"Cahir! What are you doing still in bed?" an imperious voice screeches, the jarring sound cutting through his sleep-foggy brain. He sits up with a start and, from bleary eyes, stares at the enraged figure standing at the foot of his cot. Shit, Madam Livilla, the bossy woman who runs this madhouse. Cahir is aware that she hates his guts, has hated him from the very beginning as she had requested a competent and highly motivated helper with lots of experience with children, preferably a female one. And who did they send her? A disgraced male ex-general whose blatant shortage of motivation, dedication and talent is only topped by his total lack of experience whatsoever with those pests that are dumped on the kindergarten's doorsteps every morning so the parents would not have to endure the presence of their insufferable offspring.
"The kids will be here within the minute! You haven't been drinking, have you?" she goes on screeching so loudly that Cahir has to cover his ears with both his hands and suppress a groan of agony. Of course, he has been drinking, how else is he supposed to survive this hell on earth? He had a glass of wine or two, maybe three the previous evening, like the evenings before. But his head feels far worse than it should even if he did empty the entire bottle by accident. His muscles ache and he feels nauseous almost to the point of wanting to vomit. The woman has not used any dairy products in his dinner? She was not amused when he told her that he gets sick from the stuff and bitched about having more than enough work to do already without having to cater to his extra requests and if he needed a softer pillow, too, or maybe a silken dressing gown or a head-high mirror in his room instead of the sorry excuse for one that is not only laughably small but also so clouded he hardly sees a thing when shaving. He has not complained about his lodgings with a single word so far but he might have given the tiny, darkish room a disdainful glance or two, Cahir must admit. The humble accommodation is a drastic downgrade from what he had at Cintra Castle and not much more comfortable than his prison cell in Aretuza. Yet, the small window is not barred and he is allowed - or rather required - to leave the room to attend to his daytime job. He could even go out in the evening if he wanted to. Perhaps he will visit a tavern one of these days, if he does not feel too knackered after a whole day of the excruciatingly stressful and nerve-recking work. Fuck, he feels like he has aged a hundred years within the last ten days. Ten days in hell, and probably more than ten times that many still to come, possibly a hundred times as many, or more. Gods. He heaves a heavy sigh.
"Are you deaf, boy?" the woman clamours even louder than before. "If you don't get up this instant, I'll complain to the authorities about you! As far as I have heard, you're already in more than enough trouble with the Emperor, aren't you?"
Cahir is out of bed like a bat out of hell. He can definitely not afford to mess this assignment up, no. Madam Livilla knows it, too. Just his shit luck that Emhyr is personally invested in seeing this kindergarten project through and that Madam Livilla's letter begging for additional personnel arrived on the emperor's desk exactly when he was pondering how to punish his wayward commander general. His original idea was, Emhyr told him when he was brought before the White Flame to hear the verdict, to send him north into the wilderness behind enemy lines to raid caravans. It would have been a difficult task and very dangerous, yet so much preferable to this here, and not half as humiliating. And not only because with the assignment in the north he would have been able to use his superior fighting skills, but in addition hardly anyone besides the emperor himself would have taken note of it. Here he has surely been the main subject of the town's gossip since day one of his punishment. After all, pretty much everybody in Vicovaro knows who he is, or rather who he was. Shit, Cahir suddenly feels so dizzy, he has to grab the back of the one chair in the room to steady himself.
"Clean yourself up and get to work!" Madam Livilla commands, ignoring the pitiful condition her subordinate is in. "You're not a count here who can laze around all day and let the commoners do all the chores! You hear me?"
Cahir nods, suppressing another groan. He feels sick. But what can he do besides grit his teeth and do what he is told regardless of the throbbing pain in his head and the nausea? Then he hears the door fall shut. As quickly as he can despite feeling shitty as hell, he washes, dresses and provisionally combs his hair. Shaving will have to wait until tomorrow, he decides. Maybe it is a good thing that the mirror is so cloudy, Cahir wonders briefly. For if he looks as bad as he feels, he might not be too eager to see his face more clearly today. He downs a glass of cold water, then, with a heavy sigh, forces himself to walk to the door to face the horde of little nippers. How he is supposed to get through the day is a mystery to him, though. It is hard enough when he is fit but feeling whacked like after a ten miles race plus a night of heavy drinking, it appears to be an impossible endeavour to get out of this alive and with his sanity mostly intact.
