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Chapter 32. Poppet |
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ecause she was so small, Lemony ended up being carried for the majority of the journey. Her short strides were compounded by their insistence that she remain blindfolded. It was maddening being jostled like a piece of luggage and not knowing how her friends fared. Her only comfort was picking out Mog’s uncertain gait. His thick-soled boots were louder than the shuffle of their swift moving and lightly attired assailants. He was alive and unharmed enough to walk and wise enough not to offer resistance. She had no idea how long their trip lasted, only that by the end of it she could hear the quickened pace of breath and the man who carried her over his shoulder dropped her unceremoniously on the ground with a loud sigh of relief. Propped against a wall, she felt very small and helpless as Marga’s entourage accidentally clipped her as they marched past. Mog was sitting beside her and she pressed instinctively against him, glad of his warmth and strangely reassured by the musky odor of his sweat. “Are you alright?” she demanded at the same time he did and she giggled despite her fear. He was so dear to her that the merest thought that he was hurt was upsetting. “’m alright Lemmy,” he said, keeping his voice low as their captors shuffled past and the noise of too many people in too small of a room made it difficult to understand what was happening. “They hit you,” she whispered, her stomach knotting with dread that he was injured even now but too proud to mention it. Then in an act so gentle and endearing, he nuzzled her crown and kissed her lightly as he might a beloved child. “Aye, lass, but they weren’t aimin’ t’ kill me. I were suckin’ wind, but th’ pain is gone. Don’ yeh fret fer me.” “But Marga said you made her cross…” “…Shh, me darlin’, don’ fret o’er nothing. I’ll wager she’s an evil witch, but much o’ what she says is bluster.” Lemony leaned her head on Mog’s chest and heard the staccato beat of his tired and frightened heart. His voice concealed what his body could not. “Gods, please don’t let any harm come to him. I’ll do anything.” The specter of her lost loved ones haunted her. It seemed only yesterday that she and Uriel had been prisoners together in Kiku’s hall. Uriel was gone now and she missed her so much. If she were still alive none of this would have happened. “Don’ cry, Lemmy, it’ll be alrigh’,” Mog soothed as a small hiccough of misery escaped her lips. No doubt he could sense her sadness and she wished she had not burdened him so. The room around them emptied out, leaving them alone with only a handful of people. The rapid-fire burst of Canthan speech erupted around her. Marga’s melodious and exotic tones cajoled obedience from her subdued and deep-voiced captain. They were talking to Keisha, making it clear to her yet again that the lives of Mog and Lemony hinged upon her obedience. The assassin agreed to be searched for weapons and was lead away to be locked up. Mog shifted, sensing that attention had turned to them now. Marga did not deign to talk to them as she had Keisha. The two of them were beneath her interest, mere tools of manipulation. Lemony could not suppress her whimper of fear as she was hauled once more onto someone’s shoulder and borne away. She hated being so helpless and not being able to see what was going on. When at last they reached their destination she was placed on the floor once more, this time upon matting and blankets. They had the decency to release her hands and she instinctively rubbed her sore and strained shoulders as Mog entered amid swearing and a scuffle of protest. “Mog, please don’t fight,” she said softly, “They’ll hurt me.” Her subtle lie worked and he yielded. She winced when she heard him cry out once in pain before growing silent. A few moments later the heavy door slammed shut and the rattle of keys threw home the bolts of the lock. Lemony sat up and waited, listening. When she was certain they were alone she tugged off her blindfold and gazed around their new home. It was roughly twelve paces square with a floor of worn splintery planks and a window that had been boarded up. She and Mog each had a corner to themselves with their own nest of bedding and a single slop bucket for bodily necessity. The door was unremarkable except for a large keyhole through which light flowed in from the neighboring room. A paper lantern had been left behind either out of kindness or forgetfulness on the part of their captors. Mog lay on his back where their captors had left him. One of them had been thoughtful enough to wedge a pillow under his head and pull a blanket over his still form. He appeared to be asleep but there was a waxen sheen to his flesh and her gut clenched in horror that he might be dead. “Mog?” In an instant she was on her feet and at his side, shaking him frantically. He made no response. She called his name in vain and pressed her ear to his chest, relieved to hear the slow toll of his heart. She retrieved the lantern and peeled back one of his eyelids. His enormous pupil sluggishly narrowed in response to the light. Pressing her hands to his breast, she chanted a prayer to drive away poison followed by another to undo an evil hex. Still he languished incoherent and dumb to all around him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, uncertain if he could hear her. She laid his limp hand on her lap and stroked it, hoping he would come back to her soon. Minutes slipped into