by Celia Lake
Roland knew the theory of all of that, certainly, he’d literally learned it at his father’s knee. But he couldn’t understand why he was the one under such pressure to explain it. He knew perfectly well there were people whose job it was, had been for years, to explain that, to bridge the gaps between the two communities. His father, for one.
If they needed him, had something happened to his father? Something no one had told him? He’d half expected someone to use that as a blunt weapon to enforce his obedience, but he found the utter lack of reference to his father decidedly more chilling. That thought distracted him, utterly. It would explain why no one had come to visit him. Or write. Or anything. Beyond them being ashamed of him, which was frankly also a possibility. Especially if he were being threatened with a court-martial.
He hadn’t been able to sort it out even when he could think more clearly. This time, he took one particular way through. “Pardon, my current potions make some things more challenging. Why me? Why can’t one of the Guards explain? They surely deal with such things more regularly.”
The man waved. “They have other obligations. You...” There was a wave of his hand, his chin lifting, as he peered down at Roland. “You do not have other occupation. And your healer has approved.”
Roland let out a puff of breath. “And the London event?”
“You are of good family, you are comfortable with people of authority.” He gestured again. “You can be charming, when you wish to be, I gather.” The man looked him up and down. “And dressed for the occasion.” Then, dismissively. “I am told you still require canes.”
Even if he’d been improving, enough to go a good fifty steps without them, yes, he would claim them. “I do, yes. And someone will have to accompany me.”
There was a dismissive wave of the hand. “We will see to your transportation to and from. A room, in London, overnight, near the offices where the meeting will be held. There may be some questions for you once they have had a chance to discuss privately.”
Roland could see that any protest would be dismissed as quickly. “I’ll ask the orderlies to make sure my uniform is properly pressed.”
“See to it.” The man then nodded sharply. “In a week, Major. Do your duty and you won’t have trouble with us.”
Roland could do nothing else but nod. He couldn’t see the man’s insignia properly, the way the light was. “King, Council, and Country.” It was the safe answer, the one that no one could argue with. There was a simple nod, a click of the heels, and then the man was striding out. The movement was rapid and forceful, especially compared to the slow pace that Roland had become used to. Nothing happened quickly in this corner of his world, not any more.
He let himself relax back into the pillows, exhaling, as much as relaxation was possible. He did not like this one bit. Someone was pulling strings, more than one person, and he didn’t think it was just Senior Healer Cole. He hadn’t liked the man at all.
Which made him stop and think again about why. His mind was as clear as it was going to get, it was an hour or so before supper, and his potion. The nurse wasn’t here to stare at him. He needed to make the most of it.
Elen had been straightforward and practical. She wore the standard nurse’s uniform, made of good quality cloth, but nothing remotely fancy. It was designed to hold up well, he thought, the way his country shirts were, or his breeches, so they could be laundered repeatedly. Given her work, presumably with stronger soaps, too.
She hadn’t worn any particular adornments, other than her locket and her watch fob. The watch was clearly a working tool for her, given how often she used it when tending to him. She lived in a rooming house, with plenty of other nurses, but she didn’t seem to have many luxuries.
Healer Rhoe, she’d been wearing good quality linen, a step up from Elen’s dresses because it was less study for harder work. He seemed to remember hearing something about how that shade of indigo, the darker shade, was more expensive to dye, but other than that, she’d had no obvious adornments.
Her voice, now that was the accent of the people he’d grown up with, people with power and influence. She’d hidden it well, smoothing out the vowels and the way she said her R, but he could tell. Of course, she’d been educated, he expected that of any healer. But her confidence, her bearing, her comfort with decisions, those all suggested someone notably well-born.
He’d trained himself near enough the same way, to avoid problems when he was serving with others. He wanted to come across as educated, capable, certainly an officer, but not with the sort of affectation that some of the set he’d been born into preferred. He didn’t see a point in affectation for fashion’s sake, certainly.
Even Sister Almeda had been dressed practically, when he’d seen her. Her dress was of better cloth, though, he thought a wool silk blend, the way it moved. Her aprons had been the brilliant white that hadn’t been bleached over and over. She’d had more jewellery, both the necklace she wore, and the watch. He was sure he’d seen tortoiseshell pins in her hair, and a ring with a quality emerald on her finger, more than once. Neither of those came cheap. Even if they were family pieces, that implied something about her background.
Senior Healer Cole, though, had been in an entirely different category. Now that he thought about it, he was sure the man had been wearing shot silk, two shades of red that gave it an uncanny depth, the liveliness of blood. And it wasn’t just the sleeves, that was common enough among the better off sort, but it was the full robe.
Not an inexpensive outfit at all. Especially when you considered that silk tended to stain if you looked at it wrong, even with all the charms and magics at their disposal. Certainly that was not the dress of anyone who expected to be near the untidy parts of healing.
It made him wonder how much a senior healer made, or what the financial arrangements were. Did they have housing provided, for example, which would free up a fair bit of income? That kind of clothing not only implied money to buy it, but money to maintain it. More than just a valet in a flat, but a house with staff.
