The Runaway - Part Four

Hey, digressors! I bet you'd almost forgotten this blog existed, hm? Sorry about that. Between my usual difficulties focusing on things, the ongoing battle with Lyme (in which I've made some progress), and the struggle to rewrite 'The Survivor' (the new version is with beta readers right now -- I'll post an update when I have a better idea of how much more needs to be done), the blog kind of fell through the cracks. 

This past year has been especially difficult because my mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer on October 30th, 2018, and lost her battle with it on October 2nd of this year (2019). She was an amazing woman and my biggest fan in all things, and although it's painful to think of writing and publishing new things without being able to show them to her, I know it's what she would want. 

Something else I know is that Part Four of 'The Runaway' (a prequel story to 'The Follower', focusing on how Jorthen Lavahr and Sohrem Terahl met and became friends) has been sitting half-written on my hard drive since 2016. I've finally finished it, and if y'all don't mind, I'd like to continue publishing it here. Eventually I might pull all my Sehret backstory pieces together and publish an anthology on Kindle, but I'm not there yet, so for now, the story will be free-to-read. Since it's been a long time since the previous parts of the story went live, here are the links for your convenience: 

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

And now, without further ado, here's... 

The Runaway

Part Four

Reshan Guard Military Base, Jaern – Reshan Territory

Eight years ago

It had been almost a month since Atrin had rushed Jorthen through registration and deposited him into his shared quarters with five other recruits — all new, and all at least two or three years older than him, just like everyone else who lived, learned, and worked there. It was supposed to be a training facility for people to learn how to fight so they could protect their country should it ever face war, but more likely they would all be assigned guard posts either around Jaern or in their hometowns and never see a clash more intense than a barroom brawl.

As most soldiers over twenty-five had either been promoted to officer status or been assigned to posts elsewhere, the majority of those walking the halls were in their late teens or early twenties and acted every bit the adolescents they were. Thus, the base felt more like a glorified school which happened to include combat training in its curriculum.

He’d always wondered what it would be like to go to an actual school, with a crowd to get lost in so no-one would bother to look at him, make him work through problems aloud, or recite difficult-to-pronounce texts. Now he wished he could go back to learning from a tutor at home, where the drama and immaturity of those who by all rights should have been more mature than him made every day a nightmare.

Not that his days would have been particularly dreamlike otherwise.

More than anything, he wished Amra were there so he could tell her about it. He’d written letters, six of them already, but knew deep down that they probably wouldn’t reach her. Atrin had never been pleased with how much time Jorthen spent with Amra, and although Mother had always been sympathetic and pulled strings to give them opportunities to interact, Atrin made it his life’s goal to do the opposite. Jorthen wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the whole reason he’d been shipped off to the Guard so young was because Atrin feared it would be harder to keep them apart as they approached adulthood. Mother would never have allowed this.

But Mother was dead, so there was no use thinking about it.

The rest of the recruits bustled and chattered around the cafeteria, gathering food and swooping into seats beside their friends to whisper about their instructors and groan about how sore they were from training. Jorthen sat alone at a corner table and observed them all in silence. The food here was lackluster, but at least it filled his stomach. The girls at the table to his left, however, seemed less content with it. Ahead of him was a cluster of boys who huddled together and spoke in what they thought were hushed tones, but not hushed enough to keep their words from drifting to his ears a few yards away. He filtered them out for the most part, until he heard his own name enter the conversation.

“Can you believe they let in that scrawny little waif? What is this, a nursery?”

“Please,” another boy countered. “You know the Lavahrs are richer than half the council combined. Councilman Lavahr probably bribed them with a castle or something.”

Jorthen’s throat and the hand holding his fork both tightened as he kept his gaze trained on the meal he’d barely touched. It was just talk. Talk was stupid. There was no point getting worked up over it.

The fair-weather heart stuttering in his chest had a different opinion.

“Well, he’ll either be kicked out or drop dead soon enough. Haven't you heard him gasp when he spars?”

A boy laughed. “He’s a regular little wheezer.”

“We should call him that!”

“Oh, perfect. Hey, Wheezer!”

Jorthen's shoulders bunched as the boy hollered at him. Just talk. Just names. It wasn't a big deal.

A chorus of mouths shushed the boy and hissed at him to keep his voice down.

“Why? It's not like he'll do anything. He’s a milksop.”

“He’ll tell his father,” one of the others said a little too loudly. “And how much fun d'you think you'll have on a founding family's bad side?”

“Private Lavahr!”

A grown man’s voice from the cafeteria’s entryway made Jorthen jump. He fought to keep his breathing under control as he nudged his plate away from him and rose to face the doorway. “Y-yes, s-s-sir?”

Muffled snickers and exaggeratedly repetitive hissing sounds came from the bullies’ table.

One of the officers whose names Jorthen hadn’t learned yet stood in the doorway and beckoned with a twitch of his head. “Report to the infirmary. Now.”

Oh, no. He didn’t know which was worse — the fact that the officer had announced the summons so publicly, or that it had been given in the first place. Jorthen fought a cringe and muttered, “Yessir.”

“What was that, Lavahr?”

Anxiety twinged his stomach. He raised his voice. “I… said…yes, s-sir.”

The officer glared as if Jorthen’s slowed speech were an attempt at sassing him, but said nothing. Jorthen started for the door, realized his food was still on the table, and turned back to deal with it. Every step drew another eye to him, and he felt like passing out by the time he finally reached the entryway and headed down the hall.

“Other way, Lavahr,” the officer said, exaggerating Jorthen’s surname as he spoke it. “That way’s the women’s quarters.”

Jorthen’s cheeks burned as he turned and headed the other way.

At least the hall to the infirmary was quiet at the moment. Everyone was either training or eating, except for him and a few unfortunate souls assigned to watch the various doors and make sure no-one slipped in or out without approval. He wished they’d take a break, but as he knew that wasn’t happening, he forced himself to approach the infirmary door and knock.

“Come in.”

He drew a shuddering breath and entered. Geram Kellyn’s stooped back and greying hair greeted him. Geram turned briefly and gestured for Jorthen to take a seat on the examination table before he resumed crushing herbs at his workstation. “Didn’t see you for your checkup yesterday.”

Jorthen sat where he was told and fought not to squirm. He swallowed and waited until he felt he had some control over his tongue before answering, “Sorry.”

Geram sighed heavily and left his mortar and pestle to approach Jorthen. “You’ve naught to fear from me, boy. Not unless you’ve done somethin’ wrong. Have you?”

