Thirty-nine

The next morning when Bane accompanied Doctor Assad on his rounds, he found little desire to talk and concentration difficult to achieve. If the doctor noticed, he did not comment. Bane, though even more sore than yesterday, refused any of Assad's painkillers. Once back in his cell he lacked motivation to do anything but return to his charpoy, saying nothing to Melisande who was busy with her work on the baby blanket. In time he drifted off.

When he awoke it was close to evening, the light from the shaft struggling to survive. He remembered his closer view of the sky yesterday, so tempting, so seductive, but in the end crueler than ever before. A deeper melancholy settled upon him.

"Hans stopped by to see you," Melisande said. "He wanted to know how you are."

Bane slowly sat up, stiff and uncomfortable.

Gola came scraping along the cell block on his makeshift crutches and scowled at him as he passed.

Melisande persisted. "How is your shoulder?"

"Fine," he mumbled, staring at his cold brazier. Normally the stepwell would be calling to him by now, but today he had no desire to go there, not even to wash. Melisande had some items for him to launder, he knew. Tomorrow, he told himself. After all, what difference would one more day make?

Absently he stared at his fingernails, torn and ragged from the climb. As his thoughts drifted back to yesterday, he discovered that the experience had sewn a seed of fear. The realization shook him, made him wonder if he could ever make a second attempt. Surely not now; he would only have the same results. No, he needed to be older, stronger, just as he had always said before Melisande's arrival. Now, having tried too early and failed, would the terror left behind keep him always here? Had the fall stolen his courage as well as his resolve? Unable to find the answer, he shivered and drew his blanket around him.

Again Melisande tried to engage him, conjuring lightness in her voice. "Shall we read aloud tonight, Bane?"

His gaze remained on the brazier, and he thought of Osito, burned to ash. "No," he murmured. "Not tonight." Then he lay back down, his back toward her so she could not see his tears.

###

Bane awoke early the next morning, just as true light stretched down into the shaft and played against the bars at the front of his cell. For a time he watched as the light gradually strengthened, though it could certainly never be considered strong, no matter how bright the world above. The prison produced little sound, only a single distant voice from down one of the corridors and Abrams fixing his breakfast.

Tentative, Bane tested his shoulder. Improvement. With disdain he considered the sling left on the floor before kicking it across his cell when he sat up. His muscles continued to ache, but there was progress there as well, and he would feel better still once the night's cold eased. No doubt activity would help as well.

He dragged one of his blankets around him and stood, shuffled toward the door. With a glance back, he saw that Melisande still slept, her dark cloud of hair wild upon her pillow, her expression peaceful, beautiful. Troubled by thoughts of how he had failed her, he left for the stepwell.

There were three others at the pool when he arrived, but he spoke to no one, ignored their glances. He removed the blanket from around his shoulders, folded it, and sat on it at the edge of the water. After rolling up his pants, he slowly slipped his bare feet and calves into the chilly water. He removed his shemagh, ran a hand over his bristly head. Maybe he would let his hair grow out...but not as long as Melisande's, he thought with the shadow of an amused smile reflected back from the pool. A couple of times a week he would carry water to her so she could wash her hair in a large basin. Sometimes he would watch her, though he did so secretively. Afterwards she would trail her fingers through the long tresses to untangle them, then she would take a comb to it. Once dry she would brush the dark mahogany mane before braiding it and regrettably covering it with her shemagh. Often he wondered what it would feel like to run his fingers through her hair.

Now he looked down into the water, touched the abrasion on his cheek. When he was grown, would women find him attractive? He frowned. If he remained down here, what would it matter? He berated such stupidity and started to wash.

Again his thoughts returned to the failed climb, taking his concentration away from his surroundings. Last night sleep had only come in fits and starts. In dreams he scaled the shaft again and again, but each time he fell. There was no rope, so he plunged downward in an endless flight into blackness until he awoke flailing, which in turn sent pain radiating through his shoulder. He had inadvertently awoke Melisande once. When she whispered an inquiry, he pretended to have fallen back asleep, feeling guilty even as he did so. After all, his failure was not her fault. She might misconstrue his reticence for blame, and that was not the reason behind his silence at all. Yet how could he explain to her what he felt? It was that confusion that made him diffident.

Something caused Bane to lift his attention from the pool's surface. He realized he had been staring at his reflection for some time, though not really seeing himself. A prisoner across from him was using his shemagh to dry his face, his gaze reaching beyond Bane. Then the man's movements slowed before freezing altogether. Surprise smoothed his forehead, his attention dropped to Bane, and his mouth opened as if about to warn him.

