Part 24 (1/2)

Morning 8 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706.

An hour later Mentors Ardelia and Nigel made only a vague attempt to stop him before Maxim's sickroom, and he rushed inside, barely slowing to kick the door open.

”Ah. So you come, at last. I have been expecting you.”

Dominick halted in the small, Sun-lit room with bright yellow curtains, staring at the white-clad, frail old man on the bed. Suddenly, his own presently sweaty, ruffled hair and crumpled brown robe, and especially the whip he had waved at Nigel and Ardelia, seemed very out of place.

”You are making me feel like a loutish little peasant again,” he said in a soft, controlled voice, all vehemence suddenly draining away from him to leave hollowness and shame.

”Am I now? Can anyone truly make you feel anything you disagree with, my son?”

I don't know, Dominick wanted to say. I don't want to think about it. I want to be angry, like a moment ago, so that I can shout at you and be done with it. But anger was a useless weapon against these sharp, all-knowing eyes. Looking at them, as well as listening to Maxim, more often than not made you wonder why exactly you were angry.

”Max.” Dominick sat on the edge of the bed, watching a face that bore many wrinkles whereas eight years ago it had born almost none, and gray hair that had been almost black but was now almost silver. The stabbing wound and the consequent fever had made Maxim's skin pale and sallow, both on the face and the thin, bony handsa”but, strangely, what worried Dominick the most was the thin white pajamas.

Had he ever seen the man in anything but a somber brown robe with starched cuffs and collar? Maxim looked ... smaller right now. The accursed pajamas seemed to have taken something away and taken it away irrevocablya”something important. His dignity. His strength. Dominick clenched his fists around the whip's handle. He was a Mentor and a man, but were he a twelve-year-old snotty-nosed peasant, right now he would have cried.

Maxim watched him, saying nothing. He had that habit.

”Max.” Dominick unclenched his fingers from the whip and drew his dagger. ”I need to know.”

”What do you need to know, my son?” The old man did not even look at the weapon, and Dominick sighed, laying it on the sheets.

”Start with why you said you were expecting me, while I was told you had refused to see me. And why the fools outside let me in so easily today. For all they know, I might be an accursed murderer going to finish the deed!” For all I know.

”Ah, one of the answers is easy. They let you in because I told them to do so, even though they were reluctant to obey.” He cast a Dominick a sideways glance. ”That is, I told them to do so if you showed persistence.”

”You told me to not come.”

”Yes, my son.” Maxim took Dominick's dagger, the dagger that had almost killed him, in his weak, trembling hands. ”Yes, I did.” He played with the weapon, s.h.i.+fting it so that it would catch the Sun and make Sun spots on the wall. Like a child, playing with a toy. ”But you came, and I am glad.”

”Why?” Why are you playing with me?

”Dominick, my son, will you indulge an old man and accept 'I cannot tell you' as an answer?”

”Maxim, my father, I wonder if I would indulge you better if I answered 'yes,' or if I answered 'no.' ”

Maxim laughed, a weak laugh, but behind ita”behind the whiteness of his pajamas, behind the wrinkles and the frailty of his figurea”his eyes were no less sharp than ever, and even sharper still.

They were both silent for a while, and the old man closed his eyelids, his breathing becoming as slow and regular as if he had drifted into sleep. The Sun spots on the wall jumped, disturbed, as Dominick pulled his dagger from his hand.

He could kill him so easily. Just a quick snap with the dagger, and the thin, tired man would be gone. It was all so wrong, so unbalanced. A stab, and then the man was broken and the healer could not fix him for days, and then another stab, just a tiny little stab would be enough to finish him ... A stab with a tiny metal blade. A piece, a toy that humans had made, could undo humans. Such a fragile thing, a human. Such a fickle thing, a life. Dominick closed his fingers around the handle. A little thing, such a tiny, insignificant thing, but how much power it held.

And why was he, Dominick, thinking about all this? Gently, carefully, he pulled the white blanket to the old man's chin and wrapped the corners beneath his shoulders.

”You know, old man,” he whispered to the sleeping figure, ”the why-s are all your fault. You could have whipped them out of me so long ago. I should know, I have whipped some why-s out of people myself. But you did not do it, and I don't know what to do any more.” He put the dagger back into its sheath. Why had he drawn it, anyway? ”Probably don't even know who I am.”

”Pretty normal for your age, actually.” Dominick almost jumped at the calm, not-at-all-asleep voice. ”I might have once been like that myself.” The sharp eyes bore into Dominick's again, suddenly not weak and sick, but strong, authoritative, invading. A Mentor's gaze, which no one had applied to Dominick for years. What, in the name of the Master?

”Doubt, as you well know, is the path to a Mentor's undoing. But, Dominick, my boy, do you know what a Mentor is?”

Dominick remained silent.

”A Mentor's primary task, my boy, is to take care.” Maxim reached out, propped a pillow in the corner where the bed met two walls, and raised himself to a sitting position. His movements were slow and deliberate, but he was not trembling. Suddenly the white pajamas did not matter so much.