Ch. 3: Suboptimal and Ch. 4: Separate Decisions

Chapter 3: Suboptimal

Marielle woke to a duck staring at her.

It was painted on the side of the washbasin beside her bed.

Yellow body.

Orange beak.

One black eye positioned at precisely the angle necessary to make it look judgmental.

Marielle stared back.

The duck was badly proportioned.

Its head was too large for its body. One wing sat noticeably higher than the other. The artist had also misunderstood the shape of a duck’s feet.

She considered reaching for the charcoal she normally kept in her pocket.

Then remembered several things at once.

She was not wearing her jacket.

Her left arm hurt.

And Lia had drugged her.

Marielle frowned at the ceiling.

That last one seemed particularly important.

The night came back in fragments. Cold that blankets had not corrected. The basin held beneath her chin. Lia’s hand steady against her back.

Every time she had managed to open her eyes, Lia had been there.

Now the room held still long enough to examine.

Mostly.

She pushed herself upright.

Pain pulled sharply through her upper arm.

The room tilted.

Marielle stopped.

Waited.

The room returned to its correct orientation.

“Interesting.”

“No.” Lia’s voice came through the half-open door.

Marielle looked toward it.

Lia appeared a moment later carrying a tray.

She looked terrible.

Not injured.

Marielle had learned there was a difference.

Lia’s hair had been tied back at some point during First Sun and had since escaped in several directions. Shadows sat beneath her eyes. Her sleeves were still rolled to the elbow, and something dark marked one cuff.

She had very clearly not slept.

Marielle looked at the tray. Then at Lia. “You said no before I asked anything.”

“You sat up.”

“Yes.”

“Lie back down.”

“I am awake.”

“Congratulations.”

“I would like my clothes.”

“No.”

“My notes.”

“No.”

“My jacket?”

“No.”

Marielle considered. “Breakfast?”

Lia set the tray across her lap. “Yes.”

“That seems inconsistent.”

“It is not.”

Tea.

Toast.

Eggs.

Something medicinal in a small cup.

Marielle pointed at it. “No.”

Lia looked at her.

Marielle sighed. “What is it?”

“Something for the pain.”

“I did not ask for anything for the pain.”

“You also did not ask to be cut.”

“That is different.”

“Drink.”

Marielle drank.

It was unpleasant. “You could improve the taste.”

“I could also sedate you again.”

Marielle looked at her.

Lia looked back.

Neither blinked.

Marielle chose toast.

From the infirmary proper came the low, persistent sound of survivors discovering that survival involved bandages and being told not to do things.

Someone groaned.

A healer said, “Hold still.”

Then a familiar voice answered, “I am holding still.”

Lia closed her eyes.

Marielle paused. “Harrek?”

“Yes.”

“He sounds well.”

“He has a concussion.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“No. He sounds like Harrek.”

From the next room:

“I need that report.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I am sitting down.”

“You were standing ten seconds ago.”

“I had to reach the table.”

“The table was moved because you kept reaching for it.”

Silence.

Marielle looked at Lia. “Has he slept?”

“No.”

“Have you?”

“That is not relevant.”

“It seems medically relevant.”

“I am not the patient.”

Marielle looked pointedly at the dried blood on her sleeve.

Lia pointed at the eggs. “Eat.”

Deflection.

Interesting.

Marielle obeyed.

Her arm throbbed steadily beneath the bandage.

Not unbearable.

Wrong.

That was more irritating.

“How bad is it?”

“The cut itself?” Lia asked.

“Yes.”

“Not especially.”

“Then why am I still here?”

“Because wounds do not become harmless merely because you dislike their scheduling.”

“That is not what I said.”

“It is what you meant.”

Annoyingly accurate.

Lia checked her pulse, then rested a hand against her forehead. “Acceptable.”

Marielle frowned. “That is not an especially reassuring assessment.”

“Your fever is lower. You’re keeping fluids down. I will accept both.”

“I still have a fever?”

“Yes. You spent most of the night vomiting, shivering, and insisting you were cold while burning hot.”

Marielle looked toward the basin.

That explained its proximity.

It did not excuse the duck.

“How long?”

“The worst of it started after Serali left. You slept in pieces afterward.”

“And you?”

