The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil (7 page)

What Timothy had now was his mira, the brother of his heart, dying in this rat-stinking inn while they waited for some folk-magic witch to cure him, and in the meantime, provincial
matdhu ghorae
were hoping he’d give them an excuse to gut him. Oh, and he had their Indecency Act, which made the prospect of being fucked impossible without having himself flayed and raped with broken bottles if he was caught. He didn’t even let himself travel down the maddening mental road that began with the idea that it was, however, perfectly fine for the old
ghora
next to him to repeatedly stick his hand beneath the barmaid’s skirts in front of the entire pub room.

It’s probably some sick sort of homage to the Goddess, he thought, then swore in Catalian and rose from his stool, ready to concede defeat and head back upstairs.

“Your pardon,” he murmured automatically when he moved too quickly and ran into someone. He tensed, certain the way his luck had been running it would be some big, brutish beast of a man who would use Timothy’s blunder as an excuse to pick a fight; he didn’t have the leisure for a brawl just now.

But the man he’d stumbled into wasn’t brutish or beastly, and as Timothy took a better look at him, he decided he was probably the least likely man in the room to throw a punch. He wasn’t gaunt, not physically, but there was a hollowness about him that made Timothy pause. And when the dull, blue eyes met his, Timothy couldn’t help himself.

“Are you well, sir?” he asked.

The man smiled, but it was a macabre sort of half gesture. It died quickly, and he lowered his eyes without answering.

Timothy knew he should let it go, but something about the stranger tugged at him. The man looked like one of the victims in the Cloister camps, except he didn’t have whip marks visible on his flesh.

“Sit,” Timothy said, motioning to the chair beside the one he had just vacated. “Please. Let me get you something to drink.”

The man turned his face to the wall, staring at it as if he expected it to speak back. Timothy held still, waiting to see what the man would do. The stranger was well dressed, better even than the “gentleman’s armor” of fashion Jonathan had insisted on wearing for their travels; where Jonathan settled for gabardine, this man wore a softer, tighter weave, and his vest and coat were of a quality of silk Timothy hadn’t seen since Catal. His boots shone in the hearth light, and he was wearing some sort of scent—a very pleasant scent, though Timothy couldn’t quite place it. His blond hair was neat too and was swept up in a style popular in Boone. The eyes, though. The eyes and mouth gave it all away. This man, dapper as he might be, was a mental wreck.

The man turned back to Timothy, looking more haunted than ever. “You need to stay away from me.”

Timothy leaned forward so no one else would hear his words. “If you are in trouble, I can help you.”

The man laughed. It was the most defeated laugh Timothy had ever heard. “No.”

“I know I’m slight, but I’m not untrained.” Timothy leaned in even closer. “I am formerly of your country’s Special Services. At this particular second, I have no less than fifteen weapons on me, and that doesn’t count my hands or my mind.” He looked into the stranger’s eyes, not bothering to hide his empathy. “You look ruined. Let me help you. I have an ill friend upstairs I cannot abandon, but I can help you get away, at the very least.”

He reached out to touch the stranger’s arm.

But the man was stepping back, his already pale face gone completely white, his dull eyes dancing with dawning horror. “You’re the foreigner.” He held up a thin, trembling hand as if to ward off evil. “He was right,” he whispered. “Goddess save us, you’re here with my brother, aren’t you? You’re here with Jonathan Perry.”

Apprehension doused Timothy’s empathy like a bucket of icy water. “How did you know that?”

The pale man stumbled back, shaking his head. “Go,” he croaked. “Go now. It’s probably too late, but
go
—” The man convulsed, clutching his right forearm, then jerked his head to the door. “Get out!”

Timothy nodded and turned to leave, not knowing what else to do. But when he tried again to head for the stairs, another man was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Timothy with a smile that could only be described as feral.

“Well done, pet,” the man said, his smile widening. “I believe you have found what we are looking for.”

Matdhu. Timothy didn’t reach for one of his knives, but he widened his stance. The entire pub had gone quiet, settling in to watch what clearly promised to be a show. The new stranger was dressed in a similar style to the pale man who had warned him to go, though this one wore darker, subtler tones, and there was a coldness about his eyes Timothy instantly disliked. Timothy did a quick survey of the rest of the room, but the patrons looked only curious, not alert and ready. Timothy relaxed a little. Just two opponents, then, one of whom might possibly be an ally. He could take them out, run a knife across whatever locals decided this would be a good opening, and head up to rouse Jonathan. Even half-wasted, he was deadly in a fight.

