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Arent nodded.
"Can you do it painlessly?"
Arent nodded again, earning a small smile of gratitude.
"I regret I have not the fortitude to do it myself," she said.
Arent pushed through the whispering circle of observers toward one of the musketeers guarding Sammy, gesturing for his sword. Numb with horror, the young soldier unsheathed it without protest.
"Arent," said Sammy, calling his friend closer. "Did you say the leper had no tongue?"
"Cut out," confirmed Arent. "A while back, I reckon."
"Bring me Sara Wessel when you're finished," he said, troubled. "This matter requires our attention."
As Arent returned with the sword, Sara knelt by the stricken leper, reaching to take his hand before remembering herself. "I have not the art to heal you," she admitted gently. "But I can offer you a painless escape, if you'd have it?"
Stricken, the leper's mouth worked, producing only moans. Tears forming in his eyes, he nodded.
"I'll stay with you." She looked over her shoulder at the young girl peering at them from inside the palanquin. "Lia, join me, if you please," said Sara, holding out a hand to her.
Lia climbed down from the palanquin. She was no more than twelve or thirteen, already long limbed, her dress sitting awkwardly, like a skin she hadn't managed to quite wriggle out of.
A great rustling greeted her as the procession shifted to take her in.
Arent was among those curious onlookers. Unlike her mother, who visited the church each evening, Lia was rarely seen outdoors. It was rumored her father kept her hidden out of shame, but as Arent watched her walk hesitantly toward the leper, it was difficult to know what that shame could be. She was a pretty girl, if uncommonly pale, like she'd been spun from shadows and moonlight.
As Lia drew closer, Sara flicked a nervous glance at her husband, who was sitting rigid on his horse, his jaw moving slightly as he ground his teeth. Arent knew this was as close to fury as he'd come in public. By the twitching of his face, it was obvious he wanted to call them back into the palanquin, but the curse of authority was that you could never admit to losing it.
Lia arrived by her mother's side, and Sara squeezed her hand reassuringly.
"This man is in pain," she said in a soft voice. "He's suffering, and Lieutenant Hayes here is going to end that suffering. Can you understand that?"
The girl's eyes were wide, but she nodded meekly. "Yes, Mama," she said.
"Good," said Sara. "He's very afraid, and this isn't something he should face alone. We will stand vigil; we will offer him our courage. You mustn't look away."
From around his neck, the leper painfully withdrew a small, charred piece of wood, the edges jagged. He pressed it to his breast, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Whenever you're ready," she said to Arent, who immediately rammed the blade through the leper's heart. The leper arched his back, going rigid. Then he went limp, blood seeping out from underneath him. It was glossy in the sunlight, reflecting the three figures standing over the body.
The girl gripped her mother's hand tightly, but her courage didn't falter.
"Well done, my love," said Sara, stroking her freckled cheek. "I know that was unpleasant, but you were very brave."
As Arent cleaned the blade on a sack of oats, Sara tugged one of the jeweled pins from her hair, a red curl springing loose.
"For your trouble," she said, offering it to him.
"Ain't kindness if you have to pay for it," he responded, leaving it sparkling in her hand as he returned the sword to the soldier.
Surprise mingled with confusion on her face, her gaze lingering on him a moment. As if wary of being caught in such naked observation, she hurriedly summoned two stevedores who'd been sitting on a pile of tattered sailcloth.
They leaped up as if stung, tugging a lock of hair when they were near enough.
Excerpted from The Devil and the Dark Water by Stuart Turton . Copyright © 2020 by Stuart Turton . Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks Landmark. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Dictators ride to and fro on tigers from which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.
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