Bane processed the significance of the observer's reaction a split second too late—the blow struck him from behind and sent him face first into the pool. Before he could regain his feet in the chest-deep water, hands pressed against him, one against his head, one against his injured shoulder, keeping him below the surface. Panicked, he struggled, tried to shout, swallowed water and choked, heard muffled voices from above. Then he remembered his knife...

He fumbled the blade from its sheath, but the water robbed him of speed and force as he slashed at his attacker's legs. But it was enough; the prisoner freed him. Bane found his footing and came up swinging, but there was no one within range. Laughter assailed his ears from those around the pool, those except for one man who was walking away, unhurried, wet below the waist, carrying Bane's blanket. He tossed one triumphant glance over his shoulder as he made for the nearest steps.

Omar Alam.

"Stop!" Bane cried, though he knew it was a pointless command. He splashed to the edge of the pool, the knife still in hand. As he struggled to haul himself out of the pool, his shoulder caused him to wince and momentarily flounder, the weight of his wet clothing trying to pull him back.

Alam had already reached the next level by the time Bane gained the steps, but the man appeared in no hurry, confident, smug with his occasional backward glances. The prisoners at the pool called out encouragement to both Alam and Bane. None moved to intervene. Bane slipped a couple of times because of the water streaming from him, bruising his shins against the stone.

Almost to the top of the stepwell, Alam chanced one last look back, grinning. Bane had almost caught up. Alam turned away to make his final push for the top but came to an abrupt halt. The grin fled his face, and he was forced to turn sideways in order to see both Bane's threat from below and the new threat from above.

Surprise momentarily suspended Bane's charge as his eyes jumped to the top of the steps and found Abrams blocking the Arab's path. His arms were crossed against his chest, his gaze hard and unflinching.

"Get out of my way," Alam demanded in heavily-accented English.

"After you give the boy his blanket back."

Bane halted a couple of steps below Alam, the knife thrust before him, though he hoped not to use it, not with memories of the Vulture having recently come back to disturb him. And seeing Abrams step in where he had never done so for anyone before also stayed his hand; he was curious to see exactly how far the man might go.

Alam's head was on a swivel as he tried to determine who was the most likely to attack. Bane was satisfied to see Alam's eyes more often on him. Perhaps it was because of the knife; perhaps it was because he knew Bane had far more motivation than Abrams.

"He stole my blanket," Alam insisted.

"Don't play me for a fool, Omar. I know damn well that blanket was Melisande's."

"So you are protecting the bitch now, too?"

Abrams's eyes darkened, and his hands dropped to his sides. "Give him the blanket or I'll hold you down so he can slice off your balls." He cocked one eyebrow. "Is it really worth all that?"

Alam's jaw muscles clenched, his hands restless upon the blanket. Bane noticed Hans enter the stepwell, two levels below but within clear sight of what was happening. Alam saw him as well, and any resistance or fight remaining in the Arab vanished. With an oath, he wadded the blanket and threw it at Bane. Stoic, Abrams stepped aside, and Alam stormed past, never looking back.

Bane, sheathing his knife, thanked Abrams. He expected the man to say nothing, to simply continue on his way to the pool, but instead he came only as far as where Bane stood, his expression turbulent, making his cleft lip appear almost sinister.

"You're lucky, boy. He could have drowned you."

"Not with so many witnesses."

"Sure, that's why he didn't, but he could have. You can't count on witnesses to keep you alive."

Abrams's transition from accomplice to remonstrator quickly soured Bane's gratitude. He started to turn away, to return to the pool to recover his shemagh, but Abrams stopped him with an iron grip on his left arm. Surprised and angry, Bane tried in vain to shrug him off.

"You've had your head up your ass since you fell yesterday, moping around like a spoiled little girl who just lost her doll. And look what it almost got you—drowned."

Bane tried again to break free. "What do you know?"

"If you can stow your prick attitude for one minute, I'll tell you what I know." He had leaned down so their faces were close. "I know that yesterday you did something most men in here have never even tried to do, something most will never do."

"So what?"

"So, if you plan to stay alive in order to protect Melisande and her baby—"

"Baby?"

"I live twelve feet away from her, Bane. It's not too hard to figure out when she's puking her guts out most mornings." Abrams straightened and freed Bane's arm. "Now, as I was saying…if you have any sense, you'll focus on how far you climbed yesterday, not on how far you fell. If you don't, you won't live long enough to see that baby born. Then what good will you be to Melisande?" He pinned a final displeased look on Bane. "Now you'd better go fetch your shemagh from down below before someone else takes advantage of your sorry state."