The new stranger held out his palms. “Easy, Mr. Fielding. You have no need to draw your knife.”

The words were quiet and unremarkable, but Timothy seemed to feel them pelt at the back of his brain; he blinked and swayed on his feet. He shook his head to clear it, but when he stole a glance at the sickly man, he caught him staring down at the floor, looking guilty and despondent. And terrified.

The other man took a step closer to him; Timothy had his hand on his waist knife and was on the point of drawing it when the man spoke again.

“Be still.”

And just like that, Timothy could not move.

The man smiled and reached out to wrap long, wicked-looking fingers around Timothy’s arm. He felt his skin beneath the stranger’s grip go hot and then suddenly cold. Timothy’s mind became soft and quiet.

“You will go upstairs and bring your master,” the stranger said. “You will bring him to the inn yard, and you will not alarm him in any way or alert him to my presence.” The grip on Timothy’s arm tightened. “You will do this now.”

The man let him go. Timothy blinked, then nodded, his head feeling like it was both heavier than lead and lighter than air at once. He stepped around the man and headed for the stairs.

Something is wrong with me
. The thought bounced anxiously around his brain. Timothy felt as if he were split in two, as if part of him were awake and part of him were sleeping. Unfortunately the conscious part seemed unable to control any part of his body. How had that happened? What had the man done? He’d bested Timothy before he’d even touched him!

Stop! Don’t listen! You don’t have to listen to him
! he shouted at himself, but his body did not heed him, only continued in its trancelike ascendance of the stairs.

He was sweating when he entered Jonathan’s room; inside the prison of his own mind, Timothy was slamming himself against walls, trying to regain control of himself by sheer will, but it wasn’t working.

“You must come with me,” he heard himself say to Jonathan as he blinked up from the bed. “You must come downstairs with me to the inn yard.”

Don’t! Don’t do it! It’s a trap
! But Timothy could not make his mouth move. His own body would not obey him.

Jonathan sat up groggily, frowning as he rubbed the side of his face. “Has something happened? What—” He stopped, taking a closer look at Timothy’s face. His eyes narrowed, then darkened. “You’re enchanted.”

Yes! Yes—No, that’s impossible, but there is something strange happening! Some drug or something—I don’t know! Just don’t listen to me
! “You must come with me now.”

But his words were leaden. He didn’t even sound like himself, and the aberration did not escape his friend. Jonathan reached for his walking stick and leaned on it as he ran his gaze up and down Timothy’s body. “You would never have let someone near enough to get anything into your pockets. It must be something else. They must have brushed you, or—” He zeroed in on Timothy’s sleeve, then touched it. Timothy cried out as his arm began to burn.

“A pin, with an anchor on his own person, from your reaction.
Fuck
,” Jonathan said, looking unhappy. “I was hoping it was an amateur making mischief. But not with a pin and anchor.” He looked up at Timothy, gentling his gaze and speaking in the voice Timothy had only heard him use when he was trying to talk a private with a mortal wound out of panic. “It’s very important you don’t fight this. I suspect you’re upset right now, if you managed to retain any of your will at all, but you need to heed me, mira: do not fight the spell. You can go mad. I’ve seen it happen, and if you go there, I can’t bring you back. Just ride it, and trust me as you know you can.” He reached out and took Timothy’s hands gently in his own. “There’s an alchemist in the inn yard. It’s important we go down to greet him and that you do exactly what he orders you to do, even if you think it’s going to hurt me.
You cannot disobey him
. Tell me you understand. Nod, if that’s all you can manage.”

Timothy was breathing hard. No, he didn’t understand. This was insane!
Spell
! He wanted to shout at Jonathan that he was not enchanted! He was not! His breath came out in short, tense puffs of air, and his eyes began to burn.

Jonathan squeezed his hands tighter. “Daghata, Timothy. Hold on for me. Do not let some slimy little alchemist beat you.”

