Death by Silver (36 page)

Julian eased Ned down onto the sofa, frowning as he saw the bruise already darkening on Ned’s temple. “Look at me,” he said, and Ned peered up at him, wincing as though the light hurt his eyes. Both pupils were normal, however, and he ran his fingers gingerly over Ned’s scalp. The bone seemed solid, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

“That hurts,” Ned muttered.

Julian squeezed his shoulder. “All done, old man. No serious harm done.”

He turned away without waiting for an answer, and unlocked the tantalus to pour Ned a stiff whiskey. He handed it over, glad to feel Ned’s solid grip on the glass, and waited while Ned tossed off half of it. From the look of him, he’d been rolled on the cobblestones – and the scraped knuckles proclaimed he’d given as good as he’d got, which was no surprise, either. He took the glass, topped it up, and gave it back to Ned.

“Tell me what happened,” he said again.

“Someone followed me down Coptic Street, and tried to bash me with a pipe,” Ned answered. His color was looking a fraction better, but Julian moved to the sideboard anyway, pulled out the morocco-leather case and lit the spirit-lamp. “I thought probably it was a robbery, but –”

“I doubt it,” Julian said. He scanned his shelves, pulled down his copy of Harvey’s
Common Remedies
and flipped to the index for “head injuries.” “If he’d meant to rob you, he’d either have finished the job, or run away as soon as he realized he hadn’t knocked you down.”

“You can’t think it has anything to do with the Nevett case,” Ned said, but his tone was more doubtful than his words.

“It seems the most likely reason,” Julian answered. He frowned at the book. Most of the remedies were for concussion of the brain, or a fractured skull: useful in their place, but mercifully more than was needed at the present moment. There was one, though, for bruises of the head and face as occasioned by fall or fistfight, and he turned to that page, studying the description carefully.

“But why?” Ned asked. “It’s not like I’ve done anything useful –” He stopped abruptly. “Although I did find out what Reggie’s been hiding.”

“Oh?”

“He’s married.”

“What?” Julian looked up sharply.

“Seven months past, to a girl – a nice, ordinary girl he met in a teashop. Violet Wynchcombe knows her family, so Wynchcombe knew, and so did some of his friends at his club, they’ve been covering for him.” Ned broke off. “What are you doing?”

“Writing a cantrip for your head,” Julian answered. “It’ll take away the pain.”

“The drink’s helping already,” Ned said, but he didn’t offer any further argument.

Which likely meant that it was still hurting like the devil, Julian thought, and turned his attention to the
Common Remedies
. He didn’t have any of the specially compounded medicinal inks, of course, but he could make up a close approximation with what he had: half a tablet of medium blue, a few shavings of gold, and a generous quarter-tablet of red. He tipped the pieces into the bowl and set it on the burner, then unfolded a sheet of the thin paper, glancing again at the book. He took a deep breath, focusing his will, dipped his pen in the newly melted ink, and drew the first symbol. He finished the sentence, feeling the twist and tug as the cantrip locked into place, but went over it again, tracing and retracing the symbols until there was no more ink left in the bowl. He picked up the paper by its corner, and turned back to Ned.

“Give me your glass.”

“It’s a waste of good whiskey,” Ned said, but handed it over.

Julian dropped the paper into the glass and poured another two fingers of whiskey over it, swirling it until paper and ink dissolved, then handed it back. Ned took it dubiously, but sipped at it.

“Well, at least it’s tasteless,” he said.

Julian ignored the complaint, and fetched a damp cloth from the washstand. “Give me your hand.”

Ned grimaced, but held it out, and Julian dabbed at the scrapes. “And the other.”

“Yes, Nurse,” Ned said, but did as he was told.

“That’s clean, at least,” Julian said. “I’ve arnica for your knees, but that can wait until we get your clothes off. Go on, drink up.”

Ned gave him a sleepy smile, and drained his glass. “Satisfied?”

“How are you feeling?”

Ned paused. “Better, I think.”

He was looking better, his color stronger, and Julian nodded. “Bed for you, then. Let’s go.”

He took Ned’s glass without waiting for an answer, and held out a hand to pull the other man to his feet. Ned followed him into the bedroom without protest, and submitted to being undressed and anointed with the sweet-smelling cream. Julian tucked him into bed, then hung the muddied suit over the back of a chair, hoping that a good brushing in the morning would restore it to something like respectability. Ned’s eyes were already closed, his breathing easing toward sleep, but Julian sat on the edge of the bed anyway, just to be sure, and rested a gentle hand on Ned’s back. In spite of himself, his stroking fingers traced lines that were no longer there, as though it were the last time he’d sat like this.

He came back from his much-hated compulsory sports to the news that Ned had punched Victor Nevett, and that the prefects had taken him to their parlor to discuss punishment. Smythe, the New Man from Ned’s grammar school, was practically in tears, and Barton and Wynchcombe both looked grim.

“It’s all my fault,” Smythe said, for the dozenth time, and Julian refrained from hitting him only because Barton got there first.

“Yes, it is, you little tick, and if he gets expelled, we’ll know who to blame.”

They can’t expel him.
Julian swallowed the words because of course they could, and said, cautiously, “If they haven’t taken him to the Headmaster, maybe they won’t.”

“It’s Nevett,” Wynchcombe said.

“Yes, but he’d have to say why,” Barton said. “And it wouldn’t look good for Nevett to go whining to Old Hookey – please, Headmaster, this second-year knocked me down and I want him expelled for it.”

