Chapter 107

No, something was wrong. The thought struck me, piercing through my concussive haze. Harold should be here. There was no way he could have missed the blow I took, the way I went down. If he had been in the crowd, that is? But of course, he would be in the crowd. He had said he'd been attending. I think my reaction was compounded by my fear for my father. Already, one of the figures of paternity and security, however loosely that described my father, was shrouded in a dangerous mystery. The simple absence of Harold, arguably the only other loved one in my life, was enough to set my heart racing.

I looked around urgently. The crowd had dispersed, Lance was gone, and most of the other competitors had departed. Katya saw my suddenly darting eyes and said, "Tiberius, what's wrong? Is it your head? Are you feeling okay?"

I mumbled, "I'm feeling fucking terrible, I can hardly see."

Lauren said, "What's got you so worked up all of a sudden?"

I said, "I can't see Harold!" The way it came out focused their attention—there was a strange, unearned fringe of panic to my voice.

Olaf said, "Who's Harold, your servant?"

I nodded vigorously, the head movement setting off a violent headache. I staggered back, knees weak, and wretched emptily.

Lauren said, "You should go to the hospital, get checked out."

I rasped, between retches, "No, Harold should be here, why isn't he here?"

Lauren huffed, then spoke reassuringly, "It is hard to find good help, Tiberius. Don't worry, he'll be along."

I tried to straighten myself, Olaf lending me his bruised shoulder to help me. I said, "No, you don't understand, he should be here. I'm not annoyed at him; I'm worried." I nearly said, I love him. But I kept that from pouring out. What could have happened to him? In the city, he was safe. Why wasn't he here? If something had happened to Father, I wouldn't be able to bear losing Harold as well.

Katya leaned in, taking my gaze with hers, talking to me in that direct and captivating way she had. "Tiberius, listen, in less than 48 hours you will face Lance for the suit, the last round. You need to get yourself fixed. Lauren and I will take you to the hospital now."

I grabbed her shoulder, not thinking if I was stepping over a line of decency. Just as earnestly, I said, "No! I need to go home. I need to see if Harold is alright."

Katya held my stare for a moment; I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She exchanged a glance with Lauren. For a drunken moment, my haze led me to wonder when they had gotten quite so chummy. Then I barely perceived Lauren nodding at Katya.

Katya said, "Alright, we'll take you home to see your servant, but once everything is alright, you must promise to let us take you to the hospital."

I gasped, "Fine! Fine!"

Lauren looked to Olaf. "Would you mind helping him outside to my carriage?"

Olaf said nothing, just nodded and started guiding me toward the exit.

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As we moved into the evening air, overcast but bright and warm enough, I wondered if I was making a fool of myself. So Harold hadn't shown up? So what? He had never met me after a round; he had always been waiting at home for me. Maybe he had simply missed the extent of my injury and was waiting for me. Perhaps Father had returned, and Harold had needed to tend to him before the round ended.

I wondered how much the addling of my brain was affecting me. My cheeks burned a little, embarrassed to be making a show of myself in front of the two beauties and the stoic sentinel that was Olaf. But despite all of that, I couldn't quench the anxiety in my gut.

Zeb appeared from the crowd. He made no move relieve Olaf of his burden. That wouldn't be his way. He always preferred his hands free if possible.

Flatly, Zeb just said, "You're not dead. Good."

As I wavered down the steps, only Olaf's strength kept me from tumbling. I could see Lauren's carriage waiting below. She and Katya moved ahead of us, and as we approached, I heard the coachman say, a little uncertainly, "Are we bringing guests back to the estate, m'lady?"

Lauren replied, "No, we're going to take a little trip into town before we return home."

The coachman said, "Oh aye, to celebrate the flow? It was well earned, m'lady. Your parents will be proud."

Lauren hesitated, then said, "Whatever we do, our next stop will be a house call."

I grew a little faint after descending the steps. Maybe that medic had really been hoping I'd die of a brain bleed and leave Lance the Sword by default. Whatever the case, the next minutes were a garbled blur. I recall some confusion in the carriage about where my house was actually located. Lauren said, "Just head toward the Tower; I know he lives in the best part of town."

Katya chimed in, "I know his house."

The next minutes were an agony of pain and a fogging brain. My thoughts cycled round and round. I was being ridiculous, making a fool of myself in front of Lauren and Katya, who had somehow found the kindness in themselves to forgive me for how I treated them atop the tower. It took me a long moment to realize that Olaf was in the carriage as well. What was he doing here? Then the wheels began to slow, the individual bumps of the cobblestones becoming perceptible as the carriage came to a stop. I straightened up and made for the door.

"Not so fast!" Katya caught my arm, holding me steady while Olaf got out and helped me down the steps. He continued to brace me as I made my way down the path to the front door of my father's house. Through the strange, drunken haze, I remembered how I always called it that—always thought of it that way. Not my house. Not my home. My father's house.

A brief flicker of wonder pierced through the haze and worry: Would I have my own house soon? Would I be a Griid-lord and have wealth of my own? Then the door consumed my vision. I can still see my hand reaching out, the free hand, the one not draped over Olaf's shoulder. I can see my fist striking the door. I remember the worry, the anxiety, the certainty that there would be no answer—that Harold had died at the hands of a cutthroat or had fallen down the stairs, or... or...

Then the door peeled open, revealing a familiar face on the other side. I had never felt such relief to see those deep wrinkles, those oddly warm eyes in that otherwise emotionless face. I breathed, "Harold!"

His eyes darted over me, then Olaf, taking in my state. His expression metamorphosed through several versions: concern, guilt, shame. But then it settled back into the expression that had first greeted me—grief.

He said, "Young master, what have I done? I neglected you!"

I waved him off, saying, "You're alright."

He replied, "But of course I am."

I asked, "Why weren't you there, after the round?"

His eyebrows furrowed with pain, and he looked at me silently for a moment. I saw a sheen in his eyes, and I understood. My chest lurched as I sensed what he was going to say. Using every ounce and reserve of dignity he had, he found a way to contain his distress. But even then, his lip quivered as he said, "It's your father."