Lia reached for the water glass. “Drink.”

That was an answer, despite not being one.

“The poison?”

“Neutralized.”

“How?”

“The blade carried something that kept you bleeding and interfered with healing magic. I slowed its spread, identified what it was doing, then counteracted it.”

“And that worked.”

“For the poison.”

“Then why did I get worse?”

“The bleeding had stopped. Your pulse was improving. Then your fever climbed.”

“So the poison was not neutralized?”

“It was. The treatment worked on the effects I identified. That does not explain everything that happened afterward.”

Marielle heard the distinction. “But.”

Lia sat back. “The bleeding stopped. Your pulse stabilized. The dizziness improved.”

“It has not entirely.”

“You sat up too fast.”

“That seems like a design flaw.”

“In you?”

“In beds.”

Lia ignored that. “The problem is the wound itself. Healing magic takes at first. The tissue begins to close.”

“And then?”

“Stops.”

Marielle frowned. “That is not normal.”

“Thank you, Lady Marielle.”

“I was confirming.”

“I know.”

Lia checked the bandage. “No fresh bleeding.”

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“But you are still worried.”

“Yes.”

“Because the poison should no longer be affecting it.”

“Exactly.”

That was unpleasant.

Marielle looked toward the window.

Late morning.

Possibly later.

“My drafting room—”

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“No.”

“I only need—”

“No.”

“You do not know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I have three incomplete load calculations for the eastern lantern structures.”

“They survived.”

“One did not.”

“It was hit by a body.”

“That is precisely the sort of structural condition I should document.”

Lia stood. “If your feet touch the floor without my permission, I will give you another sleeping draught.”

“That seems excessive.”

“So was attempting to assist with your own treatment while actively poisoned.”

“I was conscious.”

“Unfortunately.”

A scrape came from the next room.

Lia turned toward the door. “Harrek.”

“I did not do anything.”

“You stood up.”

“I dropped the report.”

“You were not supposed to have the report.”

A pause.

“That feels like a separate issue.”

Lia walked to the doorway. “If you fall down a staircase, there will still be four missing Lyehirans, but the Watch will have one fewer functional commander.”

Silence.

Marielle approved of the logic.

The outer infirmary doors opened.

Boots.

Several pairs.

Then one voice became recognizable.

Daravan.

He appeared in her doorway a few moments later.

He had changed clothes.

That was the strongest evidence Marielle could find that time had actually passed.

Otherwise he looked much as he had in the square.

Tired.

Controlled.

Armed.

His gaze went first to her. Then her arm. Then Lia. “Awake?”

“Yes,” Marielle said.

Lia said, “Unfortunately.”

Marielle frowned.

Daravan stepped inside.

Two palace guards remained beyond the door.

Marielle knew both by sight.

Corren had been with the palace guard longer than she had lived in Myrae and possessed a grey-streaked beard that violated uniform regulations by approximately half an inch.

Mael was younger, though not new. Marielle remembered him standing beside Daravan during the western gate repairs two summers ago and asking useful questions about load-bearing hinges.

Neither was ordinarily assigned to the infirmary.

Marielle looked at Daravan. “Why are they here?”

“For you.”

“Why?”

“You will have two guards outside this room while you remain here.”

“That seems unnecessary.”

“When Lia releases you, you will have an escort.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere.”

“That is very broad.”

“It is intended to be.”

Marielle looked at Lia.

Lia did not appear surprised.

A conspiracy, then.

“I do not need an escort.”

“Four Lyehiran agents remain unaccounted for.”

“They were after Serali.”

“Yes.”

“I am not Serali.”

“I am aware.”

“Then I do not understand.”

Daravan was quiet for a moment. “The man who cut you.”

Marielle’s attention sharpened. “What about him?”

“He tried to cut Serali with the same dagger afterward.”

Marielle frowned. “I did not see that.”

“No. Lia had you by then.”

Marielle looked at Lia.

Lia nodded once.

That portion of the fight existed mostly as noise in Marielle’s memory.

Lia’s hands.

Pressure against her arm.

Blood soaking cloth faster than seemed reasonable.

Orders to stay seated.

She looked back at Daravan. “What did he do?”

“Changed tactics.”

“How?”

