Penric and the Shaman (Penric & Desdemona Book 2) by Lois McMaster Bujold Page B

social dilemma: Learned Penric obviously had to be offered the best bedchamber, but Inglis perforce must accompany him there, Oswyl wanted to keep a close eye on both, and the dogs would not be parted from the prisoner. Gossa almost drew the line at the dogs, but Penric charmed her into a reprieve, promising her they would not leave fleas in her beds.
    Oswyl pulled Penric aside on the staircase. “Do you think he could control those dogs? They could prove as much a weapon as his knife.”
    “I suspect the dogs may have their own design. Or someone’s design,” Penric returned in matching quiet tones. Earlier, he had tied the thongs of the knife sheath around his neck and tucked the knife out of sight in his shirt; he now touched his chest. “And Gossa has bigger knives in her kitchen. This is a hostage, not a weapon.”
    “Do you think Inglis may attempt escape? He claims to have lost his shamanic powers, but he could be lying.”
    “Or mistaken,” murmured Penric. “Or have mislaid them. I’m rather counting on mislaid, but we’ll have to see. Anyway, with that bad leg of his we could catch him at a leisurely stroll.”
    “Unless he steals a horse.”
    A weird little smile turned Penric’s lips. “I think such a ride could prove strangely unlucky for him. Don’t fret yourself, Oswyl. He may be the best-guarded prisoner you’ve ever taken.”
    Penric sounded a bit full of himself on this point to Oswyl’s ear, but there were also the three temple guardsmen now being variously distributed with bedrolls between their room and the doors. And the shaman was plainly exhausted. The real danger might well come later, as he regained strength and balance. Oswyl shook his head and followed Penric up the stairs.
    Although the bedchamber to which Gossa conducted them was a tidy-enough refuge, no room in this house was spacious. Now containing a washstand, wardrobe, bed, pulled-out trundle bed, bedroll, three men and two large dogs, it seemed even smaller. Gossa handed Oswyl the taper, pointed out the brace of candles on the washstand, bade them goodnight, and shut the door upon them. Oswyl improved the lighting somewhat when he lit the candles, although not the smell, as they were tallow.
    Penric politely yielded first turn at the washstand to Oswyl. The prisoner came a pointed third. The sorcerer, who moved like a cat in the shadows, also preempted Oswyl’s intent to assign beds by plumping himself down on the trundle, and the dogs capped it by nosing Inglis to the bedroll and disposing themselves to either side of it. Inglis lowered himself awkwardly, with a pained grunt. Oswyl would have put the sorcerer on the floor in front of the door, and the prisoner between them.
    “So, Inglis,” Penric began. “I am something of a physician, although not presently sworn to practice. I think I might do a little for that leg of yours, if you’ll let me have a look at it.”
    “Is that wise?” asked Oswyl, startled. To him, Inglis’s injury had seemed as good as a leg-iron.
    “Oh, yes,” said Penric cheerily. “We’ve destroyed enough fleas in this household to balance a week of healing.” He glanced at Inglis, made a brief wave of his hand, and added, “And lice.”
    Inglis, sounding stung, said, “I slept in some vile inns. And I haven’t had a chance to bathe properly for a month.”
    All right, he sleeps on the floor , Oswyl revised his plan. And then wondered if Penric had misunderstood him deliberately.
    Inglis scrubbed a hand through his ragged hair, then swallowed a startled oath. In this light Oswyl couldn’t see the rain of dead bugs, but he could hear the faint patter as they hit the floorboards.
    Fluidly, Penric slipped to Inglis’s right side, shoved Blood out of the way, and sat cross-legged. Inglis eyed him in doubt, but did not object, though he winced when Pen rolled up his trouser leg. The limb was impressively empurpled and swollen. The sorcerer hummed tunelessly to himself as he ran his hands