A Narcissus from a Viper

Wealthgiver 9

This is the NINTH chapter of Wealthgiver, an alternate history serial romance about nationalism and cave-Thracians. For the back-of-the-book description and an index of chapters, click here. For the beginning, click here. For the previous chapter, click here.

MOOD MUSIC

In a cave under a mountain, a doctor pressed his back against a corner of his cell and stared into nothing. He had scratches all down his back from the rocks of the cavern floors. His fingertips still throbbed from when he'd tried to claw his way back out, and the iodine stung like the very devil.

"Better than Crossing the Balkan Mountain in January," he told himself.

At least there was no snow. No mud or bombs. Nobody was shooting at him. Just silence and cool, absolute darkness. Andrei might as well close his eyes as open them.

What good was light to him now? No need to plan or run. Andrei had been well and truly caught. Just not by the right people.

Was a hissing collection of trogladytic cultists better than a court martial? Were these cave-Thracians likely to be any more merciful than the Major General? Was it better to be sacrificed to some pagan god or cleanly executed?

The devil you know, Doctor, or the devil you don't?

Andrei had been given a basin of hot water, a cloth, a bowl of bread and milk, and a bundle of clothes. Doing the appropriate things with the first two had used up maybe a half an hour. Now the rest of the night stretched before him. The rest of his life, however short that might be.

He reached for the clothing. Groping in the dark, Andrei first found the undershirt and drawers, which seemed to be cotton as modish as any found in Paris. Under them, however, lay a voluminous, ankle-length robe, and a broad woolen sash to hold it tight, like the vestments of a monk or a dervish. The robe was lined with felted wool, but its outer covering was some coarse, papery fabric that rustled loudly with even the slightest movement. Andrei understood why when his fingers found the slippers. Their soles had been pierced by an arc of metal tacks. Wearing these clothes, Andrei would click with every step and rustle with every gesture.

That was all. There didn't seem to be any fox-fur cap included in Andrei's kit. Maybe you only got one once you'd sacrificed somebody to Hades.

What would these people do to him? Why do any of this to a runaway physician? Why march Andrei across a continent, kill his patients as quickly as he fixed them, chase him up a mountain, and imprison him in the darkness? What next?

Andrei sank to the chilly floor, pulling his knees closer to his chest, and stared at his hands.

He frowned. Rotated his wrists. Wiggled his fingers. Was his skin glowing?