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“Remind me again why I don’t just go get Aunt Eleni for this?” Rispah said with annoyance, even as she went to get the herbs and bandages to dress her cousin’s wound. She didn’t think George would need a sling, but this was why she had wanted him to see Aunt Eleni.
George was holding pressure on the wound, cutting off his ability to use his typical hand gestures when he spoke. “Because she won’t approve! You know it, I know it, the whole world knows it. I don’t even know Ma would heal this for me.”
“It’d serve you right for letting yourself get stabbed like that,” Rispah said, “but I think you know Aunt Eleni wouldn’t leave you alone with something like this. My Ma wouldn’t refuse to treat you and she thinks you’re a bleeding idiot, wanting to be Rogue so young.”
George stuck out his tongue in reply at the pun. “I also want to keep Ma out of it. Not just because she doesn’t approve, but to keep her safe.”
Rispah stilled her hands, afraid that she’d be tempted to poke George’s stab wound. “Nobody goes after healers, George. You know that’s not the way of the Rogue.”
“Can you look me in the eye and say that none of Ol’ Mack’s people would go after the healer his rival sees?” George said flatly, knowing Rispah could do no such thing, despite being a fine liar. He sighed. “Plus there’s her ability to heal people not part of the Rogue. You know she’s been able to see some better folks. They’ll stop comin’ around if I roll up with my stab wounds and suchlike and you know it. I want Ma to be able to get a nice house. Be safe.”
Rispah didn’t reply, focused on holding pressure on George’s wound. He’d only been stabbed in the shoulder, and it didn’t even seem too deep. She finished wrapping the wound tightly to make sure the bleeding stopped. “I don’t blame you there,” she said softly, “but I do think you should see a healer, at least to make sure there’s no chance of infection. My Ma’s good enough for that, and she’s already part of the Rogue.”
“What does Aunt Nerys think about you being part of the Rogue?” George asked. He’d never really thought to ask before, but getting stabbed had a way of making you sort out your priorities. And, Black God forgive him, it could just have easily been Rispah that got stabbed today as him, and she was enough shorter than him that it wouldn’t have been her shoulder—it’d have been her neck. He’d have had to go to Ma, and hope he got her there in time.
Rispah shrugged. “It’s a way to make a living. She doesn’t like that I’m looking at branching out into flower selling, but she understands. Says it’s safer and more dangerous than findin’ a husband. Da likes it less, but he can piss off.”
George snorted at that—Uncle Nils was a good-for-nothing drunk and George didn’t think even his Ma would mourn her brother when he passed. Goddess knew the rest of Ma’s family wouldn’t. (They wouldn’t mourn Ma either. George tried not to be too bitter about that.) But George had seen too many women seeking protection from their husbands in the Court of the Rogue to not understand what Rispah meant by that. Not that Ol’ Mack would give those women any sort of protection. He’d seen too many flower sellers roughed up to not understand the dangers, too. Mack didn’t do much to protect them either, and they were a proper part of his Court. Neither were the actions of a proper Rogue, and it was the better part of why George intended to challenge, even though he’d be only sixteen come midsummer. He’d have to get better with his knives first, though. And let his shoulder heal. Or just hope he got lucky—Mack wasn’t known as “The Knife” for no reason, for all that he’d been the Rogue for near on twenty years now and had slowed down significantly.
George thought he had enough support to survive, if his challenge was successful. He had swayed a lot of the women of the Court by being just willing to listen to them and their problems. The fact that he had helped one or two remove an abusive husband or lover made them understand that his concern for them was genuine. It didn’t hurt that Rispah was well-known and well-liked, even though she was younger than him. And he had helped make sure that the flower-sellers had pregnancy charms, courtesy of his Ma and Aunt Nerys. The men of the Court were less keen on him, but plenty of them were sick of Ol’ Mack. The problem with them was that too many of them had ideas of becoming Rogue themselves, and George knew he’d present a more tempting target than the current Rogue with his youth and the likelihood that he’d be wounded by Mack during his challenge. But George had won over Solom, who would ensure nobody snuck into the Rogue’s chambers to slit George’s throat, at least.
George was yanked out of his musing by the sting of Rispah cleaning his wound with alcohol. “Fuck! That burns.”
“Oh stop it, you big baby. You know it needs to get cleaned,” Rispah replied.
“You could have warned me,” George said, whining slightly, because he could, with Rispah. And because it really did burn.
Rispah rolled her eyes. “So you could jerk away and have me spill this? That’s alcohol abuse!”
George rolled his eyes back at his cousin over the overdone joke, turning serious. “Rispah, do you think I’m ready?”
She eyed him dubiously. “Well not with this hole in your shoulder you’re not.”
George scoffed. “Obviously. But after it’s healed? You know as well as I that summer is a better time to challenge than winter—better to get everything in order for the winter. Because you know the Knife won’t have worried too much about making sure we’re all fed. And I’m not sure someone won’t beat me to it if I wait til next year.”
Rispah looked away, not meeting George’s eyes as she instead grabbed bandages. “I don’t know Georgie-boy. I want to tell you yes, but I’m still afraid you might be throwing your life away for nothin ’. I think you can win. But I don’t know if you will.”
“And you don't want to explain my corpse to Ma?” George said, trying to crack a grin.
“I don’t want to bury you y’fool! But if this winter’s as bad as the last…well, I don’t want to be burying everyone who staved because our ruler can’t do his pox-ridden job neither.”
George nodded grimly in agreement. “That’s my reckonin too. We’ll just have to plan it out. Hope for the best. Maybe even pray.”
Later, when George’s prayers had been answered , he would find that he regretted saying that. Probably not as much as he would have regretted dying, but it came close.