Cole was too common a name for him to be sure what kind of family the man came from, though the way he’d spoken suggested things. Actually, now he considered, there had been an odd note here or there. A choice of words that wasn’t what Roland or his family would do, wasn’t what Healer Rhoe would have chosen. He couldn’t remember the tirade clearly enough to pin down which words it was, only a handful. But he’d had that feeling before, with someone who was making out he was something he wasn’t.
That was a particular thing Roland disliked. He’d met men - and women - from all sorts of backgrounds, because of his parents, and because of his own work before the War. Elen, for example, obviously came from working class roots, but she was thoughtful, clever, hard working. There was no shame in that. Someone making such a point of being something else, though, that made Roland curious. And perhaps a little suspicious. Not that he could do anything about it.
His thoughts were interrupted by Nurse Eglinton coming into the room. She had a small crate with her, and the lid had been opened, then set back loosely on top, with a gap. “This was delivered for you.” She put it on the bed beside him, not even handing it to him.
Roland considered the box. He had not been expecting anything, and it didn’t seem like something Elen would send. Then he shifted the label, and recognised Treeve’s handwriting. Inside was a tin of tea, and a small box of marzipan in various shapes. A standard set, with the Schola house animals, and a selection of other such things, a few potion bottles, stacks of books, slender wands. They were a small touch of cheer, but not informative.
There was no note at all. Not that Treeve was good at notes, mind, but he’d expected something. “Was there any message with it, nurse?” He kept his voice polite.
“Not that I know of, sir.” Her voice was crisp and rather forbidding. “You can keep one of the tins by you. The tea, I think.” She wouldn’t even permit him that choice. “Too much sugar, well.” She cut o
ff there. “You should tell whoever sent it to make better choices.”
As if Treeve would be told about such things. Roland took the tea canister, and tucked it over by his bed. Nurse Eglinton promptly took the rest of the case off his lap, unpacking the marzipan. “You can have one piece a day, no more.” As if he were a small child.
Roland didn’t argue. He’d long since learned not to waste his energy on hopeless begging.
Chapter 29
Friday, May 14th in the Crafting Quarter
Elen let out a long sigh, twitching slightly. Amet slid a fresh mortar and pestle and a bowl over to her. “Make yourself useful, you.” They were tucked into the stillroom in the Tudor house that held both a workroom and home. Amet had, theoretically, moved out when she finished her apprenticeship, into a small flat two streets away. She still took most of her meals here, and spent long hours in the stillroom.
Elen had perched on the stool for guests. She leaned her elbows on the great central working table in the middle of the room. The space felt comforting, somehow, with the raw ingredients in jars down one side, and the smaller rack for ingredients that were ready to be mixed and blended on the other.
There was something satisfying about reducing the dried roots she’d been handed into dusty powder. This was the third batch Amet had handed her, the things that didn’t take particular skill, just dogged stubbornness.
“What are you going to do, then?” Elen had been here long enough Amet was going to ask, then.
Elen shrugged. “I am on leave, with half-pay, while they investigate.” Her voice sounded dull, thudding, even to her. It certainly didn’t reassure Amet. It had been nearly ten days with no news at all, and she certainly didn’t expect to hear anything now until at least next Tuesday.
“That is about what they are doing, which you’d already said. Not about what you are doing.” Amet’s voice was tart, as she stood to pull down a different large jar, this one of small dried berries. Juniper, she thought, from the whiff of sharp scent.
“I can’t see him.” Elen sucked in her breath. “And I’m worried about him.”
“Could I get in to see him, do you think?” Amet settled down on her stool, matter of fact.
Elen considered that. “You sometimes make deliveries, don’t you?”
“I have a pass and everything. Back to the storerooms.” Amet sounded pleased with herself, and she should. Those weren’t terribly easy to come by. It was much more common for one of the orderlies who managed the warehouses to meet a delivery at the back gate and take over from there. “I have to confirm proper storage of some things, and sign others over.”
Elen worked on the roots, tapping the pestle on them several times to start breaking them apart. “Which ones?”
“Any of the poppy derivatives, those we have to sign over. Some of the other sedatives. A few things that are poisonous in any sizable dose. Could I get to his room, do you think?”
“Getting there, maybe. Doing any good - that’s more of a question.”
Amet frowned. “Well, that’s no help. Do you have anyone who could? Anyone who’d trust you, when you said there was something wrong?”
“I sent a note to the Healer who helped in the baths. She was, she was different. Not tangled up in the Temple politics. I thought, later, about sending one to Sister Pomona, but I don’t know if it would reach her. Or if it would do any good. I don’t think she has much influence? Knowledge, skill, but not influence.”
Amet tapped the berries with her pestle tentatively, then went and got a different mortar and pestle set. “Tell me about that. The first one.”