“…No, sir.”

Geram grunted. “Thought not. So stop your shaking — you’re safe here.”

Talking became a little easier as Jorthen’s heartrate slowed. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

Another grunt, and Geram returned to his workstation to stir the newly crushed ingredients into a cup of water before extending the mixture to his patient. “Drink this.”

Jorthen grimaced and pinched his nose as he obeyed. The grainy texture of the herbs swept over his tongue and down his throat. The feeling was familiar, but the taste seemed fouler than usual. He returned the cup to Geram and kept hold of his nose for a few seconds before releasing. When he did, the residual flavor of the drink left his expression pinched. “What’s that?”

“It’s your daily medicine,” Geram said. “But a double dose — it’s what you’ll be taking for the next couple weeks.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve not taken it as prescribed.”

Jorthen cringed. “N-no, I… I’ve been taking it.”

Geram’s lined brown eyes met his. “Have you really?”

He only lasted a few seconds under Geram’s scrutiny before his gaze dropped and he mumbled, “No, s-sir.”

“And why not?”

He swallowed hard and lifted a shoulder, unable to come up with a good answer.

Another sigh whistled from Geram’s nose, and he let the question go. “Take off your shirt.”

Jorthen stiffened and shook his head. Before Geram could insist, he muttered in a rush, “Too cold. Think I’ve got a fever or s-something.”

“You don’t have a fever,” Geram said sternly, “any more’n you did the last time I asked. You’ve got a habit of lying to physicians, boy — mind explaining why?”

The accusation changed his tangled tongue to stone, and he said nothing.

“Look now, lad,” Geram murmured. “I’ve been ‘round long enough to know a few things, and to learn how to keep a secret. I need to know what ails you if I’m to look after your wellbeing. And for that… I need you to remove your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Jorthen whispered, afraid he’d stutter if he tried for more than those two syllables. Why did Geram care, anyway? Physicians never cared. They just did what they were told, and kept telling him the same things he’d been hearing since infancy.

“Boy,” Geram said, tapping Jorthen’s knee with the back of his hand. “Nothing you say here leaves this room. On my life, you can trust me.”

Jorthen’s heart thudded painfully, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see if his father had stepped through the wall to stare at the back of his head. It felt like he was right there. Jorthen’s chest hurt, his hands grew numb and cold, and his throat tightened.

Another tap came at his knee. “Private Lavahr?”

Jorthen swallowed hard as the fatherly tone in Geram’s voice brought tears to his eyes. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded and pulled off his shirt.

———————

Geram fumed silently as he finished examining his youngest patient and sent him back to his quarters with a fresh prescription. It had taken all his willpower not to scream at the poor lad as he questioned him, with the true object of his rage nowhere in sight.

Now he sought the offender out, leaving his post to find Councilman Lavahr’s private quarters and rap sharply on the door.

Watch your mouth, Kellyn, he told himself. No good’ll be accomplished by you getting fired.

When no-one answered the door immediately, Geram banged harder on the portal and called gruffly, “Lavahr, it’s Geram Kellyn — open up.”

At last the mahogany door swung open to reveal Atrin Lavahr’s vaguely exasperated expression. “Should I expect my door to be broken down regularly, or are you here to hand in your resignation?”

It was all Geram could do not to break the man’s face. “You’ll want to invite me inside.”

“And why might I want that?”

“’Cause you don’t want me announcing the results of your boy’s latest physical to the whole base.”

Atrin gripped the doorframe and worked his jaw before taking a step backwards. “Please come in.”

Geram obeyed and waited for the door to close before snapping, “If ever a boy turned out more like his father—”

Atrin barked out a laugh. “You think Jorthen takes after me?”

“I mean you and Theran,” Geram said darkly.

Atrin’s eyes flashed as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Are you accusing me of something, physician?”

“If I thought it’d make any difference, I would, but we both know it wouldn’t.”

Atrin crossed his arms, relaxing smugly. “Then may I ask the purpose of this social call?”

“You’re on track to kill him, Lavahr.”

“My father didn’t kill me.”

Geram’s fists clenched at his sides. “Well, the lad’s not you, and bless him and his mother for that.”

“You imply none of his positive traits are the result of my efforts.”

“He might have a shot at growing into something decent,” Geram said through gritted teeth. “But if you keep up the Lavahr ways with him, he’ll never get the chance. Is that why you brought him here? To finish him off?”

This time Atrin rolled his eyes, and straightened to pour himself a glass of wine from an ornate pitcher on his desk. “I’ve done nothing to or with him that wasn’t for his own good.”

“I doubt that,” Geram growled, but again had to admit to himself his own powerlessness. To challenge a Lavahr was to risk one’s own ruin. He advanced slowly, trying to picture a battered nineteen-year-old before him rather than an indifferent thirty-something. “I’m not simple enough to think we’re friends. I’d not want to be yours after this.”

“Then it’s lucky for you I lost interest in such a friendship fifteen years ago.”

“But I’ll not stand by and do nothing as you force a child into an earlier grave than he’s already destined for. I know if I toss him out of the ranks, you’ll push him back in. Maybe he’s even better off here.”

“His siblings are certainly better off.” Atrin sipped from his glass. “His lack of discipline will trickle down to them if I’m not careful.”

Heat flashed through Geram. Careful, he reminded himself. “So if he’s to stay here, then I’m keeping an eye on him. He’ll keep coming in for regular check-ups and take whatever treatment I prescribe.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“I’ll also take a detailed account of any and all changes in his condition. Illnesses, cuts, scrapes… bruises.”

Atrin’s grip on his cup tightened as his eyes locked back onto Geram. “What has he told you?”

“Nothing,” Geram answered truthfully. “Thanks to you, he could barely look me in the eye without trembling. But I’m a physician. I know the marks of a beating when I see them.”

Atrin worked his jaw and carefully set his glass back onto his desk. “What do you want? Money? A favor?”

“I want you to leave him be. He’s under my care, and founding family or not, if I find more bruises on him, I will file a report.”

“You’ll be replaced.”

“Maybe. But at least the lad would know there’s someone who cared enough to stand up for him. You should know well how much difference that could make. And you should also recall I don’t make empty threats.”

Boots scraped as Atrin pushed away from the desk and advanced to tower over Geram, eyes narrowed, knuckles white. Geram held his stare, long past being intimidated by any of the Lavahrs. While he knew the power they held and knew to tread lightly around it, he also knew that sometimes even the thinnest ice was worth stomping through.