“At first they were trying to restrain Serali. Nets. Binding cord. Needles.”

“I saw that.”

“Near the end, he stopped.”

Marielle waited.

“He went after her with the dagger.”

“To kill her?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

Marielle’s brow furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Because I was standing beside her.”

“That establishes location, not intent.”

Daravan’s expression did not change. “He had openings.”

“And?”

“He did not take them. He aimed for exposed skin.”

Marielle went still. “Where?”

“Her wrist. Forearm. Face.”

“With the same blade?”

“Yes.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Several.”

“Did it touch her?”

“No.”

Marielle exhaled. Only then did she realize she had been waiting for the answer.

Daravan continued. “He caught her sleeve once. Tore the fabric. Missed the skin.”

Marielle looked down at her bandaged arm. “After he cut me.”

“Yes.”

The room felt abruptly too quiet.

Marielle reconstructed what she could remember.

She had thrown the gear.

It had struck beneath his eye.

He had turned on her immediately.

One slash.

Upper arm.

Then Serali had pulled his attention back.

Marielle had assumed retaliation.

A convenient target interfering with an operation.

But afterward—

The same weapon.

Repeated attempts.

Not deep strikes.

Not killing blows.

Skin.

“You saw him choosing where to strike?”

“Yes.”

“And Serali noticed?”

“Yes.”

Marielle looked at Lia. “Did you know this?”

“Serali told me after you were asleep.”

“You put me to sleep.”

“You were trying to advise me on stitch spacing.”

“The spacing was uneven.”

“There were no stitches yet.”

Marielle frowned.

It was possible she had been less useful than remembered.

She returned to the relevant problem. “The poison causes bleeding.”

“Yes,” Lia said.

“And disrupts healing.”

“Yes.”

“But you think something else is affecting the wound.”

“I know something else is affecting the wound. I do not know what.”

Marielle looked at Daravan. “And he repeatedly tried to make the same blade break Serali’s skin.”

“Yes.”

“That changes the probability that my injury was incidental.”

Daravan’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Marielle did not like that answer.

She liked even less that she agreed with it. “Do we know why?”

“No.”

“Do the prisoners?”

“They are not speaking.”

“Any of them?”

“None.”

Five prisoners.

Four missing.

A blade the attacker had repeatedly tried to bring against Serali’s exposed skin.

Her arm throbbed beneath the bandage.

Marielle looked at it with considerably less irritation than before.

Daravan said, “So you get guards.”

“That does follow more logically now.”

He blinked.

Lia looked suspicious.

Marielle frowned at both of them. “I change conclusions when presented with new information.”

“I know,” Daravan said.

He sounded oddly pleased.

That seemed unnecessary.

He gestured toward the corridor. “Corren and Mael have first watch. I trust them.”

Marielle glanced through the doorway.

Corren gave her a small nod.

Mael did the same.

“When Lia releases you, both go with you.”

“To my rooms?”

“Yes.”

“To meals?”

“Yes.”

“To the engineering office?”

“When Lia permits it.”

Marielle looked at Lia.

“No,” Lia said.

“I did not ask yet.”

“You were about to.”

Marielle sighed.

From the infirmary proper, Harrek called, “Captain.”

Daravan turned.

“If you are here to rescue me—”

“I am not.”

A pause.

“Traitor,” Harrek muttered.

Lia looked almost pleased.

Daravan returned his attention to Marielle. “For now, you stay here.”

“I can work sitting down.”

“No.”

“I often work sitting down.”

“I will sedate you,” Lia said.

Marielle looked at Daravan.

He considered. Then said, “I support the healer.”

“Coward.”

“Yes.”

Marielle looked once more at the bandage.

Same dagger.

Same operation.

Same unknown purpose.

There were too many missing variables.

She disliked missing variables. “Fine.”

Daravan blinked.

Lia narrowed her eyes.

“I said fine,” Marielle repeated.

“You usually require another twelve minutes,” Daravan said.

“I have incorporated new information.”

“That is unsettlingly reasonable.”

“I can argue if you prefer.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Daravan turned toward the door.

“Captain.”

He stopped.

“I need the report on the damaged lantern structures.”

Daravan looked at Lia.

Marielle followed his gaze.

“No,” Lia said.

