Healer's Touch

by Amy Raby

  Gods, not this again. “I can’t. My son is waiting for me.”

  “He goes all day without you. He can manage a little longer.”

  She shook her head. “He’s off work now, and I can’t leave him on his own.” Not to mention that the last thing she wanted to spend her hard-earned money on was a drink with her grabby boss. Rather than reaching for her coins, which would draw her into a wrestling match, Isolda turned toward the mule, letting his body guard one side of hers as she unbuckled his traces.

  “Send young Rory for a pastry,” said Twitchy Fingers. “Boys are always hungry.”

  “Are you offering me extra coin?”

  Twitchy Fingers sidled closer. “Maybe I am.”

  Ugh—that was not what she’d meant. “Please, just give me my money. I need to take Rory home.” He was standing too close, and she could not run away. She had the mule half unhitched, and she needed her wages. If only her old boss had not been killed in the explosion four years ago. He’d paid her without argument or difficulty every day.

  “This job doesn’t have to be all work. Give me a smile, won’t you?” Twitchy Fingers slipped an arm around her. His fingers touched her breast through her shirt.

  She winced and drew away. “Let go. Please.” Pinned between Twitchy Fingers and the mule, she couldn’t move. Anger welled up. Her arms tensed, and she had an intense desire to elbow him. Maybe slap his face, too, and kick him in the cods. But she needed this job.

  “Relax,” said Twitchy Fingers.

  Her body was stiff as an oak. “Please stop.”

  “Mom!”

  Her son—gods, he’d arrived just in time. She twisted out of Twitchy Fingers’ grip. “Rory?” Twitchy Fingers made another grab for her, but she dodged him and circled around the mule, jumping over the traces to look for her son.

  She was shocked to see a man behind Rory—a big man. He looked angry, and he was running in her direction. Her muscles tensed for flight, but she could not leave without Rory. So she darted toward the man and grabbed her son. The charging man veered around her.

  He grabbed Twitchy Fingers by the shirt and threw him against the wall.

  The mule flung up his head, brayed, and kicked at the traces.

  Clutching Rory’s arm so hard it was sure to leave a mark later, Isolda turned to flee and smacked head first into the broad chest of another man. He grabbed her, but not roughly; he only steadied her. “Easy—it’s Marius. And you needn’t be afraid of Drusus.”

  That man was Drusus? She turned to see.

  Drusus punctuated his words with blows as he held Twitchy Fingers against the wall. “Is that...how...you treat...a woman?”

  Isolda shrank against Marius. Much as she might have enjoyed watching her boss take a beating, she knew that what she was really watching was the end of her employment.

  “Stop it! Help!” cried Twitchy Fingers.

  Several other millworkers gathered around to watch, but nobody intervened.

  “She told you to stop,” said Drusus, hitting him again. “But did you listen?”

  His blows were so fast that Isolda could barely see his arm move. Twitchy Fingers was trying to block them, but he couldn’t get his arms up in time. Isolda had heard of war mages whose magic granted them preternatural speed and strength. Was Drusus one of them?

  “Enough,” said Marius.

  Drusus released Twitchy Fingers and returned to Marius, Isolda, and Rory, examining his hands and flicking the dirt out from beneath his nails. He brushed a smear of blood from his knuckles. “Not a bad workout, but your factory manager fights like a rabbit.”

  Twitchy Fingers reeled against the wall, battered and bleeding. “You have no business coming in here. I’ll call the city guard!”

  Drusus laughed. “Go on and try.”

  Isolda knew he would call nobody. The gunpowder factory was illegal. Her stomach sank. Where was she going to work from now on? Twitchy Fingers was sure to fire her, and she didn’t even have today’s wages. Looking around, she saw the coins he’d held back from her. They were scattered across the mill floor.

  Now appeared to be as good a time as any to retrieve them. She darted out of Marius’s grip and dropped to her knees to pick up the coins, shaking black powder from each. Thank the Vagabond nothing had struck a spark.