“It’s only for the sake of our history that I’m relenting, physician. And it’s a one-time deal. If you challenge me again, I'll have your job. And I’ll continue to discipline my son as I see fit.”

“No more bruises.”

“No more,” Atrin agreed. “Not that I’ll admit to causing them in the first place.”

Geram sniffed and wagged his head as he went to the door. “As I said. If ever a boy turned out more like his father…”

As soon as he shut the door behind him, he felt the impact as glass struck and shattered against it. Geram slammed his fist against the wood in retaliation, then returned to his post, muttering pointlessly violent words the whole way.

———————

Present day

"So let me see if I understand this." Boots clomped heavily at Jorthen's right, scraping as they reached one end of the room and reversed course. "An undocumented Shamindo rode in on a stolen horse yesterday, and you were the first to discover him."

"Yes, sir," Jorthen said without looking up. He scrawled his signature on the first page before him and flipped it over to skim the next few paragraphs for the next line and any pertinent information preceding it. He made a show of locking his eyes onto the paper, not daring to let them stray or let himself lean back an inch. Any deviation from the task at hand might signal readiness to break away from it.

"Next you called for the guards, and had them aid you in bringing him to Geram for an examination. I suppose that makes sense — it's difficult to question an unconscious or disabled prisoner."

Jorthen didn’t like the tone being taken so far, nor did he like that the word 'prisoner' had entered the conversation. "Yes, sir."

"But here is where my understanding fails me." The boots stopped, and Jorthen's pen halted in mid-signature as he tensed. "When you checked on the boy this morning and Geram informed you of the proper protocol for this... situation... rather than turn the prisoner over to the proper authorities, you agreed to become his interim guardian. I assume that decision led to the drawing-up of the papers you're currently using as an excuse to avoid eye contact."

Jorthen swallowed a remark about how Atrin had been the only one talking, and instead dragged his pen to the signature's conclusion before setting it aside and straightening to meet his father's stare. "I'm not looking for an excuse, Father — I only want to finish this paperwork before San wakes up."

"San, is it?" Atrin's tone dripped with displeasure. "Is that all the name he has, or have you crafted a pet name for him already?"

"It's what he gave, so it's what I use. He'll give me the rest when he's ready."

The desk shook as Atrin slapped it. Jorthen flinched back instinctively, and Atrin's cold eyes glared down at him, daring him to speak again. "The boy has no rights, Lieutenant. As both a criminal and a trespasser on Reshan soil, he deserves nothing more than a locked cell and enough sustenance to keep him functional until his trial."

Jorthen's fingertips chilled again, and he dragged the papers closer to himself without breaking eye contact with Atrin. With their eyes locked, it was hard to speak, so he formed his words slowly and deliberately. "I'm aware of that. But he's seventeen, and it’s within my rights to help him."

"You would align your reputation with his, simply because he happens to be young? Youth is no excuse for misconduct, especially in the case of... foreigners."

Jorthen's pulse accelerated until his chest ached, and he broke off the staring contest with Atrin he could scrawl out the last two instances of his signature as he answered quietly. "There's more to his story that we don't know yet, and I don't think he's dangerous. If I'm wrong, I'll take responsibility for that."

"And if he harms one of your students? If he steals someone else's property or uses your leniency to take sensitive information back to his people?" Atrin scoffed and leaned over until Jorthen felt hot breath on his forehead. "The Shamindo are not known for being honest or respectable, Lieutenant. They're tricksters and berserkers by nature, and to assume one to be anything else without extensive evidence to the contrary is to invite chaos."

"With all due respect, sir," Jorthen said as he stacked the papers neatly and stood with them in hand, "I think that's my problem, not yours."

Atrin straightened. "And yet I'll be the one left to clean up the mess if you're wrong. But I suppose we'll see how it goes soon enough."

"Yes, sir."

"But Jorthen..."

The words came just as Jorthen had lain his hand on the doorknob to exit. He halted and gripped it without looking back. "Yes, sir?"

The boots scraped again, then halted as Atrin said, "Just remember that if you're wrong, and the Shamindo commits a new crime after you’ve extended asylum to him, the consequences will be dire."

"Like I said, sir, I'll take responsibility if that happens."

"I don't mean for you — I mean for him. Do you think there's a gallows behind the base for no reason?"

The reminder of the structure which had already plagued Jorthen’s thoughts today made him shiver.

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Lieutenant,” Atrin said. “I’m trying to help you.”

“…Thank you, sir,” Jorthen said, and quit the room before the conversation could devolve any further.

He wasn’t hungry, but the day was halfway gone and he’d eaten nothing, so he headed to the mess hall. As usual, it was a bustling echo chamber of laughter, chatter, and egocentricity. The soldiers and students had segregated themselves by rank, and by rapport within those ranks. The youngest recruits were the loudest, and the officers on the far side of the room were the quietest. Once in a while, a young student snuck over to the officers’ section and attempted to flirt with someone there, and every time they were shut down and slunk back to their snickering friends. A few officers glanced Jorthen’s way as he entered, then leaned in and said something that made their companions chuckle and wag their heads.

Jorthen retrieved his lunch — after an uncomfortable two minutes of pretending not to notice how many in line gave him intense once-overs — and retreated to the one empty table across the aisle from the other officers. As usual, they saw him but offered no greeting, and he returned the favor.

The usual whispers drifted past him. All knew there was talk of him being promoted to a full captain soon, given the authority to organize his own missions, to act independently of his superiors in more contexts. Few approved, and most expressed their disapproval through quiet mockery. He ignored them all. Their opinions wouldn’t help him today.

Atrin was right about one thing — taking responsibility for San was risky. Jorthen wasn’t usually one to take risks. However, the idea of fast-tracking a vulnerable youth into prison or to the gallows never sat well with him, and San didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. Damaged, yes, and maybe a bit unhinged, but those weren’t crimes in and of themselves.

The trick would be keeping him on his hinges long enough to learn his story, and remaining patient enough to draw it out of him without incident.

It was with this goal in mind that Jorthen kept his meal brief and was as discreet as possible about returning to his quarters. A few recruits still stopped him along the way, but he brushed them all off in turn. It was a relief to get into the officers’ section where the recruits weren’t meant to follow, and to see that none had chosen to violate that rule at this particular hour. He hoped that meant San had stayed put and been quiet enough not to draw attention.

