River-Gravel in the Throat

A smothered rattling came down the spiral stair from the Level 4 bunks, rhythmic and choked, like a pig drowning in tallow. Tamsin Lowery hitched her heavy coarse-linen apron tighter, picked up her horn lantern and bone marrow forceps, and took the stone steps two at a time. If the dampness from the breached meal casks had reached the sleeping watch, she needed to catch the fever before Corporal Gable heard a single cough and threw the barracks into a mutiny.

The upper chamber smelled of sour sweat, unwashed greaves, and river mud drying on wool. Six pallet beds were wedged against the circular limestone wall beneath the narrow embrasures. In the corner bunk, archer Halen lay thrashing under a horsehair blanket. His elbows thumped against the floorflags in rigid, spasmodic bursts. His head was thrown back against the bolster, neck cords standing out like greased rope, his purple jaw clamped shut so tight his molars ground against each other with a dry, ceramic screech.

Two pallets over, sentry Corve was shivering under his cloak, his chest heaving without pulling in air. The other off-duty bowmen were still down in the mess or standing watch on the high parapet, leaving the vault hollow except for the scrape of boots and the whistling wheeze in Halen's pipe.

Tamsin set the horn lantern on the stool, knelt on the cold stone, and pinned Halen's thrashing shoulder down with her knee.

"Open your teeth, Halen," she said.

His eyes were rolled back beneath slick white lids. A thin bubble of yellow froth broke on his lower lip, smelling faintly of marsh reeds and pond scum. He was choking on his own throat, suffocating in a dry bed thirty feet above the torrent.

Tamsin did not waste time coaxing him. She pulled the carved horn spoon from her apron pocket, jammed the flat tip between his back grinders, and leaned her weight across the lever. Halen's jaw shuddered. The horn bent, groaned, and popped past his clenched teeth.

"Gable claims you lads never shut your mouths when you sleep," she muttered through her teeth, wedging the spoon sideways to hold the gap. "Trust an archer to swallow his tongue the first night we lose the bridge."

She brought the candle closer. Inside his mouth, Halen's tongue was swollen to the size of a beef heart, mottled grey and pushed flat against his palate. Beneath the spongy purple muscle, tucked into the dark pocket behind his tonsils, sat an obstruction.

It was not a knot of phlegm or a wad of bread.

The smooth black curvature caught the lantern light with an oily sheen.

Tamsin reached into her pocket with her free hand, gripped the bone marrow forceps, and slid the narrow prongs past the horn spoon. The metal teeth of the forceps touched stone. The contact rang sharp through the bone grip, a clean, dense click that vibrated into her knuckles.

Halen's body arched off the mattress. His fingers clawed into the hem of her skirts, his heels drumming violently on the flags.

Tamsin braced her forearm against his collarbone, seated the forceps jaws around the round belly of the object, and twisted her wrist to clear the soft palate. The suction broke with a wet pop. She drew the forceps back across his teeth, dragging the thing free into the candle glow.

It was a river pebble.

The stone was the size of a pigeon egg, a teardrop of dense black basalt worn completely smooth by centuries of gravel scour. It did not carry blood or bile. Clear, sweet river water pooled in the palm of her hand as she dropped the forceps and took the stone between her calloused fingers.

The moment the stone cleared his gullet, Halen let out a long, ragged gasp. He rolled onto his side, his ribs heaving as air rushed down his starved throat, coughing up ribbons of pale froth that soaked the horsehair ticking.

Tamsin did not wait for him to speak. She wiped her fingers on her apron, grabbed the horn spoon, and crossed the room to Corve's bunk.

The younger archer was limp, his lips turned dark plum, his fingertips blue where they dug into his palms. His jaw was locked with the same deathly tetanus. Tamsin levered his teeth apart with the horn, pressed the flat of the spoon down against his swollen tongue, and reached in with the bone forceps.

The second stone came out with the same slick, hollow sucking sound.

It was identical to the first: black, oval, polished to a dull satin finish by cataracts sixty fathoms deep. Cold radiated from the basalt into her palm, chilling her skin down to the bone despite the stifling humidity of the vault.

She stood in the center of the barracks floor, holding the two pebbles under the tallow light.

The water should have evaporated in the draft from the arrow slits. Instead, moisture continued to bead on the glossy black surfaces, dripping through the cracks between her fingers and spattering against the dry stones of the floor.

Tamsin took a tallow candle from the lantern cage and held the direct flame against the larger pebble.

The yellow tongue of fire licked the dark mineral. The tallow soot blackened the curve, but the basalt did not warm. Droplets of icy moisture boiled off only to be instantly replaced by fresh beads of clear water weeping out of the microscopic pores of the rock. It was sweating against the heat, drinking the flame and spitting river moisture back into the smoke.

She tucked both stones into her apron pocket alongside the living clam she had taken from the flour cask. The cold weight pulled at the linen waist tie, dragging at her hip like ballast.

Behind her, Halen moved.

The archer hauled himself up against the limestone wall. His eyes were wide and milky, staring straight ahead at the dark arrow slit rather than at Tamsin. The purple discoloration had drained from his lips, replaced by an unnatural, bloodless calm. His posture held no trace of the convulsions that had nearly cracked his ribs moments earlier.

Tamsin stepped to the edge of the pallet, her bone forceps ready in her right hand.

"Lie back down, Halen," she said. "You're coughing up river slime. Drink the vinegar wash from the jug on the washstand."

The archer turned his head toward her. His movement was smooth, steady, and horribly slow. His fingers reached out and closed around her wrist, his grip ice-cold and damp, like waterlogged spruce.

"She doesn't want the vinegar, Mistress Lowery," Halen said. His voice was soft, devoid of terror, vibrating with the calm cadence of someone reporting a changing watch. "She gave us the weight for our tongues so we wouldn't scream when the bed goes under."

Tamsin pulled against his grip, but his fingers remained clamped around her wrist like an iron shackle.

"Let go of my arm, Halen."

"She asked for her groom," Halen whispered, staring right into her face with clear, unblinking grey eyes. "One living man to walk down the water stairs before the third bell rings from the parapet. If nobody goes down to take her hand, the floorflags under our boots turn to silt."

From the winding stairs above them, the bronze hammer of the high windlass clock began to click into gear for the midnight chime.