Timothy huffed out another breath, and a tear ran down his cheek.
He means to hurt you, and I cannot stop it. I cannot even warn you!

Jonathan reached up to touch Timothy’s cheek. “It will be fine. I promise you. But you must promise
me
you will not fight.
Gata
, mira? Do not fight, not until I free you. And do not worry for me. I will be safe, I swear.” He let go of Timothy and touched his own shirtfront. “You have seen my medallion. I told you it was from an old friend, and that’s true. It’s just that it’s from an old friend who was at that time training with a witch, the very one we are here to see. It isn’t just a medallion, Timothy; it’s a charm, one of the most powerful kinds my country makes. Everyone wears them here to ward off what just happened to you. I should have thought of it sooner and procured one for you. I’m sorry I didn’t. It’s not uncommon for a local to try and enchant a foreigner, but generally it’s harmless, and you look dangerous enough that I didn’t think they’d take you on. I never thought there would be an alchemist here. They never come this far north.”

Timothy’s breath had begun to even out through Jonathan’s speech, the low, gentle tones soothing Timothy’s jangled nerves. He felt as if he were less separated now, though he could still feel the bands of the enchantment—or whatever it was—tempering his abilities. He began to understand why Jonathan was so insistent he not fight; it hadn’t been his imagination that he was separated from himself. But he couldn’t just surrender. That would make him more insane than fighting.

Shutting his eyes, Timothy drew a deep breath, drawing on his old training, on his own “magic,” on the control and will that had kept him alive in the Cloister camps. He wasn’t
warning
Jonathan. He was luring him down to the inn yard as he was meant to. He was telling him everything so that he would move more quickly. He needed to tell him everything. He needed to be certain he went down to meet the stranger.

Both strangers. He needed to tell about both strangers.

Timothy felt the spell rising up to stop him, so he whispered quickly before it could. “Brother. Your brother.”

His arm began to ache, and he clutched it as he cried out. Jonathan swore and gripped his hand. “I told you not to fight it!” But there was a new urgency in his tone as he went on. “Brother?
My
brother? You don’t even—No. He would never come back here.” He ran a hand over his mouth, then laughed blackly. “But an alchemist would bring him. And if anyone could be goat led—
Fuck
.”

Still clutching his arm, Timothy stepped back as Jonathan used the walking stick to push to his feet. Timothy’s head was pounding, and he felt heavy, as if he were full of water. Jonathan glanced at him, paled, and took his arm again.

“
Do not fight it
. This is not the time to play proud Catalian. If it helps you, I have a plan, but I can’t explain it to you because if I do, you’ll be obliged to sabotage it.” He reached into Timothy’s pocket and withdrew one of his finger knives, unfolding it before carefully placing it on Timothy’s finger. “You need to wear this, Timothy, to keep me in line. Because you know you must make certain I meet this man. You must use whatever force you need to.
And you must not fight it
. It will be all right, Timothy, so long as you follow his instructions. You’re going to lead me down now, and I’m unarmed, aren’t I? I don’t have any weapons. I’m too weak to lift them, aren’t I?”

Timothy was finding it difficult to breathe. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, though more from fighting the enchantment than anything else. He
wanted
to weep, but he was having a difficult time holding on to himself.

Jonathan drew Timothy’s unarmed hand up to his mouth and placed a kiss on the back of it.

Now
Timothy was weeping. That was not an erotic gesture—he’d given up on receiving any of those from Jonathan long ago—but it was the most humble, sincere sort of Catalian apology, and it broke Timothy.
You’ve done nothing wrong
! Timothy wanted to shout at Jonathan.
It’s me who is betraying you!

As if he had heard him, Jonathan smiled ruefully and shook his head. “No, Timothy. This is my country, and I know how it works, and it was I who failed to better prepare you. I have been selfish, because there is much I don’t want you to know about my life here. I’m apologizing because if I had been forthright with you, none of this would be happening. It is
my
pride this time, and I am very sorry it has brought you to this, because I know better than anyone how much this is tearing at you. I know you don’t believe in magic, and I know you hate this country. But I do believe, and I know what is waiting for us below.” He squeezed Timothy’s hand again. “Trust me, mira. Trust me as you have done before. Let go. Let the spell take you. I promise I will bring you back again.”