He knocked on the door before unlocking it, trying to give San as much warning as possible. The image of a trashed, abandoned room flashed through his mind, along with Atrin’s threats regarding what would happen if San caused any more trouble. But when he entered, the room was exactly as he’d left it, except now San was sitting on his cot, baggy uniform all but falling off his skinny shoulders, and a book on zoology in his lap.

Jorthen blinked and shut the door behind him. “You can read?”

“No,” San answered, closing the book. “I just like the pictures.”

“Oh.” Jorthen forced a strained smile. “I see you were right about my uniform. I’m sorry about that.”

San shrugged before setting down the book, then stared at his lap in silence.

Jorthen sighed and plopped down onto his own bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees in an attempt to look less intimidating. “…San, may I be candid with you about something?”

“What does ‘candid’ mean?”

“It means I want to tell you the truth, even if I don’t think you’ll like it.”

San’s eyes flicked to meet his before dropping again. “Sure.”

“Your arrival has drawn quite a bit of… negative attention. More than half the people I’ve met think you’re a spy. While I know that’s unlikely, I’m not familiar enough with you to prove otherwise. So sometime within the next day or two, I’ll need to conduct a formal interrogation.”

San tensed visibly. “You’re gonna torture me?”

“What? No — no, nothing like that, I promise.” Jorthen clasped his hands and tapped his thumbs against each other as his lips pressed themselves flat. “But, um…’formal’ means I’ll need to have one of my superiors present to ensure a thorough and orderly line of questioning.”

“…Which means…?”

“It means that my f-father…” Jorthen cleared his throat and straightened a little. “My father, Councilman Atrin Lavahr, will likely be present at the interrogation. While he’s not on active duty, he still holds rank in the Guard, and he’s my direct supervisor in most affairs.”

Even if he weren’t, with how dramatically Atrin had reacted to San’s arrival, Jorthen couldn’t imagine him passing up the opportunity to inject himself into the situation now. And if Atrin Lavahr wanted something, he could always find a way to get it, whether he was entitled or not.

San fidgeted and looked even more uncomfortable than he had in Geram’s examination room. “So you won’t be the one asking the questions?”

“Technically I will. My father will likely take a turn, and he might ask some tough questions, but…” He hesitated, trying to read San’s anxious expression. “…I promise I’ll be there the whole time. Even if I’m not the one talking,  I won’t leave. You’ll never be alone in the room with him, or with anyone other than me.”

The relief in San’s face flowed down through the rest of him. He didn’t thank Jorthen, but at least he seemed to trust him, if only a little more than he trusted anyone else in the base. It was a start.

Now Jorthen just had to maintain that trust well enough to keep Atrin from destroying it.

“All right, then,” Jorthen said, straightening fully and tapping his knee in a nervous gesture even as he smiled. “I’ll work on scheduling that soon. First, let’s get you something to eat.”

The Runaway - Part Three

Hey again, digressors. How are things going for everyone? Things have been interesting for me. A combination of physical and mental health issues have made getting things done complicated, but at last I appear to be on a bit of an upswing, so I am again getting a few things done. And among those things I'm doing is writing! I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo, as I do twice a year, every year, regardless of whether I have much chance of winning. It gives a distractible person such as me a bit more motivation to be organized and set achievable goals. 

Speaking of distractibility, you probably didn't click on this post to hear me talk about my schedule, did you? Well, if you did, I apologize, because at the moment I don't have much of a schedule to speak of -- just a list of things I need to catch up on doing. So as I run off to do some of that catching up, I shall give you something that is long overdue... 

The Runaway

Part Three

(Part One: http://digressionsofadementedscribe.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-runaway-part-one.html

Part Two: http://digressionsofadementedscribe.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-runaway-part-two.html)

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and practice sessions with some of the more established recruits, and the next morning Jorthen awoke to more of the same. Except by morning, there were also whispers everywhere, and if he listened hard enough, he heard words like “Shamindo”, “spy”, and “horse thief”. 

“I heard,” said a wide-eyed, raven-haired girl who had arrived with last month’s batch of new recruits, “that he set fire to a family’s house so that he could have their horse. That way there were no witnesses, and so he would have gotten away with it if Lieutenant Lavahr hadn't caught him.” 

Caught him, indeed. Jorthen quickened his step to get past the clump of teenagers before they could spot him. Besides the sensitivity of the issue, the fond tone the girl adopted when she said his name unnerved him even more. 

When he arrived at Geram’s quarters — just off of the medical room — he took an extra moment to listen at the door before knocking on it. He heard no yelling or objects smashing, only a less than intelligible grumbling, so he gave himself permission to enter. 

The door creaked as he opened it, and across the room, Geram spoke but didn't turn. “About time you got here.” 

“I’m sorry, I was delayed.” Jorthen walked forward until he could see past Geram and smiled politely to avoid grimacing. “Good morning, San.” 

The boy sat quietly as Geram worked on him, but his eyes flitted just as nervously as ever between Geram and Jorthen. He was upright this time, and his hands fiddled nervously with each other in his lap. They were burned, but not nearly as badly as his back, which was thankfully turned away from Jorthen. 

In lieu of getting an answer, Jorthen cleared his throat and addressed Geram. “Is he fit to be moved yet?” 

“He’d better be, if your recruits are going to keep crowding the area in an attempt to see him.” Geram cut a length of bandages free and flung the roll back into its respective basket. “I’m a physician, not a showman.” 

“I apologize,” Jorthen said. “If you say he’s well enough, I’ll work on finding him a place to stay.” 

“You mean you’ll be taking him to confinement.” 

Jorthen blinked. “Confinement? Why would I do that?” 

Geram sighed heavily and wrapped the new bandage around San’s freshly salved arm. “The boy’s a criminal, Lavahr. He has to face trial.” He hesitated in his work and said more quietly, “Sorry, lad. That’s the way it works around here.” 

San swallowed hard and looked at his still twitching hands without response. 

Something about the reminder of how the system worked awoke a knotting feeling in Jorthen’s stomach. He glanced at the door. “What if I took him?” 

“We’ve just addressed that.” 

“No, I mean if I took him into my custody.” He turned again to look at Geram. “I could do that, couldn’t I? Take responsibility for him until the council decides what to do with him?” 

Geram studied Jorthen and seemed to mull over his question as he secured the bandage. “Aye, I suppose you could. But it would involve paperwork.” 

“I’m used to paperwork.” 

A raspy voice asked, “Would I live with you?” 

Jorthen had nearly forgotten how much the smoke had affected San’s voice. Or was it always like that? He stepped forward cautiously. “It would be safer. But then, it would also mean you’d have to follow me around a fair amount. I’d be your guardian.” 