“Then paper.”

“No.”

“A pencil.”

“No.”

“Charcoal?”

Lia reached toward the medicine tray.

Marielle lay back down.

The duck continued judging her.

It remained badly proportioned.

She would fix it later.

Chapter 4: Separate Decisions

Daravan was leaving Marielle’s room when Serali arrived.

This would not have been remarkable if he had not been accompanied by two palace guards who immediately took positions on either side of the doorway.

Serali slowed.

Hagen noticed too.

Of course he did.

Through the open infirmary doors, she could see Harrek sitting beneath an apprentice’s watchful gaze. His coat hung over a chair on the far side of the room.

An arrangement unlikely to have been his choice.

Everly noticed the guards only after noticing Daravan. “Is Marielle awake?”

Daravan looked down at her. “Very.”

Everly brightened.

Serali looked past him toward the recovery room. “How is she?”

“Arguing.”

“That is not a medical condition.”

“Lia appears to disagree.”

From inside came Marielle’s voice. “I heard that.”

Daravan did not turn. “See?”

Everly clutched the card carefully between both hands. Its glue had mostly dried during the walk from Serali’s rooms. One corner remained suspicious. “Can we see her?”

“Briefly.” Daravan glanced toward Hagen. “Council in ten.”

Hagen sighed. “You do know how to ruin a pleasant morning.”

“I practice.”

Daravan stepped aside.

Serali’s gaze moved to the guards.

Neither was Pell nor Orran. Both belonged to the palace detail and had for years. Men she recognized from corridors, training yards, formal events.

Men Daravan trusted.

Interesting.

Possibly concerning.

Everly was already through the door. “Marielle!”

“Your Highness.”

Marielle sat propped against several pillows, her left arm bandaged beneath a loose infirmary shirt.

She looked pale.

Not dangerously pale.

Serali had learned distinctions she would have preferred never to need.

Marielle looked past Everly toward the washstand. “They gave me a basin with ducks.”

Serali followed her gaze.

There was, in fact, a duck painted on the ceramic basin.

It was yellow.

Its head was too large.

One eye pointed slightly upward.

Everly stared.

Marielle said, “The feet are wrong.”

Everly moved closer. “They are.”

“Thank you.”

Lia, sorting bottles at a nearby table, did not look up. “The basin successfully contained vomit. Its artistic quality was not clinically relevant.”

“That is not the standard for good design,” Marielle said.

Serali’s mouth twitched.

Hagen leaned against the doorframe. “I see convalescence has improved nothing.”

“Correct.”

Everly approached the bed, then stopped. “May I come closer?”

Lia looked up.

Her entire face softened by approximately half a degree. “Yes. Slowly. Do not touch Lady Marielle’s left arm.”

“I know.”

Everly moved with exaggerated care.

Serali followed more slowly.

She looked toward Lia. “How is she?”

“Her fever is finally lower. This is her first solid food since the attack.”

Serali glanced at the tray. “Finally?”

“It climbed after you left. She spent the night vomiting and shivering. This morning is better.”

Marielle looked up. “Except for the duck.”

Then her gaze settled on Serali.

Serali’s chest tightened.

Blood through green fabric.

Lia’s hands pressing down.

The same dagger turning afterward toward Serali’s wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Serali said.

Marielle frowned. “You are not the one who hurt me.”

Serali stopped. “That is not exactly—”

“It is exact.”

Daravan had been halfway out the door.

He stopped.

Marielle continued, “The Lyehiran man cut me.”

“Yes.”

“You did not.”

“No.”

“Then you do not need to apologize for cutting me.”

“I was going to apologize for the reason he was there.”

“That is also incorrect.”

Serali folded her arms. “Marielle.”

Marielle shifted carefully against the pillows. “I chose to move beyond the second marker.”

Daravan said, “Yes.”

“I chose to interfere.”

“Yes.”

“I chose to throw a gear at him.”

“Yes.”

Marielle looked toward Serali. “He chose to cut me.”

Serali opened her mouth.

Daravan said, “In the future, I would prefer your decisions not include attacking assassins.”

Marielle turned toward him. “I did not attack him.”

Daravan stared. “You threw a gear at his face.”

“Yes.”

“That is an attack.”