It took a few minutes of grinding before Elen had her thoughts in order. That was the relaxing thing about Amet, she’d never expected anyone to say anything quickly. She took things in their own time. It had been the only place Elen could imagine being right now. She needed to be somewhere no one would rush her. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came back, not exactly. But things are different.”
Amet nodded, patiently, the pinned up braids around the crown of her head shifting slightly as she tucked a wisp of hair behind an ear. “Not informative, El.”
Elen grimaced. “It’s hard to find words for. A lot of people aren’t there, that used to be. I mean, most of the folks who are good at crisis healing, they’re either on the Continent, or they’re wrapped up in what they’re doing at the Temple.”
“And you’re living in a rooming house, not one of the dormitories. So you don’t have the, what was it, when you were apprenticing?”
“The refectory. No. And my schedule’s been off from most of the rooming house. The landlady keeps giving me an awful time about coming in late, even though I always tell her when I’ll be back late, which is usually.”
“Long days.”
Elen nodded, laying it out for Amet, the schedule. She’d been thinking about it, actually, since Master Dixon had been so offended about it, and she finished up asking about that. “I don’t mind. There is a war on, I was doing twelve hour shifts, fourteen, at the front, every day, with barely time off to see about laundry.”
Amet paused in her work, setting the pestle aside for a moment to stretch her hands out. “There is a war on. But you are not at the front, and is that the usual sort of schedule?”
“It’s hard to tell what’s usual right now.” Elen admitted. “Especially since I don’t have much contact with other nurses.”
“Your rooming house?”
“People without connections in town. Most people who are at the Temple for years find a flat with another nurse or two. Maybe with a landlady in the building to see to deliveries and maybe some meals, but not the same way.”
“Tsking when you come in late, like you’re a schoolgirl. Not that you did that when you were actually a school girl, as I recall.”
Elen ducked her chin. “Like that, yes.”
“And the Temple itself? What’s different there? You said that Healer Rhoe wasn’t like the others.”
“For one thing, she listened. Sister Pomona did, too. But they’ve both got - all sorts of other things they need to do. Why would they bother about me? Or even Major Gospatrick.” Elen ground the roots with a few more aggressive twists of her wrist. “Sister Almeda must be very busy too. And once I saw the file, it was clear to me that they’re not telling her half the things they should be. But I don’t know if they have told her more than is in the file, of course.”
“Mind-reading would be so difficult, and yet so helpful.” Amet sounded resigned, like it was something she’d thought about rather a lot. “So the question is whether this is because of the War, the more ordinary changes since your apprenticeship, or something else. And if it’s the last, what you do about it.”
Elen prodded at the roots in her mortar a little, before passing it over to see how much more was needed. She said, carefully. “If it were the ordinary sort of change, the file would look different. It’s just, just, wrong to not document things properly. Dangerous. Deadly, even.”
Amet nodded at the mortar. “Do another batch like that, ta.” Then she looked up, peering over her glasses at Elen. “You have good instincts, you always have. Remember back in our third year, when you were certain someone was sneaking things.”
“Poor Gladys was starving, it turned out.” The girl had come from a family who didn’t approve of her education, and who’d done everything they could to make things horrible for her during their holidays.
When they were back in school, she’d stolen things, here and there, to hoard away. Mostly food, but occasionally a hair ribbon or a book someone had finished reading. Their housemother had been very gentle, when it had come out, as well as making sure Gladys didn’t have to go off to her family again.
Amet nods. “And part of you wonders if there’s actually a good reason now, like there was then.”
Elen considered that, then she nodded slowly. “I guess so.” It felt odd to say it, but it was true enough. “But I keep coming back to the r
ecords.”
“Do you know anything about that healer? Cole, I mean.”
“No.” Elen shook her head. “I wrote a note to Healer Rhoe, as I was leaving, I couldn’t, I’m sure it didn’t make sense. And maybe she can’t help. The baths are, they’re their own area. She might not know what to do.”
“What made you talk to her in the first place?”
Elen shrugged. Talking about this felt odd. It wasn’t forbidden, she knew that. But it wasn’t a thing people talked about especially outside the Temple itself. “She’s one of the Healers responsible for the baths. I thought one might help Ro - Major Gospatrick.”
She realised she’d slipped as soon as the beginning of his name was out of her mouth. Amet, of course, caught it immediately. “First name, is it? Roger? Robert? Rohitabel?”
“That’s not a name!” Elen was, despite herself, amused. Enough so that she added, after a moment. “Roland.”
“Roland Gospatrick. Why do I...” Amet stood suddenly, and went off to a volume. “Oh, his mother’s proper fierce. She’s something quite high up in the Guard, some sort of research post. Not a Penelope, an analyst.”
Elen didn’t know much about what the Guard did, aside from the people in uniform. She had treated two of the Penelopes, specialists in dealing with unweaving magics, during her apprenticeship. An experiment had gone wrong, releasing a dangerous gas that had caused hallucinations. The rest of the Guard, she had no idea, though in this case, she could at least offer something. “He said she was a specialist in defensive magics, something like that. Posted to Egypt.”