“I don’t trust guardians.” 

“…An older brother, then. Temporarily. How does that sound?” 

San flinched and coughed a few times but didn’t manage to articulate a response. 

Jorthen chose not to wait for his approval. “Geram, will you help him get cleaned up and ready to go while I clear the way?” 

Geram nodded. “Just so long as he cooperates with me and you don’t try to rush me into releasing him before I’m through with him.” 

“Fair enough,” Jorthen said. “San, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

“Fine,” San managed, then said no more as Jorthen turned and left the room. 

———————

“All right, now you listen well, lad, and know it’s for your own good. For the next week or two, you come back in here once a day so I can check on those burns and make sure everything’s in its place. You can tell Lieutenant Lavahr I said so, and he’ll listen. If you go running off or don’t show up for check-ups, I won’t be able to help you. You understand?” 

San wasn’t sure what part of his silence made him look like an idiot to outsiders, but at least Geram’s lectures weren’t violent. He nodded and bit his cheek hard to distract from the way the motion made his head ache. He didn’t know what kind of air was actually in the room, but it tasted like smoke, and his lungs still burned with every breath. Would the old man be able to fix that in any of these check-ups? 

“You know, we’ll have to do something about this strong, silent act of yours,” Geram said, lightly cuffing one of the few unburned patched on San’s arm. San managed to limit his defensive reflexes to a twitch this time. “I can do my work just fine with your silence, and Lavahr will make do with it, but you won’t fare well at trial if you don’t speak up in your own defense.” 

“Don’t matter,” San croaked. 

“Sure it does. Why wouldn’t it?” 

San looked down at his hands and fiddled with them to avoid looking at Geram. Maybe if he just didn’t speak, the man would give up on talking to him and leave. 

“You know, the council’s feelings for Shamindo illegals are less hard than they used to be. If you can give a good reason for your crime, they might let you off.” 

“Can’t.” 

Geram stepped back and sighed heavily. “And just why’s that?” 

San dragged his gaze up to meet Geram’s. But then the memories he had came flooding back. A pale face turning purple. His hands screaming as they gripped something fleshy and fragile. Claws in his head and the scent of wood burning as beams came crashing down around him. 

His head split again, and he grimaced as he grabbed at it and moaned. 

“Easy there,” Geram said, and patted the pillow that sat on the bed to San’s left. “You lie down yourself — I’m not risking it.” 

San struggled to keep his breathing even as he followed the man’s orders. He pitched to the side and nearly fell off the bed, but Geram caught him and eased him onto his back. So much for not intervening. San wanted to scream, to tell Geram to leave him alone, to weep and to thank the physician for caring all at once, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. 

“Pathetic little meatbag. Did you really think you could defy me?” 

As soon as the words surfaced in his mind, he panicked, stuffed them back into their box and clamped his eyes shut. It wasn’t real. It was just your imagination. It didn’t happen. 

But what if it did? 

He didn’t know. He just didn’t know anything anymore. 

He could feel Geram’s eyes on him still, could hear the silent question echoing on the air between them. 

“C-can’t tell them,” San wheezed. “’Cause I don’t remember.” 

———————

“Because I said so, that’s why,” Jorthen told the disgruntled crowds as they groaned at him. “San might have broken a few laws, but he’s been through a traumatic experience, and things will work out better for everyone if we can all just give him a little space to recover.” 

“Why are you protecting him?” 

“I’m protecting all of you, not just him. His defensive reflexes are strong, so if you go after him, expect him to fight back.” 

Most of the crowd continued to murmur, but dispersed, except one heckler who called out, “You can’t hide him forever, Lavahr! If he’s a spy, we all have a right to know.” 

“He’s not a spy,” Jorthen said flatly, “and he’ll be in my custody as soon as Geram clears him for release. Now are you going to follow my orders, or do I have to speak to your supervisor about your insubordination?” 

The heckler glared at him, then spun on his heel and strode away, shoving his way through the rest of the crowd. 

Jorthen deflated as soon as the crowd was gone, and without the noise, his head grew a good deal clearer. And with that clarity came the first doubts he’d allowed himself to humor since San had tumbled into his life yesterday evening. Why was he taking responsibility for a criminal? Young or not, injured or otherwise, he’d stolen someone’s horse, and unless the Guard could track them down and obtain their permission to release San, that fact could very well get him executed under Reshan law. That would mean that Jorthen had just agreed to take charge of someone who was one trial short of death row. What sort of damage might that do to his law-abiding reputation? 

But the memory of those haunted green eyes flitting about in terror and the long scars raked across the boy’s back brought back enough determination to send him striding determinedly to the inspector’s office to start the paperwork. 

It took him all of ten minutes to sign the most essential documents and get ahold of the stack which he had left to sort through, and as he walked back through the halls, he checked around every corner to be sure there were no more lurkers about. 

He reached Geram’s door and knocked twice, then entered. The sight of San flat on his back gave him pause. “Do you need more time?” 

San’s eyes opened and Geram moved to help him sit up, but his efforts were denied, and soon the boy sat upright and slid onto his feet beside the bed. He pulled self-consciously at his right sleeve to cover a set of horizontal scars on the inside of his wrist and said nothing to either of the other men. 

Geram approached Jorthen and handed him a satchel containing whatever supplies a physician deemed necessary for a recuperating criminal. “He’ll need this. See to it that he comes to check-ups regularly.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Jorthen said, and slung the satchel over his shoulder. “San, you ready to go?” 

San nodded and shuffled forward, glancing wordlessly at Geram as he passed. 

Jorthen led him out of the room and through the halls, where despite his efforts, a few people still managed to show up and gawk. San made no remark about them, but inched closer to Jorthen until their elbows nearly touched. 

“It’s all right,” Jorthen said. “I won’t let them hurt you.” 

Another nod, followed by more silence. The merest hint that San might have begun to trust him. 

Jorthen only hoped his trust wouldn’t prove to be horribly misplaced. 

They got to Jorthen’s quarters, and Jorthen gestured to the lone bed in the back corner as he set his stack of papers onto his desk. “You can use my bed if you need it. I have a spare bedroll I can lay out when it’s time to sleep.” 

San glanced at the bed, then stared up at the ceiling. 

Jorthen followed his gaze and frowned. “What? Is there a spot I’m not seeing?” 

“There aren’t any cracks.” 

“…Yes, and…?” 

San shrugged and looked at the bed again. “Must be nice.” 

