Healer's Touch (4 page)

Somewhere around here would be a makeshift hospital. He pushed his way through the crowd. Pile of dead bodies to the right—that was no help.

Then he spotted it, an area the guards were cordoning off by rope. Blankets were spread on the ground, and Healers moved among the injured.

A guard gestured for him to move off. “People working here.”

“I’m an apothecary,” said Marius. “I’d like to help.”

The guard looked him over, and Marius was glad he’d worn a syrtos today instead of his preferred tunic and breeches. The syrtos made him look respectable.

“License?” the guard inquired.

“I don’t have it with me.” Gods curse it, he should have thought of that. Looking past the guard, he spotted someone he knew. “Sergia!” He almost didn’t recognize her; she had a cloth tied around her face.

Sergia approached. “Let him in,” she told the guard. “He’s one of my students.”

The guard stepped aside, and Marius climbed over the rope barrier. “How can I help?”

Sergia led him deeper within the hospital area.

The patients they passed by were grievously wounded—limbs missing, bodies charred. A broken-off post protruded from one man’s stomach. Marius felt sick. He could be no help to these people; his bandages and tinctures were mere toys in the face of such injuries.

“You can help Avitus,” said Sergia.

Marius looked where she was pointing. Avitus was another student of Sergia’s, much younger but similarly qualified in his studies. Marius, because he had begun his education late in life, often found himself surrounded by students five to ten years his junior. The patients Avitus was tending appeared to be the luckier ones, with no visible injuries.

“These have already been healed,” explained Sergia. “But some are weak from shock or blood loss. They’re not ready to go home just yet.”

“I see.” He wouldn’t need his bandages, then. These patients needed only supportive care: water, blankets, and words of reassurance. He’d like to do more, but until he acquired his healing magic, he was underqualified. This would do.

Avitus, thin and gawky in his adolescent frame, rose as Sergia approached.

“I’ve brought Marius to help you,” said Sergia.

Avitus stepped forward and clasped wrists, but there was no welcome in his eyes. He probably didn’t want a helper, and Marius was equally unenthusiastic about doing the same low-grade work as a teenager.

Never mind. He could tolerate a surly youth for the sake of people in need.

Sergia hurried off.

“What have we got?” asked Marius.

Avitus introduced him to the patients, beginning at the end of the row. “This one’s unconscious; I think she might be in shock. I’ve covered her with blankets. You might try to get some water in her if she wakes. This fellow, I think he’s more scared than anything. He wasn’t badly hurt, but see how he shivers.”

Marius nodded. Avitus continued down the line, and Marius began thinking of ways he might be able to help beyond just blankets and water. Some of his tinctures might be of use. He had calming medicines and pain relievers.

Avitus eyed Drusus. “Is he helping too?”

“No,” said Drusus. “I’m just going to stand around and watch.”

Avitus boggled at those words. But Drusus was an intimidating-looking man, and young Avitus, like so many Kjallans, lacked the courage to ask what Drusus meant by such an impolite response.

Marius was used to Drusus unnerving people. Drusus was an imperial bodyguard, but in plainclothes. Most people assumed he was Marius’s servant, or a lover, or perhaps an excessively devoted friend. Drusus found their confusion amusing but was otherwise unconcerned. As a Legaciattus, he was more than a little proud, and he considered the townsfolk and their opinions beneath him.

Avitus pointed. “Look, the cart’s arriving.”

A horse-dragon wagon was pulling up just outside the roped-off area.

“Supplies from the surgery,” explained Avitus. “Can you run and fetch us some blankets?”

Marius went to the cart and retrieved the blankets. As he returned, he noticed a group of people lying apart from the others. “Who are those people? Are they being treated?”

“Those are just sewer rats,” said Avitus.

Marius handed a bundle of blankets to Avitus. “Do you mean Sardossians?” He was starting to learn the local slang. “Are they not hurt?”

“Who knows? They’ll scatter when the city guard arrives.”

