by Amy Raby
Imperial food was a challenge for him. It tended to be highly spiced, with unusual flavors, and he preferred simpler fare. He picked out some of the plainer items: a mushroom tart, a couple of sandwiches, and a raspberry-flavored dessert. Raspberries were one of the few novel foods he’d been able to acquire a taste for since leaving Osler.
Lucien placed an apple tart on his own plate. “Did you know that for years I didn’t use this garden at all?”
“Why not?” Marius took his seat.
“Unpleasant memories,” said Lucien. “Of my father—your uncle, who practically lived out here. But over the years, I’ve gotten past that. There’s no need to blame the garden for the things Florian did, and it’s a wonderful place, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” said Marius.
Lucien sat across from Marius, and Vitala took the spot next to Lucien. “How do your studies go?” asked Lucien.
Marius shrugged. “Well enough.” He didn’t like talking about his schooling; it was embarrassing to be so far behind others of his age. He took a bite of mushroom tart. It had a strange spice in its filling, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “Do you know what caused that explosion at the harbor?”
Vitala answered. “I’ve got people looking into it. We feared it might be an act of sabotage, but so far we’re finding no signs of that. I believe it was a simple accident.”
“A common occurrence with gunpowder plants,” added Lucien.
Vitala nodded. “This is why we have regulations regarding the gunpowder trade. You can’t use metal shovels in gunpowder factories, only wooden ones, because metal ones might throw a spark. No boots with iron nails, no shod horses in the vicinity—”
“And even those regulations can’t eliminate the risks entirely,” said Lucien. “So the most important regulation is that gunpowder factories must be located well outside of town, away from population centers like Riat. That limits the damage they can do if there’s an accident.”
Marius nodded. “So Drusus told me.”
“He’s well-read, your bodyguard,” said Lucien. “The factory that exploded was illegal and in violation of regulations, but so far we don’t think they intended to cause trouble. They just wanted to make cheap gunpowder. Mind you, I’ll still arrest the lot of them if I find them.”
Marius recalled the injured Sardossians who had shown their heels when the city guards turned up. And Isolda, sketching herbs in his bed and smiling. Time for a change in subject. “How’s Laelia?”
Vitala grinned. “Talk about explosive. That girl is a pyrotechnic show in the battle room.”
His sister Laelia had taken to palace life more easily than Marius had. It wasn’t that she liked fancy food and fancy dresses—as far as he could tell, she was indifferent to them—but that she didn’t care what people thought of her. She saw the palace as a playground for her amusement. She’d enlisted Vitala and others to train her as a war mage.
Lucien sighed. “It’s supposed to be the boys who are war mages. The girls are supposed to be mind mages.”
“I want to be a Healer,” said Marius.
“And so you shall,” said Lucien. “Far be it from me to hew to tradition when your mother has already broken with it so dramatically. But I do wonder sometimes what will become of us.”
Marius said nothing. He doubted his becoming a Healer and his sister becoming a war mage would affect the imperial family in any way at all. They were side branches in the family tree, minimally involved in politics and palace life. Which was fine with him. He and Laelia were too uneducated and ignorant to be involved in political decisions. As far as Marius could tell, Lucien valued his presence simply because he loved family. Marius was something like fifth in the line of imperial succession, a fact that terrified him. But when Lucien died—an event that should be far in the future, since the emperor was young and healthy—the throne would almost certainly pass to one of Lucien’s two sons, and both of them were being trained traditionally as war mages.
Vitala laid her hand over the emperor’s. “Change isn’t always a bad thing, you know.”
The emperor looked into her eyes, suddenly moony, and Marius turned his attention to his mushroom tart.
After giving them a moment, he asked, “Why are there so many Sardossian refugees in Riat?”
“It’s a sad situation,” said Vitala.
“Eleven months ago, the First Heir of Sardos was assassinated,” said Lucien, “and his loss has left a power vacuum in that country.”
“Understand that the First Heir is actually the leader of Sardos,” said Vitala. “First Heir is just the title they use, implying that he is heir to the gods. His power is equivalent to Lucien’s.”
“Did he leave no successor?”
“He left hundreds of them, sired on dozens of wives,” said Lucien. “Sardos is polygynous, and because he feared a plot against his life, he never specified which son should be his heir. But the assassination happened anyway, and, as you might expect, half a dozen of those potential First Heirs are laying claim to the throne. The families are choosing sides, and there’s civil war.”
Now Marius understood. “And the people who want no part of that war are fleeing over the border.”
“Exactly,” said Lucien. “But Kjall hasn’t the resources to take them in. These refugees don’t speak the language, many of them have no skills, and we simply can’t accommodate them.”
Marius frowned. Isolda didn’t know the language, but he wouldn’t say she had no skills. She’d drawn a perfect vervain plant and known its purpose. He would bet she’d been an herbalist or apothecary in her former life. And he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to participate in a civil war to decide which of six half-brothers held the Sardossian throne. He wouldn’t want any part of that either. “Could we do something to help them? Find work for them, get them warded? They could learn the language.”
Lucien’s eyes went soft.
