Shaman's Crossing (The Soldier Son Trilogy #1)

Shaman's Crossing (The Soldier Son Trilogy #1) Page 207

“There’s not much left. You’re more than halfway there!” I recognized Ordo’s voice.

The chorus of voices encouraged him. I knew he’d do it. Caulder could never withstand the prospect of approval. The boy was going to be horribly sick tomorrow. Served him right.

I wanted to keep walking. But something made me halt and turn a little, to witness this as if I had not seen enough grotesque spectacles for one night. A brief opening in the crowd showed me Caulder standing in their midst, bottle clutched in one hand. He was weaving on his feet. But as I stared, he obediently lifted the bottle’s mouth to his and upended it. His eyes were clenched as if in pain, but I saw his Adam’s apple bob repeatedly. “Down, down, down, down!” the chant rose around him again. And then more people walked between us, obscuring the scene. I started to walk away again. There was a whoop, and a roar of approval from behind me. “That’s a man, Caulder! You’ve done it!” They applauded him but it was followed immediately by derisive laughter. Jaris laughed and cried out, “That’s done it, lads! He won’t be following us anymore tonight! Let’s off to Lady Parra’s. She’ll let us in now that we don’t have the puppy trailing after us.”

All five of them hurried away, jostling through the crowd, whooping and laughing as they went. I didn’t see Caulder among them. He’d probably passed out. It was none of my doing, and I wanted nothing to do with it. I was sure that blame for this would fall on someone tomorrow, and that it wouldn’t be Caulder. The farther away from him I stayed, the better for me. Nonetheless, I found myself pushing back through the clusters of people to the spot where Caulder lay flat on his back on the ground.

His one outflung hand still clutched the bottle’s neck. It was cheap, strong drink, not wine or beer, and I flinched from its harsh stink. Caulder was lying still. His face in the uneven light of the square was the same dirty white as the trampled ice underfoot. His mouth was ajar, his face set in a frown. A domino mask dangled from its string around his neck. His belly heaved a little and he twitched, half choking. The rejected liquor rose in his mouth like a dark foul pool, a bit trickling down his cheek. He coughed weakly and drew in a wet, raspy breath. Then he was still again. He already stank of vomit and his trouser cuffs were spattered from an earlier mishap.

I didn’t want to touch him. But I’d heard of men choking to death on their own puke after drinking too much. I didn’t dislike him so much that I wanted him to die of his own stupidity. So I crouched down and rolled him onto his side. At my touch, he sucked in a sudden breath. He was scarcely on his side before he vomited violently, the spew flying out of his mouth onto the frozen crust of dirty snow that he sprawled on. He heaved twice, and then rolled onto his back again. His eyes didn’t open. I was suddenly struck by how pale he was. Pulling off my glove, I touched his face. His skin was cold and clammy, not flushed with drink. Again, at my touch, he pulled in a slow breath.

“Caulder! Caulder? Wake up. You can’t pass out here. You’ll be trampled or freeze to death.” People were barely stepping around us, uncaring and unmindful of the boy stretched out on the ground. One woman in a fox mask tittered as she went past. No one stopped or stared or offered help. I shook him. “Caulder. Get up! I can’t stay here with you. Get up and on your feet.”

He dragged in another breath and his eyelids fluttered. I seized him by his collar and dragged him to a sitting position. “Wake up!” I yelled at him.

His eyes opened halfway and then closed again. “I did it,” he said faintly. “I did it. I drank it all! I’m a man. Get me a woman.” His words ran together, and his voice was little more than a mutter. The color had not come back to his face. “I don’t feel good,” he abruptly announced. “I’m sick.”

“You’re drunk. You should go home. Get up and go home, Caulder.”

He put both his hands over his mouth and then dropped them to cover his belly. “I’m sick,” he groaned, and his eyes sagged shut again. If I had not been holding him upright, he would have fallen back onto the ground. I shook him. His head wobbled back and forth. For the first time, a man stopped and looked down at us. “Best take him home, son, and let him sleep it off there. Shouldn’t have let the lad drink so much.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied reflexively, with no intention of taking Caulder anywhere. But neither could I just stand up and walk away from him. I’d drag him somewhere out of the way and leave him where he wouldn’t get stepped on or freeze to death. For it was getting colder as the night grew deeper.