“It was one gear.”

Hagen covered his mouth.

Daravan’s expression remained admirably blank. “You do not become less involved because the projectile was small.”

“It was not small.”

“That does not help.”

“It was a very good throw,” Serali said.

Marielle brightened. “Thank you.”

Daravan looked at Serali.

She lifted one shoulder. “Accuracy matters.”

Everly looked between them with increasing fascination. “You hit him?”

“Below the eye,” Marielle said.

“With a gear?”

“Yes.”

Everly looked deeply impressed.

Daravan said, “We are not celebrating this.”

Hagen said, “I think that decision has already been made.”

Daravan ignored him.

Marielle returned her attention to Serali. “The sequence is simple.”

Of course it was.

“I moved. I threw the gear. He cut me. Those were separate decisions.”

Serali looked down at the bandage. “You would not have needed to make any of those decisions if they had not come for me.”

Marielle considered this. “That is true.”

The agreement landed harder than denial would have.

Then Marielle said, “But that still does not make my decision yours.”

Serali looked up.

Marielle’s brow furrowed slightly, as though the problem were structural. “I do not like having my choices reassigned to other people. I assume you understand.”

That was—

Annoyingly precise.

Serali swallowed. “I am still sorry you were hurt.”

Marielle considered. “That is acceptable.”

“Thank you.”

“You may also be sorry about the ducks.”

Serali looked toward the basin. “I am deeply sorry about the ducks.”

“Good.”

Everly held up the card. “We made this.”

Marielle’s expression changed immediately. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“Hagen drew because he draws good.”

“Well,” Hagen said.

Everly ignored him. “And Serali drew one bird badly.”

“Thank you.”

“I fixed it.”

“You made me add eyes.”

“It needed eyes.”

Marielle held out her good hand.

Everly gave her the card. “This is because you got poison stabbed.”

Daravan closed his eyes.

Lia sighed.

Hagen looked at the ceiling.

Serali had already lost this argument once.

Marielle nodded. “A precise summary.”

“Lia says precise is good.”

“Lia is correct about many things.”

Everly pointed toward the basin. “Not ducks.”

“Not ducks.”

Marielle opened the card.

The apologetic dagger occupied most of the front, beautifully rendered in Hagen’s hand and then substantially altered by Everly, who had given it a bandage, tears, and remorseful eyebrows.

Around it flew seven round shadow birds.

Marielle read aloud. “Sorry your arm got poison stabbed.”

Everly stood straighter.

Marielle’s mouth twitched.

Then she reached Serali’s contribution. “‘Heal first. Engineer later.’”

A small laugh escaped her.

Lia pointed immediately. “Careful.”

“I laughed carefully.”

“You did not.”

“I can try again.”

“No.”

Marielle looked at Serali. “That is excellent.”

“You are offended by its accuracy?”

“Deeply.”

“Then it worked.”

Everly rested one hand carefully on the edge of the mattress. “Cards help.”

Marielle looked down at her. “Yes.”

“I told them.”

“Then you were correct.”

Everly nodded and then leaned closer.

Marielle already knew the birds.

She had helped plan their sequence.

That did not matter.

Apparently their portraits required formal identification.

“This is Danger.”

Everly pointed to the smallest bird, whose enormous eyes made him look less dangerous than alarmed.

Marielle nodded. “The eyebrows are new.”

“He is serious.”

“Clearly.”

“This one is Biscuit.”

“Rounder than usual.”

“Because he likes snacks.”

“Reasonable.”

“This one is Button Two.”

Hagen, who had been inspecting the card over Everly’s shoulder, frowned.

“I was wondering, why is he Button Two?”

Everly looked at him.

“Because Button is the spider.”

“I know that part.”

He pointed toward the stern bird in the corner. “But Verya is also named after someone.”

Everly looked at the bird.

Then toward the ceiling.

She thought about this with the concentration of a jurist reviewing precedent.

Everyone waited.

Finally, she said, “Because that one is Verya Junior.”

Silence.

Then Hagen made a strangled sound.

Serali closed her eyes.

From the doorway: “I beg your pardon?”

No.

Serali opened her eyes again.

Lady Verya stood there with two folders tucked beneath one arm.