Marius tensed. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Not at all,” said Lucien. “It’s just that you remind me so much of Rhianne. I understand your desire to help the Sardossian refugees, but I’ve got Kjallans out of work, lots of them. How can I offer jobs to Sardossians when my own people need help? As for warding them, I’m all for it, but good luck getting them to come out from their hiding places.”
“They don’t come out because when they do, you ship them back home,” said Marius.
“I wish we could do more for them,” said Vitala. “But Kjall has to solve Kjall’s problems. And Sardos needs to solve Sardos’s problems.”
“If the Sardossians are here, they’ve become Kjall’s problem,” said Marius.
“Kjall has enough problems as it is,” said Lucien.
∞
Later, as they made their way back down the hill on horseback, Drusus said, “You’ve been thinking a lot about that Sardossian woman.”
“Yes,” said Marius. “Not just her, but all of the Sardossians. Can you imagine? They came all this way to live in a city where people call them sewer rats or piss-heads and throw things at them, sometimes beat them up in alleyways, or worse.” Last month, two Sardossian women had been raped and murdered. Their broken bodies had been hung from a street glow just five blocks from his villa.
“We can only assume conditions are worse in Sardos.”
Marius nodded. “They must be.” It was hard to imagine.
And yet the Sardossians were not entirely without guilt, not if they were working in illegal gunpowder factories that, in one case, had exploded and killed innocent bystanders. The regulations Lucien and Vitala had explained to him made sense; they prevented accidents and kept people safe. But what else could the Sardossians do? Legal jobs weren’t available to them, and it was dangerous for them even to be seen in some parts of the city. He wished there was something he could do to help them. Perhaps if he earned Isolda’s trust while she was staying with him, he could talk to her about the problems and learn more about what her people needed.
But when Marius and Drusus returned to the villa, Isolda was gone. The bed was neatly made, and the dishes she’d used had been washed. On the table was a note. It was written in Sardossian, and Drusus read it to him. It said, simply, “Thank you.”
PART TWO
Four Years Later
Chapter 7
Marius was measuring out powdered trigonella for his last patient of the day when the bell rang. He growled in frustration. So many people didn’t bother reading the surgery’s posted hours, or at least didn’t want to believe them. There were all-night facilities available in Riat, but his was not one of them. “Drusus, if it’s not an emergency—”
“I’ll handle it.” Drusus headed for the waiting room.
Marius scraped the measured amount into a bag and tied it neatly at the top. He’d thought his apothecary skills would become obsolete once he’d soulcasted and gained his healing magic, but he’d been wrong. There were some conditions, chronic ones especially, for which his healing magic could only help a little in the short term. In those cases, medicine sometimes extended the duration of his influence. As the only man in Riat who was both a licensed Healer and a licensed apothecary, he’d found himself popular since opening his surgery and dispensary. Too popular, sometimes.
He went from the dispensary back to his office and handed the trigonella to the aged man sitting on the cot. “The best way to make that cough go away would be to stop breathing so much sawdust.”
The man nodded listlessly.
Marius sighed. He understood; it was the man’s job. He was seeing a lot of this in Riat, more than he ever saw in Osler. Lungs damaged by breathing things that weren’t air, vision stunted by work underground, joints broken down by overwork—not excessive amounts of work, necessarily, but repetitive work, the same thing over and over with no variation. His healing magic was powerful, but it worked best against infectious diseases, rarely seen anymore because of near-universal warding in the big cities, and acute injuries such as cuts and broken bones. Chronic damage was less responsive. His magic could improve this man’s lungs a little bit, but healing magic worked by calling the flesh back to its natural, healthy state, and for that to happen, the flesh had to remember. When it had been damaged little by little, over the course of years, it ceased to remember its natural state. The abnormal had become normal.
Marius gave the man an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Avoid sawdust if you possibly can, and sprinkle this on your food in the evenings. It will help.”
As his patient left through the waiting room door, Drusus came back in, grinning.
“Not an emergency?” said Marius.
“It’s Lady Fabiola.”
“Oh, gods,” groaned Marius. Lady Fabiola was the pregnant wife of a prominent local merchant who was away on business. In her husband’s absence, the lady had taken an interest in Marius, and he couldn’t imagine why. He lacked sophistication and dressed unfashionably, yet she would not leave him alone.
“I think she wants you to examine her again.”
“She doesn’t need—I mean, she’s not—” Marius sputtered.
Drusus’s grin widened. “What’s the harm? Can’t get her pregnant now, can you?”
Marius could feel the heat radiating from his face. “Send her away.”
“As you wish,” said Drusus, disappearing again into the waiting room.
Marius let out his breath. The depravity of the imperial city—he would never get used to it. He waited in his office until the bell rang, indicating the door had opened and Drusus was escorting Lady Fabiola out. Only then did he feel himself relax. When he’d soulcasted five months ago and become a licensed Healer, Lucien had purchased, on his behalf, the building adjacent to his home villa. That meant he needed only to walk next door to go home.
He touched the light glows in his office to deactivate them and headed out into the waiting room.
