Talmil took a single step forward, snarling and showing his teeth. “She saw an innocent boy, a noble, and threw herself at him, got herself knocked up by Goddess knows who—”
Sarea slugged him in the face while Dien stared at her, astounded. Sir Talmil fell to the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him, shaking his head.
“Don’t you dare say such things about my baby!” Sarea screeched.
The physician’s door flew open and Rolle stomped through. “Dammit, Dien! Stop this! I don’t need any more injuries in here!”
“It wasn’t me,” Dien said. “Not this time.”
Rolle looked at Talmil then at Serea and her grittted teeth and clenched fists. “All three of you had better figure this out like rational adults. You have two young people here, confused, scared children, who are going to have to do a lot of growing up very, very quickly. Watching their parents insult and beat the tar out of each other is not going to help matters any.”
Talmil stood and straightened his brocade coat. “My son is not going to claim some bastard commoner brat as his own. That is all there is to it.”
Dien held Sarea back as Talmil turned and stomped off. Looking at Rolle, Dien asked, “Can the boy talk?”
“No. I’ve had to seal his mouth closed to give his jaw time to heal. He can answer yes and no questions, but that’s all.”
“That will do,” Dien said, setting Sarea aside and reaching for the door. He looked at Rolle. “I’m not going to touch him. I just want to talk to him. All right?”
With a sigh, Rolle nodded and let him past.
“Dien!” Sarea called, reaching for him.
He shook his head. “No, I have to do this one on my own. Man to man.” When Sarea nodded he walked through and Rolle followed.
The only patient on an examination table, Gilby shook his bandaged head when Dien approached and lifted his hands as if to ward him off. He saw little more of the boy’s face beyond the color of his eyes.
Dien sighed and pulled up a stool. “I’m done beating you.” He sat, staring at the boy for a long moment, feeling pain and sorrow simmering together in his belly. “I’m here to talk now.”
Gilby nodded but moved to the far edge of the table.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, all right? And you’re going to tell me the truth. Do we have a deal?”
Gilby nodded.
Dien swallowed his pride and his trembling pain as best he could. “Today, when I found you with Fyn, did you know she was pregnant?”
Gilby watched him, eyes glittering from behind the bandages. A single nod.
“A couple of phases ago, before the murders, before we sent her to stay with her grandmother, did you know then?”
Another nod.
“A moon ago?” A nod. “Two moons?” A denial. “So, you’ve known for a moon, maybe a little more? She told you right away?” A nod. “Were you planning on telling anyone?” A nod. “When?”
A squeak came from Gilby, a mottled fluttering squeal, and Dien raised a hand to silence him. “Never mind. Do you... do you love my daughter?”
A nod. Then another.
Dien panted for a moment, staring at his hands. This can’t be happening, it just can’t. He crushed the angry red beast and asked, “Are you certain the child is yours?”
A nod, followed by an agreeable squeal.
“All right. Were you planning on marrying her?”
A nod, definite and sure.
“Have you asked her?”
Denial.
“Why not? If you’ve known for over a moon, surely you’ve had ample time?”
Gilby gestured to the far wall, and a squeal trembled from his throat.
“I don’t know what that means!” Dien said, his hands shaking. “Were you waiting for a promotion?” Denial. “Better pay?” Denial. “Were you waiting for anything?” Denial.
The hells? “You wanted to ask her but couldn’t?” A nod. “Someone told you not to?” A nod. “Your friends?” Denial. “Your father?” A nod.
Dien stared at his hands again. “So you told your father?” A nod. “How long has he known?”
Gilby held up a single finger then drew Malanna’s holy mark on his chest, the symbol of the four phases of the moon.
“A moon? Your father has known for a moon?” A nod and a shrug followed by a wave of Gilby’s hand. “Maybe a little more than a moon?” A nod. “So you told him, what, a few days after you found out?” Denial. Gilby held up his hand, fingers curled in a tube. A zero.
Dien felt his hands clench again but he forced them open. “You told your father the same day Fyn told you?” A nod. “He’s known for over a moon and forbid you to marry her?”
A nod. Certain and sure. Gilby clasped his hand over his chest and nodded once, his glittering eyes staring unflinchingly at Dien.
“He won’t let you marry her, even though you told him you love her?”
A nod.
Sighing, Dien stood. He had one more question. “Did you happen to kill Jelke?”
Gilby gave Dien a confused tilt of his head, followed by a definite denial.
“Figures,” Dien muttered. He offered Gilby a sad smile, patted the boy’s shoulder, then left the physician’s office to talk with his wife.
Castle Pyrinn
Shailer squeezed the scry stone for a moment, his mind churning. “Young Hargrove seems to be a most determined individual,” he said, returning the stone to its rightful place. “A young man fitting his description has sought information about Kramoris at a Gattolan brothel. Tis a shame he neglected to leave his name. It would be most intriguing to see how Castellan Hargrove feels about his son visiting such establishments, wouldn’t you say?”
Raffin remained silent except for a slight wheeze.
Smiling, Shailer shook his head. “Yes, yes. Sleep old friend. My apologies if I have disturbed your slumber.”
He chewed his lip as he tinkered with an odd-shaped contraption made of dark steel. Slightly rusted along its raised edges, the artifact seemed to be complete and nearly intact. The main framework consisted of a tube with a smoothly round center and an attached angled piece that seemed designed as a handle. Much thicker than the tube, the handle still had carved splinters of wood attached to it, but the wood had decayed considerably and he handled it with great care. Beneath the tube and forward of the handle, an attached cylinder spun with a friendly clicking sound. All the various levers and moving bolts appeared to function, if a little stiffly, and he smiled.
Carefully disassembling the artifact and laying each piece and scrap on a soft cloth, he let his mind wander. Will young Hargrove locate Kramoris? Perhaps more importantly, will our young associate bring Hargrove here? To Prinn?
“Likely,” he muttered, loosening an unusual pivoting switch that had rested near the conjunction of the tube and the angled handle. “Despite his youth and arrogance, he has never failed us before.”
He set aside the switch and looked up to his stones. Gatollan whore house, eh? Perhaps we can slow the lad down, increase Kramoris’ lead. Tapping his chin with a grimy finger, he touched four stones in succession, deciding which to activate.