His voice was as scratchy as ever, but something about the different environment seemed to have put San more at ease. Why else would he say more in the first minute here than in the night and day he’d spent in Geram’s quarters? 

Jorthen cleared his throat and nodded. “It is. Anyhow, you should probably be warned that I snore. My first roommate was a light sleeper, so he complained about it.” 

“I scream.” 

“In your sleep?” 

“Halfway.” San made his way to a bedside table and poked at a lantern there so hard that it shifted to the edge of the surface. 

Jorthen lunged, then stopped himself as San righted the lantern on his own. He inhaled deeply. “The cabinet in the far corner should have some spare clothes. You can try on anything you think might fit.” 

San sniffed. “No offense,” he said, “but I don’t think your clothes would even stay on me.” 

More words. Spiteful, perhaps, but they were words, at least. “Some of my old things might. I didn’t join up last week, after all.” 

“I still don’t—” 

“Here,” Jorthen interrupted, then strode to the cabinet and pulled out an old but well-maintained uniform from when he was fifteen or sixteen. This he held out to San. “Try this one. We can worry about boots later.” 

San barely had time to accept the clothes and eye them suspiciously before Jorthen headed for the door. “Where are you going?” 

Jorthen halted and fought a growing itch in his legs. “I have other responsibilities to address. I’ll be back soon.” 

Silence met his words, and San looked back down at the clothes, suspicion fading into blankness. 

“San,” Jorthen said. 

He looked. 

“I will be back. I promise.” 

“…If you say so.” 

“I do say it,” Jorthen affirmed. “So don’t go anywhere. Understood?” 

Another sniff. “Sure.” 

Good enough. Jorthen obeyed his itch and left the room, but locked the door behind him, just in case San should get it into his head to wander. An angry seventeen-year-old would be much easier to face than the possible consequences if the same boy got loose and fell under the scrutiny of those who already resented his presence. All the same, Jorthen hoped the hints of spite that had gleamed through in the room would not prove to become his usual manner. If they did, well… keeping him safe might soon become exponentially more difficult. 

The Runaway - Part Two

Hello again, fellow digressors. So you may have noticed that while you've been seeing a bit more of me lately, it's mostly had to do with Jill Williamson's new eBook, 'Darkness Reigns' and how much you need to check it out. Hopefully that's settled well with you, but just in case, I'll post something that's been a long time in coming... 

......Writing music recommendations! 

No, not really. But since I mentioned it, I did purchase a couple of albums of orchestral/trailer music over the past several months, and they're both amazing. The first is 'Magnus' by Audiomachine and the second is 'Classics: Vol. 2' by Two Steps From Hell. I also have 'Classics: Vol. 1' and it is an equally worthy offering, and I would very much like to buy Audiomachine's 'Phenomena'. Here are their lovely album covers for your consideration. 

Y'all who are writers or just like awesome orchestral music to make your brains work better or make your day feel more epic should check it out. There are one or two tracks that aren't my favorites, but considering how many tracks there are in all four put together (ninety, in case you were wondering), for all of them to surpass my expectations would be quite a remarkable feat. Overall, I'm in love with the albums and have found them very useful in making my brain work and getting the inspiration going for me to write. 

Hang on -- you say you were expecting something else from the post's title? What, my music recommendations aren't good enough for you? You don't like epic orchestral scores that get your blood pumping and brain cells firing? 

Well, phooey, then. I guess I'll just get on to the point of my post: A while back (a long while, I'm afraid) some of you voted in a poll regarding which short story/novella I should keep posting on the blog. The choice was between 'Street Rats' (the protagonist being Talsyn Lethar from 'The Merchant's Son') and 'The Runaway' (the protagonist being Jorthen Lavahr from 'The Follower'). And the winner was... 

The Runaway.

Never fear, those who were gunning for 'Street Rats' -- it's entirely possible that one of these nights, I'll get tired of my main projects and, in a fit of rebellion, write another installment in that story and post it here. I can guarantee that my brain will keep plotting it and imagining how I would introduce it to you and explain it on the back cover of the paperback and conduct my author interview on television... 

Wait, I'm getting sidetracked again. You really should warn me when I start doing that. I get little enough done as it is. I haven't even addressed the lovely people who have at some point nominated me for blog awards (Annika at Writer And Proud and Adriana over at The Librarian Files, who are both more faithful bloggers than I am; you should check them both out right now, if you haven't already). I do desperately want to catch up on all that (and also on the stuff my best friend Sierra over at Words on My Page has tagged me for). I just need to track down all the places where they linked me to details about the awards/events, then follow their instructions. Maybe I'll do it all in one big post... The hard part will be in tagging other bloggers; I guess I know a few, but I tend to forget their addresses when it counts. 

Anyways, without further ado, I shall end your long wait (for a continuation of the aforementioned story, that is)... 

------------------------------------------

The Runaway - Part Two

--------------

It took four men to haul the stranger into the building, two to catch his horse, and yet another to fetch the base physician, but within the space of half an hour, all was accomplished, and Jorthen stood by as the physician, Geram, bent over a musty cot and examined their runaway's injuries. Jorthen flinched at the sight of some of the burns, but the greying man before him remained stoic and steady as he checked the boy's breathing, his pulse, and, for whatever reason, his teeth. The gangly stranger before him did not stir for any of it. 

Jorthen held his tongue for a few minutes, then cleared his throat. "What do you think?" 

"Eh?" Geram glanced at him, then waved a hand dismissively. "I've only just begun my examination. I have nothing to report as of yet." 

"Nothing?" Jorthen frowned and stepped forward to get a better look. "Can you at least tell how severe his wounds are? Will he live?" 

"I've seen nothing to warrant either a yea or a nay on that subject, Master Lavahr. I'll thank you to wait outside while I examine my patient." 

Jorthen worked his jaw and fought to keep his tone neutral. "He may be injured, but for all we know, he could pose a threat if he woke and didn't understand what was going on or what your intentions were. If need be, I can speak to him in his own language." 

"Don't see how you couldn't keep watch from just outside the door," Geram grumbled, shaking his head. He sighed heavily. "Fine, then. If you must be here, you can at least make yourself useful. I need his tunic removed so I can check for burns in more vital areas than his face and limbs." 