Marius furrowed his brow. It didn’t seem right to care for the Kjallan patients and not the Sardossians. Yes, they were from a foreign country, and yes, they weren’t supposed to be in Kjall. But they
were
people, despite what Avitus called them. And he’d rather have patients of his own than share these with a boy six years his junior. “I’m going to have a look at them.”

Avitus shrugged, no doubt happy to be rid of him.

Marius had never met a Sardossian. In his four months in Riat and at the palace, he’d heard a bit about the problem of the Sardossian “sewer rats,” but they were an underground population, always in hiding. He didn’t understand their reasons for coming here, only that there was some sort of “blood war” going on in their country.

He crouched down to greet the first patient and check the man’s pulse. Now he regretted his syrtos; the garment was designed to be attractive and showy rather than practical, and it pulled at him, restricting his movement. He tugged at it, trying to make it more comfortable, and wished he’d worn his tunic and breeches.

The first two Sardossians were alive and conscious. They spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand, but they seemed friendly, if nervous. Moving down the line, he found two that definitely wouldn’t be scattering when the city guard came, because they were dead. One had a hole in his chest and had probably died before Healers had arrived on the scene. The other lay in a pool of blood, and his body was still warm. Someone had made a crude attempt at bandaging him, using a torn shirt, but it hadn’t been enough. A Healer might have saved him.

Marius clenched his fist at such a pointless loss of life. There were things he hated about Riat, and this was one of them. The city had its wonders, to be sure—the food was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, and the people infinitely more varied than he’d known in Osler. The city’s sophistication awed him on a daily basis. But he could not approve of big-city depravity. How could it be right to shunt away an entire class of people, denying them aid in an emergency and leaving them to die? His home village had never harbored any Sardossian refugees. He’d have to ask the emperor to explain the political situation to him next time he was at the palace. But he could not imagine that anyone in Osler would have left this man to die. Where he’d grown up, people looked out for one another.

“Hey,” called a voice behind him.

Marius turned and saw Avitus.

“City guard’s coming,” he said to the Sardossians.

The Sardossians turned to one another and spoke in their language, looking confused.

Avitus rolled his eyes. “City guard,” he repeated, stretching out the words the way one might do for a child. “
City guard.
You know...” He mimed pulling a pistol from his belt and firing it.

The talk among the Sardossians became agitated. Their voices rose, and after a moment, five of them dragged themselves up from the ground and ran. One favored his right leg, while two others supported an injured woman between them.

“See?” Avitus laughed. “Look at those sewer rats go.”

“You sapskull.” Marius rose to his feet and advanced on the youth. “What’d you do that for? Those people needed help.”

“Sardossians regenerate,” said Avitus. “Kill one, and two more grow in its place. Anyway, you’ve got a few left.”

“The ones who are left are
dead
. And one of them could have been saved if someone had bothered to help him...” He trailed off, realizing that a third Sardossian remained, a woman. And she wasn’t dead.

“I wasn’t just baiting them. The guards really are here. See?”

Marius followed his gaze. Several Riat City Guards approached.

Drusus stiffened.

Marius had come to understand that there was a sort of hierarchy among guardsmen in the vicinity of the palace, with the Legaciatti at the top, the palace guards beneath them, and the Riat City Guards at the bottom. But this was complicated by jurisdiction. The Legaciatti had no authority over crimes committed in Riat, unless they affected the imperial palace or imperial family in some way. This annoyed them; they hated having to defer to the Riat City Guard about anything.

Marius ignored the guards and checked on his last remaining patient, the woman. Her eyes were closed, but she had a pulse. As he touched her, she spoke.

“
Rory,
” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Marius. “I don’t speak Sardossian.”

The woman was badly burned along one side of her body. Good thing she was only half-conscious, because she would be in a lot of pain when she woke. Marius turned up her palms, and when he saw the sulfur stains, his breath caught. This woman had been one of the factory workers—it was a wonder she had survived. She must have been inside the building when it blew.