  Twitchy Fingers aimed an accusing finger at her. “You ungrateful bitch. You’re fired! Get out of here, and don’t come back!”

  Isolda staggered, trembling, to her feet. She grabbed Rory’s hand and headed for the door.

  She emerged from the factory floor into the waning sunlight of a summer evening.

  Marius trotted up behind her. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to cost you your job.”

  Isolda’s eyes welled with tears. “Never mind. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But it was. Drusus would never have acted if I hadn’t told him to. I was furious at the way that man was treating you, and I acted rashly. I didn’t think.”

  Isolda wiped her eyes. It was impossible for her to be angry with Marius. “You meant well.”

  “That man was mean,” said Rory. “I’m glad he got beat up.”

  Drusus, silent at Marius’s side throughout this conversation, chucked Rory on the shoulder.

  She took Rory’s hand and squeezed it. It was easy for Rory and Drusus, and even Marius, to think strictly in terms of what pleased them. They weren’t the ones who had to pay the bill when it came due.

  “How long has your boss been acting that way?” asked Marius.

  “As long as I’ve known him.” She waited for him to blame her. Why haven’t you done something about it? Why didn’t you find another job?

  But all Marius said was, “I’m sorry.”

  She felt herself flushing as a wave of emotion overcame her—embarrassment that he’d witnessed her humiliation, gratitude that he was so understanding, shame that he saw her as an object of pity. Words bubbled out of her throat. “He thinks that because I’m Sardossian he can do what he likes—that it doesn’t matter—”

  “Well, he can’t,” said Marius.

  Isolda took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself into Marius’s arms and cry. He was probably the only man in the whole of Kjall who would let her do it, and for that very reason she restrained herself. He was not the cause of her distress. He did not deserve to be clung to by a worthless woman who had nothing to offer him.

  “No man should treat a woman like that under any circumstances,” added Marius. “I’m sorry I caused all this trouble, but let me repair the damage. I’d like to offer you a job.”

  “Is that why you came here?” It occurred to her, suddenly, to wonder why he and Drusus had been at the factory. How had they even found her? “What sort of job?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said—all those patients not paying.”

  “You’ve got to go after them,” said Isolda. “Or else you’ll go out of business. Send Drusus after your delinquent payers; he’s scary enough.”

  “I can’t send Drusus. That’s not his job,” said Marius. “But you needn’t worry about my going out of business. I have a wealthy benefactor who covers my losses.”

  Isolda closed her eyes. Of course. Everything fell into place. No wonder Marius was lackadaisical about payments—he didn’t need them. It was becoming clear that Marius was a far more important person than she’d initially assumed. Who was the wealthy benefactor? A lover? A family member? Perhaps it was the same person who’d paid for his education. If she’d thought Marius was out of her class before, she saw now that he was far, far beyond her in both status and means. “Drusus is your bodyguard, isn’t he?”

  Drusus’s eyes twinkled. “What’d you think I was?”

  She shrugged. “A high-class servant?”

  “Not far off the mark,” said Drusus. “Some people think I’m his lover.”

  “Are you?”

  Drusus loo
ked amused. “No. Although he is a fine-looking man—”

  “Stop it,” said Marius. “Back to the point I was making—it embarrasses me that the surgery is not turning a profit. I hate having to go to my benefactor when I need money. It makes me feel like a charity case.”

  Isolda nodded. That was a feeling she understood.

  “You’ve also made me aware that some of my patients are taking advantage of me, and I want to put a stop to that,” said Marius. “You have a head for business, so here’s my offer. You come to work for me as my business manager. Your job will be to make the surgery profitable, by whatever means necessary. But you must also find a way to allow me to help those who can’t afford my services.”

  Rory grabbed her arm. “Mom, take the job. Please take it.”

  Isolda patted his hand but ignored him; her son was no doubt thinking of fish cakes and apple tarts. “Your offer is generous, but you can’t hire me. People will boycott the surgery if you’ve got a Sardossian working there.”

