “Such a shame, don’t you think?”
Isabel pulled her hand from Sergius’s. “I think there are other guests behind you, Princep.”
Sergius flashed a smile that did not look particularly friendly. “Of course,” he said. He stepped aside, drifting back into the crowd of courtiers.
The next few greetings were unremarkable, by comparison. Though her face was stony, Agrippa could tell that Leona was even more annoyed with Sergius than he was. Possibly moreso even than Isabel. The knuckles on the hand that gripped her spear went white as she clenched her fist around the haft of her weapon.
Still, disgusting as he may be, that behavior did not strike me as that of a man sending assassins at Isabel, he decided. More likely he would send assassins after her future husband, the princep of Peltiberia. He seems to desire Isabel, or perhaps he desires to control her.
It was possible Agrippa misjudged the man. Perhaps he did desire Isabel, but he had decided that if he could not have her he would rather see her dead. Such things happened. He resolved to keep an eye on Sergius, and consult with Hubert later. Perhaps we should ask around. Hubert can schmooze with Sergius’s close staff, and Leona can gossip with any Carthagenesian guards that followed him here. See what sort of man he really is.
He noted that in addition to some foreign nobility, all of the noble families of Tarraconesis were in attendance. He was a little surprised to see his former employer, Lady Giovanelli. He had worked under her for half a year, though he had only spoken with her once every week or two. Still, he knew that Andrea was a warrior, not a courtier. She preferred to send her husband or eldest daughter to functions like this in her stead.
I suppose the marriage of the princeppa is important enough to drag her out of the barracks and the training yard.
She might be present, but Lady Giovanelli stood stiffly in her finery. Her broad shoulders strained the seams of her gown, and her hair was pulled up into a plain bun. She wore a slender blade buckled to her side, and from the way she frequently rested one hand on it Agrippa judged it the only part of her ensemble that she was actually comfortable with.
By contrast, the other major nobles in Tarraconesis were in their element.
Lord Benevento was known to Agrippa only by reputation. He was middle-aged, stocky, with a thick mustache that merged with long graying sideburns. Benevento was famously loyal to the Garibaldi family, his own ancestors having been elevated to wealth and power by Duke Garibaldi’s grandfather.
By reputation, he was a good lord, generous and kind and loyal to a fault. Agrippa had heard Andrea complaining that Benevento was getting old and skittish, afraid of fighting the other city-states. So it was no shock to hear him effusively praising the Duke and princeppa for their fine decision to marry into an alliance with Peltiberia.
Lord Angelucci was more of a mystery. Agrippa had met the man once, a few months past, to help him with a bout of terrible indigestion. He was the oldest of all of Duke Garibaldi’s vassals, a wealthy and influential man that had been navigating the Tarraconesian court for decades. He’d paid Agrippa well for the help, and offered to double Lady Giovanelli’s pay to snatch Agrippa away. Agrippa had declined, of course—treating Andrea’s soldiers was boring, but helping a rich old man’s ulcers and gout sounded even worse.
It will be good to be free of them all, he decided. This wedding can’t come soon enough. Maybe we could go sign on with a company of mercenaries in Trivento or Gallaecia. No, not Trivento, the thought sobered him somewhat. Leona was from Trivento, and she had left the service of her home under bad enough terms she dared not return. Not Trivento, but somewhere that sees proper war, anyway. Somewhere I can run a triage tent full of men with lopped off limbs and pierced organs. Somewhere I can stare down the God of Death, spit in his eye, and say not this man, Omega. Not today. It has been too long.
Agrippa sighed, and shifted on his feet. He was getting tired of standing in one place. How did guards do it? It was so tedious.
He looked up and his eye caught upon the next noble approaching Isabel. It was a woman. She looked to be around Isabel’s age, though perhaps a few years older. She looked quite beautiful by conventional standards.Her hair was long and black, brushed to a shimmering luster. Her lips were full and painted crimson, and her gown clung to her shapely form in a very fetching manner.
That said, Agrippa did not care for the glint in her eye, or the way her smile looked vaguely predatory, as if she saw Isabel as a tasty morsel to be slaughtered.
“Rosalina Segura, Princeppa of Basconia!” Called the seneschal as the woman approached.
“Isabel!” Rosalina said. Her tone was effusive, gushing with enthusiasm. Her eyes told a different story. “It is so lovely to finally meet you.”
“Princeppa Rosalina,” said Isabel. “I feel the same, of course.”
Rosalina’s smile widened. “We have so much in common, dear Isabel. I should never have waited so long before visiting your fair city!”
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Isabel said. “I’m sure father won’t mind. There are many sights to see—”
“I’m sure there are!” Rosalina said. “But I’m most excited for the wedding. To see your beauty shine in a wedding gown, Princeppa. And to see what glorious man could have captured your attention.”
The way she spoke almost made Agrippa wonder. It almost sounded like Rosalina was flirting with Isabel. Did I misjudge her expression so badly? He wondered. Maybe what I mistook for hostility was simple lust.
“You’re too kind,” Isabel said. “I have not yet met Princep Aistulf, but I hear he is quite handsome. I understand you are betrothed to another princep, Rosalina. I’m sure he is quite fetching as well.”
Rosalina sighed. “Oh, yes. What a darling man he is, or so I have heard. I haven’t met him yet, either, of course. I’m a bit disappointed—I had thought perhaps the Princep of Dantabria would be in attendance for your wedding as well, but I’ve been informed he is not here.”
Dantabria? Agrippa’s focus sharpened.
“Princep Juan Marcilla sent his apologies and well wishes,” Isabel said. “He is indisposed. Father said he suspects trouble along their southern border, with Marpetania. You know how they are.”
The two women exchanged barbed words about the poor reputation of the city-state of Marpetania, best known for its vibrant underworld and such an excess of bravos and assassins that they routinely hired them out to the rest of Spatalia.
Agrippa wasn’t listening.
Isabel did not think to mention this to us, he thought. Hubert and Leona think she is clever, just a bit naive. I’m not so sure.
It was such a monumentally stupid thing to omit. Her lover is betrothed to a rival princeppa. And Rosalina knows about the affair. She knows, and she isn’t sanguine about it. I need to talk to the others about this. We need to watch this woman.
Agrippa could not pretend to know who had sent the assassins after Isabel. But he was quite sure who had just been launched to the top of his list of suspects.