Instant death would have been preferable to the slow death that awaited her if he couldn’t find her a Healer. He wished fervently that he had finished his studies and could heal her himself. As it was, he’d have to move her—Drusus could help him with that—and bring her to Sergia.

“
Sith Rory teran?
” murmured the woman.

“She’s asking about someone named Rory,” said Drusus. “She wants to know where he is.”

Marius had forgotten his bodyguard was multilingual. But the guards were coming nearer, and for now he needed the woman to be silent.

“Quiet,” he told her.

“
Rory,
” she said again.

He put a finger to his lips—was that a universal gesture? “Shh.”

Her eyes closed, and she said nothing.

The guards approached. Drusus took a protective step closer to Marius.

“Good evening, citizen. Are you a Healer?” asked one of the guards.

“An apothecary and a student,” said Marius.

“And you?” The guard’s eyes went to his bodyguard.

“Legaciatti.” Drusus took the insignia that hung around his neck and showed it to the guard. Then he tucked it back beneath his shirt.

A look of alarm crossed the guard’s face, but he recovered, smoothing his expression. “We were told there were some Sardossian refugees here. But I thought there were more than three.”

“They ran off.” Drusus pointed. “That way.”

“And these three?” asked the guard.

Marius spoke up before Drusus could. “They’re dead.”

“Pity,” said the guard. “You saw the others before they ran?”

“Briefly,” said Marius.

“My name is Caellus,” said the guard. “I’m a prefect in the Riat City Guard, and I may need to speak to you later about identifying the Sardossians. May I have your name?”

“His name is none of your business,” said Drusus.

Caellus bristled, and for a moment it looked like there might be a confrontation. Then he seemed to decide against it. He turned, and he and his guards left in the direction of the fleeing Sardossians.

When they were gone, Drusus asked, “Is the woman really dead?”

“No,” said Marius. “And I think she can be saved. Help me get this blanket under her, and we can take her to Sergia.” Sergia would do this favor for him, he was sure. She was one of the few people who knew he was the emperor’s cousin, and she would not want to displease him. Even for a village hayseed like Marius, there were advantages to having imperial blood.

∞

Jauld’s General Store was not quite what Isolda had expected. She had known it would be humble, but she had not expected it to be so cluttered and dingy. She ran her fingertips along a shelf, and they came away coated in grime. This would not do. Who would shop in such a place?

Jauld tripped over a bag of potatoes as he came through the aisle. He caught himself and smiled. “What do you think of the store?”

Isolda grimaced. What could she say that was optimistic, yet truthful? “It has potential.” She stared at the potatoes. Why did he leave them there in the aisle?

“My father ran this store, and his father before him.” Jauld followed her gaze to the potatoes. He picked them up and set them on a shelf next to a buggy whip.

An improvement, but the store was so disorganized. Potatoes didn’t belong with buggy whips.

Isolda had a feeling that Jauld’s ancestors must have run the store more competently than this. She personally would never choose to shop here, not unless it was the only store in town. “What would you say to my doing a little work on the place? A little cleaning, a little organizing.” The building was in passable shape, and its location on the main road was exceptional. Jauld’s General Store sat roughly equidistant between the bustling city of Tinto and the growing port town of Cus. Jauld stocked farm goods, city goods, and port goods, and sold them to all three markets, as well as to travelers passing through.

Jauld stepped forward, took her gently around the waist, and kissed her.

Tentatively, she kissed him back. She was still getting used to this sort of thing. Last night they’d consummated their marriage, and while Jauld had been gentle, Isolda had found the experience painful and not as pleasurable as she’d expected. Perhaps it would get easier and more enjoyable over time.

“I was thinking you could run the counter,” he said. “I’ll handle stocking and inventory.”

“What about the bookkeeping?”

“Do you read and write?”

She nodded.

“Then you can do it, if you like.” He shrugged.

His indifference made her wonder if anyone was currently managing the books. No matter; she would do it from now on. She was familiar with bookkeeping from her father’s apothecary. “I’ve got some ideas for organizing the place a little better. Do you mind if I move a few things around?”

“Suit yourself,” said Jauld.