Jorthen nodded. He had assisted physicians in such tasks before, but as Geram used a knife to cut the boy's tunic free from his body, Jorthen's flight instincts threatened to carry him out of the room. Hardly an inch of the boy's body was not bruised, cut, or burned, but his back was the worst. A large portion of the flesh was branded varying shades of red, purple, and even black where something must have struck and charred him. Jorthen glanced away to compose himself, then took a deep breath. "What should I do?" 
"Just get me the burn medicine from over there." Geram nodded towards a shelf on Jorthen's far right where a myriad of bottles sat. 
Jorthen walked over to the shelf and examined the bottles, but the harder he stared at the scrawled words on the labels, the less he was able to read them. He found one that he thought said something like 'Burns' and carried it over to Geram. 
Geram took a look at the bottle and grunted. "Give me that," he said, snatching the bottle from Jorthen. He strode over to the shelf and started searching for the burn medicine himself. 
Jorthen swallowed his frustration, then forgot it entirely as he looked again at the boy, who now lay on his stomach, still unconscious, tortured back exposed. He noticed a set of strange, claw-like scars running parallel to the boy's spine, all of them darker than scars would normally be and shaped as though they were new, though he could see no other sign that they were. He frowned. "Those marks along his spine... Did those come from the fire?" 
"Scars and birthmarks don't concern me," Geram said, pushing past Jorthen with the proper medicine in hand. "Only the wounds that still stand to cause trouble." 
"But these," Jorthen began, then trailed off as he remembered that Geram likely wouldn't listen anyhow. He glanced down at the Shamindo boy again and took a deep breath. "You know, maybe I'll just step outside after all. Call me if you need anything." 
"Go, then," Geram said indifferently, and popped the cork of the medicine bottle without so much as glancing at Jorthen. 
Jorthen hesitated a moment longer, then glimpsed the boy's injuries again and found his motivation to leave renewed. A moment later, he was out in the hallway with the door shut behind him. He nearly collided with a small band of male recruits who tried to peer through the doorway before he shut the door. "Back to your duties," he said. "There's nothing to see here." 
"Is it true they caught a Shamindo spy?" A dark-haired, light-eyed boy at the edge of the group stared wide-eyed at the door as if the injured runaway might leap out at him with his teeth bared. 
Jorthen resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, it is not true." 
"How do you know?" One of the taller boys crossed his arms defiantly. "You only just found him, didn't you? Everyone knows Shamindo strays aren't to be trusted." 
"There are no spies here," Jorthen said. "Your superior officers will conduct an interrogation as soon as possible, and then we'll decide what to do with him." 
A chorus of protests broke out at his words, and more recruits joined the group either to protest or simply to watch the spectacle. "But how do you know he's not--" 
"Is it safe?" 
"Maybe he's an assassin, here to take out our alchemy instructor." 
"No, he's a horse thief, didn't you hear? He's here to steal our animals." 
"Maybe he's here to steal our secrets." 
"Or our lives." 
Jorthen clapped his hands hard, and the sound echoed through the hall. "That's enough," he shouted. Once the chatter had died down a bit, he scanned the crowd. "The situation is being handled, and I will update any genuinely concerned parties later when I have some actual information to give them. Until then, back to your training, or patrols, or whatever you're scheduled to do at this hour. Go." 
A discontented murmur spread throughout the crowd. but one by one the recruits dispersed and resorted to whispering their suspicions between themselves. 
Any thoughts of returning to his room to retreat from the stress of dealing with people were forgotten now as Jorthen centered himself in front of the door and clasped his hands behind him to keep a lookout. Perhaps none of the recruits meant any harm, but if Geram had been frustrated by one lieutenant captain hanging about while he worked, the fallout from several curious teenagers and twenty-somethings milling about watching him would be nigh on unimaginable. 
Whoever this boy might be, whatever reason brought him here, he deserved treatment from a focused physician, not one who turned away every few seconds to order people to back away. 
Jorthen stood still at the door for a quarter of an hour with little disturbance, and he considered turning back to check on Geram's progress. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and he groaned inwardly. Why could the recruits not mind their own business for a few hours longer? 
But then he recognized the steady strides, measured, calculated, moving at a peculiar but repetitive interval, setting the bearer apart while still marking him as someone who knew exactly where he was going and why. 
Jorthen fixed his gaze on the wall directly across from him and instinctively tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch as a cold, familiar numbness crept into his fingers. 
Atrin Lavahr strode into his line of sight and brought his hands behind his back, icy blue eyes narrowing beneath dark hair carefully styled to fall over the faded scar on the right side of his forehead. "And just where have you been?" 
Jorthen swallowed and glanced off to the side before meeting Atrin's eyes. "Something came up. I had to help." 
"You were expected at a meeting regarding the age of recruitment and whether or not it should be lowered in the near future. It ended twenty minutes ago." 
Had it? Jorthen had no memory of such a meeting on his schedule, but then, the entire day been a blur since he'd woken up that morning with aching limbs and a fog in his head. He nodded once. "I apologize. The situation was... rather urgent." 
Atrin studied him for a long moment, mulling over his excuse. "And that situation is?" 
"A Shamindo boy showed up half-dead on a horse. I had to get him to Geram and ensure that no-one got in the way." 
"You had better concern yourself with more important matters than a thieving foreigner and his ailments, Lieutenant," Atrin said, then sighed and looked down the hall to his right. "I have another meeting to attend. We'll discuss your failure to fulfill your duties later." 
"I may be busy later," Jorthen said. "We still don't know who the boy is or what's to be done with him." 
"Fine, but get that all handled soon so you can get back to the work you're supposed to be doing. Understood?" 
Jorthen nodded. "Understood, sir." 
Without another word, Atrin turned and strode off with his usual gait in the direction he'd chosen. As usual, he did not bother looking back, and Jorthen did not bother trying to bid him farewell. With Atrin's absence, the feeling had begun to return to his fingers, and he found it easier to breathe without aggravating the old pain in his chest. He had been stupid for neglecting his duties without permission, but it might have been equally stupid to attempt to deal with a crowd of officers and dignitaries on a day like today, when neither his mind nor his body seemed willing to work the way they should. 
No sooner had he gotten used to the near silence than he heard a crashing noise behind him, followed by a thud against the door and a raspy voice screaming in Shamindo between hacking coughs. 
Geram's voice called over the chaos, "Lieutenant, you're needed in here!" 
Of course he was needed now. When else? 