Where he was surprised to find Lady Fabiola standing in the middle of the room, in all her pregnant glory, while Drusus was at the door speaking to a second woman. The woman at the door held a sizable child of eight or nine years old who appeared unconscious. Did Marius have an emergency to deal with after all?
“Drusus, help the woman with her boy,” he ordered.
Drusus took the child, and Marius got his first clear view of the woman’s face.
It was Isolda. The Sardossian woman he’d helped four years ago, who’d left his villa and whom he hadn’t seen since. She looked almost the same as before, except that her hair was loose and considerably lighter, no doubt an effect of the Kjallan sun.
His breath hitched, and his mouth went dry as he stared. He had never expected to see her again. Finally he found his voice. “Isolda.”
“Marius,” she answered.
She didn’t sound surprised. But of course she wouldn’t be; she’d come to him for a reason. Could the sick child be Rory, the boy she’d mentioned before?
“He is sick,” said Isolda.
“I see that,” said Marius.
Wait. Had she just spoken those words in the Kjallan language? Last he’d seen her, she’d only spoken Sardossian.
“Marius.” Lady Fabiola rose to her feet and strode across the room, graceful despite her six-months-pregnant form. “I’ve been waiting. Surely you’re not going to let that piss-head in here with her flea-ridden brat.”
Marius shot her a look of irritation. “I see a woman whose child needs help. Are you bleeding at all?”
She feigned shock at his words.
“Are you bleeding?” he repeated.
Lady Fabiola shook her head.
“Then go home,” he said. “If you’re having problems tomorrow, come back then.” Not that he was looking forward to having to brush her off again, but he’d have to look her over and make absolutely certain there wasn’t a problem he was overlooking. For now, the child.
He leapt forward to open the waiting room door. Drusus brought the boy into his office and laid him on the cot. Marius reactivated the light glows to brighten the room. The windows were open, but dusk was falling, and the boy looked pale. Marius wanted all light available to him for this examination.
“Is this your son?” he asked Isolda. “Rory?”
“You remember,” she murmured.
He had known her for only a couple of days, yet he remembered her well. For months afterward, he’d looked for her in every street, every shop, every corner. But he had not seen her, and eventually he’d given up. She was a ghost, she and her fellow Sardossians.
The boy was hot all over, feverish. Infectious disease was so rare in Riat as to be almost nonexistent, and yet here it was. “Is he warded?”
Isolda did not answer.
“Is he warded?” demanded Marius.
“No,” she said softly.
“I want you to leave the surgery and run three blocks south to Warder Nonian’s. Tell him Marius wants him immediately.”
Isolda nodded and ran out the door. At least she wasn’t arguing.
“Sardossians,” growled Drusus. “I have a feeling you’re not getting paid for this one.”
Drusus was probably right, but Marius didn’t care. He would help Isolda’s child for free, as he’d helped her after the gunpowder explosion. He would help her any time she came to his door.
As seriously ill as the boy appeared, most fevers were easy to treat, especially in the young. He’d rarely seen one in a person, but in the course of his education he’d treated many in unwarded animals to prepare him for occasions such as this, when warding failed. The boy had the same coloration as his mother, yellow hair and green eyes. Marius skinned off the boy’s shirt and found him clammy with sweat. Thin, too, and not in a healthy way. Perhaps he could come up with an excuse to keep the boy here longer, maybe fatten him up a bit, and Isolda too. He couldn’t see the state of her feeding when she was layered in clothing from head to toe, but he had a feeling that if the boy was underfed, she was too, and perhaps more so.
He also needed to find out where that fever had come from. Fever was not an illness in its own right, but a symptom of some other problem. Its cause was invariably an evil spirit, whether the spirit infested a dirty wound, or contaminated one’s food, or simply lurked in the air, waiting to be breathed in by its next unsuspecting victim. But evil spirits didn’t arise out of nowhere. They propagated from one host to another. The boy had caught it from someone, which meant that somewhere out there, somebody else in Riat was ill. Maybe lots of somebodies.
He laid hands upon the boy and called on his magic. At once, he felt the child’s youthful body respond. It wanted to return to normal—it was strong and vigorous, underfed but still healthy, and it needed only to be called to its proper state. Sometimes with older bodies he had to cajole them a bit, to persuade them back to health, but with this child, it was as if his body only wanted permission.
The boy groaned a little and shifted on the cot. His fever would be dropping, and that meant his delirium would lift. Soon he would awaken.
Marius had an idea. “Drusus, can you get some of that sleeping draught?”
Drusus raised an eyebrow at him. He knew perfectly well this wasn’t called for. Indeed, after sticking to Marius’s side for all four years of his education, Drusus knew everything Marius did. It made him an ideal partner and assistant in the surgery, and in playing that role, Drusus now had cover for his real role, that of Marius’s personal bodyguard. The downside was that Marius couldn’t put anything past the man.
“Look how skinny he is,” said Marius. “You know if I just cure the fever, Isolda will disappear with him and we’ll never see them again.”
“Who cares if we never see them again?”
“I’d rather get a good breakfast into him tomorrow. Into both of them.” He didn’t mention that he planned to come up with some excuse to keep them longer. If he could feed them for a week, so much the better. And he’d really like to find out where that fever had come from.