“I didn’t mean anything, truly I didn’t,” Smythe sniveled, and Julian slapped the back of his head, knocking his hat off. It didn’t make him feel any better, though, and he looked at Barton.

“Mathey usually has more sense –”

“Ask the tick,” Barton said. “It was something about his mother, I don’t know.”

Julian swore, words that made even Wynchcombe blink. Ned had confided that his mother was ill, that it had affected her nerves, and he could only imagine what Victor would make of that. He hit Smythe again, because if Ned was expelled, there would be no bearing life at Toms’, and darted out of the second-year common room.

He made his way to the prefect’s stair without seeing anyone, which he hoped was a good sign. Surely if Ned were going to be expelled, at least one of the masters would have been summoned, and there would be a good deal of fuss and bother. But the halls were empty, the gas already turned down for the evening, and the door of the prefects’ parlor was firmly shut. He held his breath, listening, but no sound came from above. After a moment, he melted into the shadows beside the stairs. At least when they let Ned go, he could be waiting.

It seemed as though he stood there forever, hugging his arms to his chest in the dark, before at last the parlor door opened, and he heard slow footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, two people, and he shrank back against the wall.

“Right.” That was Staniforth, not Nevett, thank God, but there was something odd about his voice. “Back to your room, then, and we’ll say no more about it.”

Ned mumbled something, his voice too soft to hear, and Staniforth said, “Good man. But you can’t be insolent, you know.”

“No. Sir.” There was something wrong with Ned’s voice, too. Julian controlled the desire to rush to him, waiting until he heard Staniforth reach the top of the stairs and close the door safely behind him.

“Hsst! Mathey!”

There was no answer, and he stepped out from under the stairs.

“Mathey?”

Ned turned, wobbling. He was pale even in the dimmed light, and the tail of his shirt dangled over his belt. He moved stiffly, as though his jacket hurt him, and Julian winced in sympathy. The prefects must have administered several dozen.

“Lynes?” Ned’s voice was a harsh croak.

“I’m here.” Julian started to put his arm around Ned’s shoulders, stopped as Ned flinched. “All right, I won’t touch. Come on, we need to get you out of here.”

“I’m supposed to go back to my room,” Ned said.

“Yes, in a bit,” Julian answered. “You don’t want to face everyone like this, not right away. Come on, we’ll just go upstairs.” He was babbling, he knew, but Ned’s silence, his stiff, awkward movements frightened him badly. Shock, that was what it had to be; he’d read about shock in books, and the remedy for it was brandy. He didn’t have any, of course, but he did know where the junior masters kept their sherry. He took Ned by the upper arms, shook him lightly. “Stay here,” he said. “Stay right here, just for a moment. Do you understand?”

Ned nodded, and Julian darted away. The masters’ parlor was locked, but like all the other locks in the school, it was easily forced with a pocketknife. Julian let himself in, not daring to light the gas, and found the right cabinet by feel. It was locked, too, but another twist of the pocketknife sprang the latch, and he grabbed the first bottle that came to hand. There was nothing he could do about the cabinet, but the main door had an automatic lock; he pulled it shut, and hurried to rejoin Ned, half afraid he’d already started back to their rooms. But, no, he was right where Julian had left him, and Julian caught gently at his sleeve.

“Come on, Ned. Come on.”

Somehow, he got Ned up the stairs and into their attic hiding place. He dumped Ned onto the salvaged cushions that were their only furniture, and lit the candles, steadying his hands with an effort of will. The light blossomed, and he turned his attention to Ned, who was shivering visibly.

“Easy now, gently, let’s get your jacket off and see –” He broke off as he pulled the jacket off Ned’s shoulders. The fabric of his shirt around the waist was streaked with blood, long stripes that looked as though they’d been laid on with a paintbrush.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, and got the jacket the rest of the way off. “Mathey, unbutton your shirt, there’s a good chap.”

For a moment, Ned didn’t move, but then he began to fumble with the buttons, and together they eased off shirt and undershirt. Julian’s breath caught in his chest. Instead of the welts of a caning, the neat parallel stripes in which the prefects took such pride, Ned’s lower back was a mess of thin cuts and ugly bruises, laid haphazard and without pattern across his skin. The marks extended below the waist of his trousers, and Julian flinched at the thought. For a moment, he sat helpless, not knowing what to do, but then made himself move. The cuts needed to be cleaned, he knew that much, and he fetched the bottle of sherry. He wet his handkerchief with it and dabbed carefully at the cuts, grimacing in sympathy as Ned winced under his touch.

“I need to get at the rest of them,” he said, and after a long moment, Ned lowered his trousers to reveal a matching set of marks on his buttocks. There was nothing Julian could say, no comfort he could think of; he kept patting at the cuts until he thought the bleeding had stopped, and helped Ned back into his clothes. They had smuggled up blankets as well, and he draped both of them over Ned, then found their chipped cup and filled it with sherry.

“Drink.”

Ned took a sip, and turned his head away. “Ugh. I’ll be sick.”

Alcohol was the best thing for shock, but Ned did look unwell, still pale and sweaty. “Later, then,” Julian said, and put the cup aside. He scooted back to sit beside Ned, and after a moment, Ned rested his head on Julian’s thigh. Julian put a careful hand on his head, stroking his hair, and realized to his horror that Ned was crying. He made no sound, but his whole body shook, and Julian wanted to cry himself. He’d done what he could, and it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to make promises, to swear that he’d protect him, make sure it would never happen again, but lies would be no comfort.