Caveat emptor

61

The bathhouse was full of stuffed animals and slaves to digestion, and the masseur was tightening an iron band around Ruso’s forehead. He lifted one arm to push the man away, but the stone weighing down his stomach was too heavy. It hurt to move his head. He was too tired to complain.

Beside him, something stirred and muttered. A voice somewhere at the back of his mind said that this was not right. There was no masseur, just the aching head. This was not the bathhouse. He was lying in his bed at the mansio. He had eaten and drunk too much, too late at night, and the body beside him was his wife.

His skin prickled with sweat. The sheets were sticking to him. He was short of breath. He kicked off the covers, flinging them over onto Tilla, who hated to be woken by a cold draft. He lay on his back in the darkness with one arm and one leg trailing over the edge of the bed, trying to cool off.

There was no light around the shutters. It must still be the middle of the night. Wincing as the pain throbbed behind his temples, he rolled over to grope for the cup of water he had left beside the bed. As he drank he noticed a faint red glow in the corner. It must be the reflection of…

It couldn’t be. There were no reflections in the dark.

He rubbed his eyes and opened them again. The red glow was still there. He could pick out a black curve beneath it. The lip of the brazier. That was why he was so hot. He closed his eyes, wishing someone would come and move it. Or open the window.

He swung his feet down onto the floor and stumbled across to where the window should be, but he must be still dreaming. Instead of a window he found himself fighting with a tangle of blanket that seemed to have draped itself between him and the latch. Finally lifting it out of the way, he managed to unfasten the shutters. Cool air wafted across his face and down over his bare feet. He took a couple of deep breaths. He could see the shape of the flowerbeds and the outline of the roof opposite. There was a lantern burning over by the door to the reception area. He was not dreaming.

A brazier? In the bedroom?

“Tilla!” He ran to the bed, colliding with some piece of furniture and kicking it out of the way. “Wake up!” He flung back the covers and hauled her out of bed. His head was thumping. She was muttering in protest. Struggling. That was good. That was definitely good.

“Wake up,” he urged, dragging her across to the window.

She was mumbling something in British.

“Breathe,” he urged, holding her up to the fresh air. “Deep breaths.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Breathe.” He was shaking her now. “Breathe in!”

“I am breathing! Get off!”

He loosened his grip. “Did you order some heating?”

“What?”

“Stay by the window.” He filled his lungs with fresh air before searching for a taper, and again before leaving the window to light the lamp. When he had satisfied himself that they were alone in the rooms, he said, “Did you ask the staff to put coals in the brazier?”

She shuddered. “Someone has been in here while we were sleeping?”

Would fumes work faster in a smaller body? “Keep taking deep breaths.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her back toward the open window. “Do you feel sick?”

“A little. But I felt sick anyway after all that food.”

She was answering questions sensibly. That was good too.

He opened the doors wide, then wrapped his hands in the blanket and carried the brazier out to discharge its poison harmlessly into the night air.

Yellow light spilled onto the walkway from the reception door. The shape of the night porter appeared. “Everything all right, sir?”

“No,” said Ruso. “No, it’s not. Somebody’s just snuck in and tried to kill us.”