hours and soon she was exhausted from her ordeal. With nothing more to do but wait and dread what was to come, she gathered up her bedding and curled up beside Mog’s unmoving form. She made a pillow of his arm and covered them both with blankets. It was impossible to know how much time had passed when the door rasped open over the muffled jangling of keys. Lemony startled awake as a svelte figure stalked into the room with the intent grace of a cat. His blue-black hair was slicked back into a tidy tail at his nape and his delicate golden features hinted that he was at least half Canthan. He was clad in pale leathers trimmed with fine black and white fur. “How touching. You must be the little monk,” he chuckled darkly, “I do so adore monks.” Lemony did not want to leave Mog’s side and pressed into him protectively. The man laughed and made a subtle gesture, uttering a single syllable that filled her mind with unnatural terror. A scream flew from her throat as she fought to get away from him, her entire body seizing with pain. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensation was gone and she sat panting and exhausted, her vision blurred with sweat and tears. His hands were on her and the sharp resinous smell of his perfume filled her nostrils. She fought him but he merely pinned her to the ground beneath him. His breath burned against her throat and she clenched her eyes against a flood of tears, praying that he would leave her alone. “Josef, get up, you dirty creature,” said a woman’s voice. “Just checking the merchandise, Mother,” he said snidely. To Lemony’s relief, he rose and she lay quivering and disgusted where he had left her. The woman stood behind the man, a head shorter than him, her severe visage striped with black tattoos and her snowy hair pulled up over an axe shaped ornament. Her lean figure was clad in dark leathers adorned with fetishes of animal claws and teeth. She glanced at Lemony harshly, then nudged Mog with the toe of her boot. “I think Marga would be angry if she knew you were toying with her property.” “She knows how I am,” Josef snorted, “Otherwise why give them into our keeping?” “At least have the decency to keep your hands off the girl until we get home. Bring her. I’ll get Orphit to collect the other one.” Josef gripped her arm harshly and drew her to her feet, shaking her harshly when she resisted. “She is rather adorable,” the woman purred unpleasantly, “Don’t be frightened, Poppet, just do as you’re told and everything will be alright.” “Poppet,” Josef chuckled, “What a lovely name. I think I shall call her my Poppet.” “I’m Sister Lemony!” she protested and it was as if she had been struck by lightning. The woman backhanded her so harshly she collided with the wall and slid to the floor, stunned senseless. “My son has named you Poppet. That is your name.” “Oh my, you bruised my Poppet. Get up Poppet and heal yourself.” Lemony struggled to her feet, reeling and dazed. Numbly she uttered the simplest of her healing prayers and winced as the pain of her jaw flared and faded before the warmth of Dwayna’s blessing. Her heart raced with fear as Josef grasped her arm once more and drew her along. They wound through a maze of corridors and down several turns of a narrow stair until they emerged at last in a lantern lit yard. Lemony shivered as the cold salty air of early morning washed over her. There was a grim looking black box of a carriage to which a pair of large wallows were harnessed. Marga was there along with several of her entourage. She was clad in a purple robe embroidered with delicate flowers that had been tossed over a long lacy nightgown. She rushed toward Josef’s mother and the two women embraced and kissed one another upon the cheek. “May your journey be swift and comfortable, Ama,” Marga said sweetly, “Thank you for agreeing to take care of them.” “It’s no trouble, my dear,” Ama said, “Josef has already taken one of them under his wing.” “So like his father,” Marga chuckled, “At least while he was still a man.” Josef took that as his signal to draw Lemony toward the carriage. A servant held open the door and he lifted her effortlessly up onto its raised floor and nudged her into its shadowy interior. She could barely make out a pair of cushioned benches facing each other and the dimpled quilting that upholstered the walls. “Sit over there, Poppet, I’ll get you a blanket.” Obediently she sank onto the soft seat in the far corner near a curtained window and Josef brought her a pair of fleecy blankets. He arranged them around her until she was cocooned in their warmth. By that time a muscular slab of a man arrived with Mog slumped over his shoulder. Still unconscious, he was unceremoniously dragged into place on the bench beside her and similarly arrayed in blankets for the journey. Lemony scooted up beside him, grateful that Josef no longer paid her any mind. She searched through the blankets until she found Mog’s hand and clutched it possessively. “Aren’t they sweet?” said Ama when she ended her conversation with Marga and sat across from Lemony and Mog. Josef sat beside his mother and chuckled darkly. The door of the coach was closed and soon the world began to rock around them. “What’s wrong with Mog?” Lemony asked, daring to speak. “Poppet needs to learn to speak when spoken to,” Josef said coldly, “Quiet, girl, or I’ll be compelled to hurt you again.” “So unkind,” Ama scolded him, then allowed her voice to become sugary once more, “Never you mind, Poppet, we’ve just put his spirit away for a while. He’s quite safe.” |