Jorthen grabbed for his shakahn, then thought better of it and left the shortsword sheathed. If he was lucky, he would not have to draw it. He gripped the door's handle and ducked defensively as he pushed the door open and entered. A bottle flew past his head and smashed against the doorframe. 
As might have been extrapolated from the sounds he'd heard a moment before, the Shamindo boy had awoken and was less than calm about the situation. 
Jorthen grabbed Geram by the arm and pulled him out the door, then closed it quickly behind them and held it shut. The boy on the other side banged on the wood and tried to pull the door open, but a coughing fit stopped his efforts mere moments after he'd begun trying. 
"He tried to bite me," Geram said indignantly. 
"Come again?" Jorthen said, keeping hold of the door handle just in case. 
"I was tending the boy's wounds, and I'd nearly gotten far enough to come out and call for you, but no sooner than I'd turned around, he woke up and started hurling things at me. When I tried to sit him down again, he lunged at me and showed his teeth. Look what he did to my arm!" 
Jorthen glimpsed a row of scratch marks on Geram's arm, not very deep, but certainly recent. "Do you have any sedatives we could use to subdue him?" 
"Aye, but it'll be a miracle if he hasn't hurled it across the room by now." 
The sounds within no longer consisted of screams or pounding, nor even of bottles crashing against the wall. Instead Jorthen had to press his ear to the door to hear a series of gasps and coughs, along with a rustling sound he couldn't place. 
He glanced at Geram and straightened. "I'm going in there." 
"Suit yourself," Geram grumbled. "I'm going to call for more men to subdue him." 
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Jorthen said, then took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. 
The rustling stopped as he set foot into the room, and he halted. "It's all right," he called in. "I'm not going to hurt you. Do you understand me?" 
No answer came, but the gasping reduced volume to an uneven wheezing punctuated by the occasional light cough, and the rustling resumed. 
It was better than having a bottle thrown at him, he supposed. Jorthen stepped carefully over a pile of glass shards and turned with his arms raised in a peacemaking gesture. "We met earlier. I mean you no harm." 
He spotted the boy in the corner beside the examination cot, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, wild green eyes staring up at Jorthen as their owner continued to gasp for breath. He looked even more defenseless with his tunic gone, and from this angle Jorthen could see marks on his head where either the fire had caught him or something else kept his hair from growing normally. But however harmless he appeared, provoking him could be dangerous, as recent events proved. 
"It's all right," Jorthen repeated, slowly moving his foot to push the door closed. He stepped forward and lowered his hands to his sides. "Take slow, deep breaths, all right? Cough if you need to. There's plenty of air in here." 
The boy's eyes flitted towards the floor directly in front of Jorthen's feet. Jorthen looked down and found a rather large shard of glass right where he would he stepped had he moved forward again. He swept the glass off to the side with the side of his boot. "Thank you. I almost missed that." 
The boy tensed as the glass shard collided with the leg of a nearby table, and he rocked more fervently, creating the rustling noise Jorthen had heard from outside. 
He wanted to give the boy more space, but he had no idea how long it would be before Geram returned with men who would not be so careful about dealing with him. He shuffled forward another step, swept aside another set of tiny shards, and knelt carefully, resting his hands on his knees where the boy would easily be able to see them. "...I'm Jorthen Lavahr. Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy looked at Jorthen's hands, then at his face, then at his hands again, distrust in his eyes. 
"Look," Jorthen said. "I don't know if you can understand me, but..." He hesitated. "...Sal treyn? Sri treynin Jorthen Lavahr." 
The boy's throat bobbed, and at last he spoke, his voice faint and excessively raspy. "Heard you the first time." 
Jorthen sighed, checked for glass behind him, then shifted to sit in a cross-legged position. "So you can answer me, right? Can you tell me your name?" 
The boy tucked his chin behind his knees and shook his head, dropping his gaze to stare at the ground. 
"All right, then. Can you tell me how old you are? Are you fifteen, sixteen?" 
"Seventeen," the boy rasped. 
Jorthen nodded. "Good to know. If you can't tell me your name, is there something I should call you?" 
The boy tried to speak again, but his words were lost in another hacking fit. Jorthen waited until the fit subsided, and at last heard the boy whisper, "San." 
Jorthen managed a faint smile. "Good to meet you, San. You can call me Jorthen." 
If San heard him, he didn't acknowledge it before Jorthen heard footsteps outside the door behind him. He tensed and called over his shoulder, "Don't come in." 
San flinched at Jorthen's volume and pulled his knees more tightly to his chest. 
"Sorry," Jorthen said more quietly. "Listen, San, I'm just going to get up and tell the people at the door that we're all right in here. I'll move slowly so you can see everything I'm doing. Deal?" 
San didn't look up, but his head bobbed briefly in a nod. 
Good enough. Jorthen stood carefully and made his way to the door, then opened it a crack and spoke softly to the people on the other side. "You can go back to your posts. I have the situation handled." 
The soldier directly on the other side looked baffled, then irritated. "You sent old Geram halfway across the base to summon us just to tell us to leave?" 
It was just like Geram to shift blame, Jorthen thought, but he overlooked the fib for the moment. "I apologize. If you want something to do, inform my father and co-instructors that I won't be part of the sessions this afternoon. Send them my apologies." 
"Lieutenant," one of the other soldiers said reprovingly. 
"If you'd rather come in and deal with the boy I've only just succeeded in appeasing, be my guest." 
The men on the other side of the door went silent, then one of them muttered, "Apologies, sir. We'll be leaving now." 
Jorthen rested his forehead against the open door and allowed himself a moment to relax. He heard shuffling and opened his eyes to see Geram's withered, wary face peeking into the crack. "Is he tamed?" 
"He's calm," Jorthen said. "If you want to come in, give me time to warn him first." 
Geram nodded and took a step backwards. 
Jorthen shut the door quietly and turned back to the figure huddled in the corner. "San, the physician needs to come in to clean up and finish treating your injuries. Is that all right?" 
San's eyes flickered and widened slightly, and he shook his head wildly, then sped up his rocking. 
"Hey, hey." Jorthen approached him and knelt again to match his eye level, then forced himself slightly lower. "I'll stay right here the whole time, all right? I'll make sure he doesn't hurt you." 
San gulped again, and in the same faint, raspy voice as before, he said, "Not a baby." 
Jorthen's mouth twitched to the side. "I know you're not. But I also know you're nervous and in a foreign environment. It's understandable not to trust anyone. But do you think you can trust me enough to let the physician in?" 
San's eyes rose briefly to meet Jorthen's, then dropped again, and he nodded almost invisibly. 
Finally, Jorthen thought, then turned his head to call just loudly enough to be heard by aged ears, "Geram, you can come in now." 
Now if they could just get through the rest of the day without anyone getting bitten, scratched, or hit by objects being flung through the air, the day would be at least a marginal success.