Everly turned immediately. “This is Verya Junior.”

Verya looked at the card.

Then at Everly.

Then at Serali.

Serali lifted both hands. “I had no involvement in the naming convention.”

“That is not a denial of involvement generally.”

“I objected repeatedly.”

“Apparently, not effectively.”

Everly turned the card so Verya could see. “She is the serious one.”

The bird was round, dark, and possessed narrow eyes and a straight beak that conveyed profound disappointment in the administrative conduct of everyone around it.

Verya approached.

Serali prepared for judgment.

Verya studied the drawing.

For several seconds.

Then said, “It is the best one.”

Everly beamed.

Hagen laughed outright.

Serali stared at Verya. “You cannot encourage this.”

“I am encouraging artistic accuracy.”

Marielle examined the drawing. “It does look like it knows regulations.”

“Yes,” Verya said. “That is why it is the best one.”

“Verya Junior knows lots of rules,” Everly said.

“Good.”

Hagen put one hand over his heart. “I have rarely been happier.”

Verya handed one of her folders to him. “Council.”

His amusement, if there had been any, vanished.

“Yes.”

“In six minutes.”

Hagen glanced toward the clock. “Seven.”

Verya looked at him.

He reconsidered. “Six.”

A chair scraped in the infirmary proper.

Lia went still. “No.”

Harrek appeared in the doorway.

He had acquired his coat.

This was suspicious, because Serali had seen it folded over the back of a chair well beyond his reach.

The bandage around his head remained.

His expression suggested he considered this sufficient medical compliance.

Lia stared at him. “You are not going to council.”

“I am walking toward council.”

“That is the same thing.”

“No. One describes destination. The other intent.”

Verya said, “That distinction will not survive review.”

Harrek looked disappointed.

Daravan folded his arms. “You were told to rest.”

“I rested.”

“For how long?”

Harrek considered. “Some.”

Lia made a noise Serali had previously heard only when discussing battlefield surgeons with poor hygiene.

Marielle pushed herself higher against the pillows. “If Harrek can attend, I can attend.”

“No,” Lia said.

“I could sit for at least a few minutes.”

“No.”

“I have relevant information.”

“Give it to Serali.”

Marielle looked at Serali.

Serali lifted an eyebrow.

Marielle turned towards Verya, “Verya?”

“No.”

“Hagen?”

“I value my life.”

“Daravan?”

“No.”

Marielle fell back against the pillows. “This government is hostile to technical expertise.”

“This government,” Verya said, “would like its engineer conscious tomorrow.”

“That seems unnecessarily long-term.”

Harrek began edging toward the corridor.

Lia pointed at him without looking. “Do not.”

He stopped.

Daravan checked the clock. “We need to go.”

Lia looked between him and Harrek.

Then at the remaining patients.

Then back at Harrek. “Fine.”

Harrek straightened.

“You sit through council.”

“I generally do.”

“You do not stand suddenly. You do not read while walking. You do not go anywhere afterward except bed.”

Harrek opened his mouth.

“No.”

He closed it.

Progress.

Everly looked at Serali. “Can I stay?”

Serali glanced at Lia.

“For a few minutes,” Lia said. “Quietly.”

“I can be quiet.”

Every adult in the room looked at her.

Everly frowned. “I can.”

Lia pointed to an apprentice. “Find Lessa. Tell her Her Highness is here and may remain until she arrives.”

The apprentice nodded and disappeared.

Serali looked toward Everly. “You are certain?”

Everly had already reclaimed the card and was explaining to Marielle that Biscuit’s left wing was different from Pip’s because Biscuit turned faster.

“Yes.”

Marielle said, “I am heavily supervised.”

“That is true,” Daravan said.

Marielle pointed toward him. “Do not sound pleased.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Serali followed Hagen toward the door.

Verya fell into step beside them.

Harrek slipped past Lia before she could reconsider.

Daravan waited until he was safely in the corridor, then joined them.

Behind Serali, Everly said, “Verya Junior flies in the middle because she is responsible.”

Verya paused.

Hagen nearly walked into her.

Serali looked at her.

Verya looked toward the ceiling.

Then resumed walking.

Hagen leaned toward Serali.

“Verya Junior.”

Serali elbowed him.

Council waited.