  His brows rose. “Is it really that bad for your people in this town?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” said Marius. “If there’s trouble, we’ll handle it.”

  Isolda winced. “There could be violence.”

  “It would be a security problem,” added Drusus.

  “That’s what we have you for,” said Marius to Drusus. He turned to Isolda. “How much was the gunpowder factory paying you?”

  “Three quintetrals. But—”

  “Per day? I’ll triple it,” said Marius.

  Isolda gritted her teeth. She wanted very much to accept this job, but it seemed wrong to ask Marius to take on all the problems that went along with her being Sardossian. “I really don’t think you should.”

  “Your benefactor would not approve,” put in Drusus.

  “What’s the point of having money and protection if I can’t do anything with it?” said Marius. “Isolda, you’re hired. I’ll expect you at the surgery tomorrow morning at eight.”

  ∞

  At the breakfast table, Isolda pored over the broadsheets, looking for a story, a hint, any evidence at all that someone had tried to assassinate the First Heir. The shop carried three different broadsheets, and she’d brought home a copy of each of them: the Cus Chronicle, the Tinto Gazette, and the Weekly Journal from the distant but influential city of Issves. But she couldn’t find a word about any assassination attempt, despite having heard from three separate travelers at the store that it had in fact taken place.

  Signs of disorder were on the rise. Several platoons of soldiers had marched through town, moving inland. Guard presence was diminished on the roads. Last week, a band of ruffians had threatened Tiwar and robbed the store. She and Jauld had absorbed the loss, but the event spoke of worrisome change. Was the First Heir losing control of the country?

  Rory, sitting in her lap, ran his finger along the words of the broadsheet, making nonsense sounds as he pretended to read. But his charm was no comfort to her today. What sort of future would her son have if the country fell apart? And why did the broadsheets say nothing? “Jauld, have you heard anything about someone trying to assassinate the First Heir?”

  “Why, is it in the papers?”

  “No, but word’s going round.”

  Jauld shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  And with that, the subject was dismissed. Her husband was the most incurious of men. A usurper of the throne would have to station a battalion of troops in the middle of their village before Jauld would take notice.

  He raised his head. “Chari’s up. Move those papers out of the way.”

  Isolda picked up her broadsheets and scooted to the opposite side of the table, taking Rory with her. Glancing up at the approaching Chari, who was visibly pregnant and still in her robe, Isolda felt that familiar gnawing pain in her stomach. She had trouble eating these days.

  Chari slid heavily into her seat. “Gods, I’m so tired.”

  “Get her some breakfast, Isolda,” said Jauld.

  Isolda shoved her chair back, set Rory down, and rose from the table. She tried to swallow her resentment as she moved into the kitchen to assemble a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit. For Rory’s sake, she could not afford to anger her husband.

  When Chari had first joined the household, the girl had been terrified and eager to fit in. For a while, she’d been polite and respectful to everyone. But it had not taken her long to figure out that she was Jauld’s favorite and that in his eyes she could do no wrong. Jauld slept exclusively with Chari now. He sat next to Chari at mealtimes, and when he went out to see his friends, he took Chari and left Isolda at home.

  When Chari became pregnant, she insisted that Isolda take over her household chores because she was too tired to keep up with them anymore. Since then, she’d only become more brazen in baiting Isolda.

  “Not the buckwheat,” said Chari. “The soda bread.”

  Isolda set down the knife, stewing. She’d already sliced the buckwheat. It was normally Chari’s favorite.

  “I help,” said Rory. He toddled toward the soda bread loaf, grabbed it, and started to bring it to Isolda. She gave him a smile—at least someone in the house was willing to pitch in with the chores. But halfway across the kitchen, he tripped and fell. The loaf bounced out of his arms and landed on the floor. Rory began to cry.

  “Gods, he’s such a brat,” said Chari. “Never mind, give me the buckwheat.”