Luckily the weather improves considerably in the course of the morning. After several days of rain, the sun is shining down warmly from an almost cloudless sky when, a couple of horrible hours later, they finish their lunch. In contrast to the weather, Cahir's condition does not show any signs of betterment, though, the contrary. He feels so dead on his feet by now, sweaty, dizzy and weak, he just so manages to order the kids to go outside to play hide-and-seek in the garden while he flops down on the bench to supervise them. Or to pretend to supervise them. With his eyes closed. Hoping they will for once not do anything too stupid and leave him alone in his misery.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Are you totally off your rocker, boy? Sleeping on the job while all kinds of accidents could happen to your wards?" The screeching voice again, this time like through a thick layer of mist. Cahir sits up, blinking at Madam Livilla groggily. Then his stomach turns. Holding his midriff, he leans over with a groan and almost throws up on his superior's feet. If he had eaten anything, it would have been a pretty mess. Fortunately, he has not had any food all morning.
"Cahir! Are you still drunk?" Madam Livilla asks when he is done retching up bile and gastric fluid but her voice is beginning to sound a little uncertain.
Cahir does not answer. The world is spinning too much. Now there is not only the stern supervisor but a dozen swirling, blurry, snot-nosed faces surrounding him, staring at him. With a groan, he closes his eyes. Let the little brats stare. He could not care less about anything at the moment, all he wants is sleep.
"Cahir?" Suddenly he can feel a cool hand on his forehead. "You're feverish! Holy mother, why didn't you say that you're sick? Stupid boy," Madam Livilla chides, but this time there is none of the usual venom in her voice. She almost sounds a bit worried. Or is he hallucinating? She would not worry about him, would she?
"Children, make space!" he hears her order through the fog in his aching head. "And be quiet! I'll be back in a minute! And you," she turns back to Cahir who is more than half asleep already, "you pull yourself together and go to bed. You can't be sick here with all the children around. It might be contagious."
Bed sounds good, he should have stayed there in the first place and to hell with Madam Livilla and the kids, even with the emperor. With a tired grunt, Cahir struggles to his feet. And almost collapses, his legs turning into jelly. Luckily, his boss grabs him just in time and keeps him from falling.
"No, no, don't you faint on me, boy! Do you hear me?" she chides. "I thought you were a soldier. Man up and hold onto my shoulder. Yes, like this. You can sleep in a minute, " she adds and steers him toward the door. Leaning heavily onto the woman and mustering the last vestiges of strength, Cahir manages to get to his room. He collapses onto his cot with a moan and goes out like a light, not noticing Madam Livilla taking his boots off and tucking him in, her brow knitted with worry. Well, even if he had noticed it, he would probably not have believed his eyes anyway.
Dog-tired, Cahir sleeps all afternoon and only wakes up when someone shakes him by his shoulder and calls his name repeatedly. He blinks his eyes open. It is nicely quiet and the light in his room is dimmed. Is it evening already and the kids are gone? Yet, he is still tired, no less so than before, and cold. Dastardly cold. He shudders and his teeth begin to chatter.
"Here, Cahir, drink this." A supportive arm sneaks behind his back and helps him sit up a little so he can take a few sips of the tea from the cup Madam Livilla is holding to his lips. Miraculously, she sounds much like he remembers his mother's voice from long, long ago, from before the Usurper destroyed his family. He must be delirious. Or dying. Well, if he is dying, at least he will not have to wipe any more kids' noses, or buts. Dying does not sound that bad, come to think of it.
"No, you stay awake and drink it all up, Cahir, that's an order!" Madam Livilla commands when he closes not only his eyes but also his mouth, ready to fall asleep again the very instant. So, even though his eyelids feel as heavy as lead and simple swallowing seems too strenuous a task and beyond his capabilities at the moment, Cahir complies. Because an order is an order.
"Good boy, now I'll let you sleep," Livilla promises when the cup is empty. She removes her arm and lets Cahir sink back onto the pancake flat thing that pretends to be a pillow. "See to that you're better in the morning," she adds. "I can't look after all those kids all on my own."
Right, the morning, with all those persistent pestering pests. Cahir shudders once more, whether from the fever chills or the thought of what awaits him again, and then again and again like caught in a never-ending, terrifying time loop, he does not know and does not care. He turns toward the wall with a grunt that is neither a yes nor a no and, shivering, pulls the threadbare blanket up over his ears. Maybe he will just die tonight and get it over with. Not exactly the end he has hoped for but an effective end to his misery nevertheless.