  Isolda picked her son up off the ground and hugged him, whispering words of comfort in hopes they would ease the sting of Chari’s nastiness. Rory sniffled a little and toddled away. Isolda picked up the bread and returned to her work. She knew what Chari was trying to do, and it terrified her. Chari had already won the battle for their husband’s attentions; that one went to her by default because she was prettier. But one obstacle remained in the way of Chari’s plans for household domination: Rory. As Jauld’s only son, Rory was the heir by default. But what would happen when Chari’s baby was born?

  If Chari delivered a girl, there would be no conflict. Rory would remain heir by virtue of his sex. But if Chari had a boy, she was sure to want her child declared heir over Rory. Already, she was trying to drive a wedge between Jauld and his son, not difficult to do since Jauld didn’t like children.

  Isolda could not let Chari’s baby dethrone Rory; that would undo everything Isolda had worked toward over the past few years. Their wealth was Isolda’s. She was the one who’d produced it, and the least Jauld could do, in gratitude or simply as a matter of fairness, was to retain Rory as his heir. But Isolda feared that Jauld was too weak and too foolish a man to stand up for her or Rory. And if he wouldn’t, she would have to find a way out of this marriage.

  Chapter 14

  Marius was a better Healer than a businessman, but he’d made an excellent business decision in hiring Isolda. It had been a week now since she’d started working at the surgery, and already she’d made some changes. She’d begun by switching suppliers for some of his herbs and tinctures. He wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t told him, since the products were the same, and the difference would show up only on the balance sheet. But another change was more noticeable: Lady Fabiola had disappeared from the surgery entirely, as had Antonius and several other chronic nonpayers.

  A few paying patients had disappeared too, as Isolda had warned him they would. One had demanded that he fire “that piss-head,” and another had expressed concern that Isolda might be touching the medications. Marius had suggested that they find another surgery. He did not miss them.

  The day Isolda began work, she sat down with him and asked how he felt about various measures she could employ to persuade his delinquent patients to pay their bills. He’d decided he didn’t feel comfortable with anything extreme, such as calling on the city guard to throw the delinquents into debtor’s prison. So Isolda suggested something milder. She maintained a list of delinquent patients, and when one of them showed
up at the surgery, she or Drusus denied that person entrance until the bill was paid. If Lady Fabiola wanted to see him again, she’d have to pay what she owed him. Apparently she’d decided it wasn’t worth it.

  Marius had never realized how much his day-to-day testiness at the surgery arose from dealing with difficult or manipulative patients. Now that these patients were being screened out at the front door—or screening themselves out—he could focus on the healing itself, which he loved. He went about his work with a new lightness to his step.

  While he was delighted with Isolda’s work, her private life remained mysterious. Every evening, when the surgery was about to close, Rory came from his job at the fruit stand to meet her. Then the two of them disappeared into the streets of Riat. Marius had no idea where they went.

  He wanted to ask her to supper at the villa some evening, but every time he thought about it, the image of her former boss at the gunpowder factory loomed large. He didn’t want to be like that old Sardossian lecher, using a position of power to manipulate her into a personal relationship she might not want. And he didn’t want to scare her away. He didn’t think of himself as an intimidating man, but he was Kjallan, and she was Sardossian. He had a full-time bodyguard and the weight of the authorities behind him, while Isolda lived by her wits alone.

  He tried to pretend that his relationship with her was strictly business, that he wasn’t hoping for more. But try as he might to resist it, he was developing an attachment.

  How else could he explain the way his heart lifted whenever she was in the room, and his eyes fixed on her face, or, embarrassingly, a little lower? At the palace, he’d danced with eleven Mosari women in a row, each of them undeniably lovely, and he’d had no response, emotional or physical, to any of them. And then yesterday, his hand had brushed against Isolda’s in the dispensary, purely by accident, and he’d sprung a cockstand like some mewling fourteen-year-old.

  Tonight he would meet with her after the surgery closed. She had some plan she wanted to discuss. It was business, but all the same he felt light in the chest, a little shaky at the prospect of spending time with her.