Bastan continued staring at the page. Sam had seen that kind of expression from him before, and it had her slightly worried. “What are you planning?”
“I might pay a visit to this healer friend of yours and see what he figured out with the paper. Maybe there’s more to it than only the blood. If there is, and if that’s how the highborns can communicate with each other, then I’ll do everything I need to understand.”
Sam was too tired to care what he intended, other than worrying about Alec. He’d helped her, and she didn’t want Bastan doing anything that would harm him.
“Only questions, Bastan. Don’t hurt him.”
“You care about a healer you just met?”
“I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. I owe him.”
“I need to know the secret to this paper, Sam.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to torture him. You can ask him questions.”
Bastan’s mouth twisted in a look of almost distaste. “I’ll do whatever I need to get the answers,” he said. “There are men working in my city that I need to know about. I will have answers, even if that means going to your apothecary friend.”
“And if he’s highborn?”
Bastan laughed. “Highborns don’t work as apothecaries. Physickers, yes, but apothecaries are merchants. I can question a merchant without fear of reprisal.”
“Just… don’t.”
“You’ll owe me.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. She didn’t have the energy for much else.
“I promise to be circumspect in my questioning.”
He stared at the page, ignoring her. Sam had enough experience with Bastan to know he wouldn’t say anything more unless he wanted to. Once he got into a mindset like this, he was bound to remain focused.
She could wait for him to finish, but she preferred to leave instead. She needed to sleep, then she had to start planning how to get Tray out of the highborn cells before their questioners harmed him.
“Can I have a sheet?” she asked.
Bastan didn’t answer.
Sam sniffed and used her staff like a cane as she stomped around to the other side of his table and pulled one of the remaining sheets from the drawer, folding it and stuffing it into the pocket of her cloak. Through it all, Bastan didn’t look up, so she left him alone so she could go rest.
11
Searching For Supplies
Alec sat at the desk, the quill resting lightly in his hand, the nib still coated in the thick blood ink he’d mixed. He didn’t know why he continued using this ink, but that he’d used the pen in the blood ink as long as he had, he probably needed to pick up another quill, as well. Otherwise, his father would be upset.
He looked at the words he’d added to Sam’s piece of paper describing Hyp’s symptoms. They were really no different from when he’d visited earlier. He pulled the sheet of his father’s paper and looked at the notes he’d written after that visit.
Mild abdominal discomfort. Shortness of breath. Sweaty palms. Likely hysteria. Given prolac leaves and loral berries.
The same. But on this visit, Hyp had seemed even more miserable than he had before, though Alec didn’t know how that was possible. With Hyp, he always seemed miserable.
Sighing once more, he set the page on top of the stack with the others. He stoppered the ink and used a section of torn-off cloth to wipe down the quill. Another length of cloth covered his thumb, keeping the fresh cut he’d used to mix the blood ink dry.
He kept waiting for his father to return, but with each passing day, he began to suspect this was one of his longer harvests. Every so often, his father would disappear for weeks at a time.
Alec left the shop, twisting the lock behind him. It had taken a little working to repair the lock, but he’d managed to fix the damage Sam had caused. He didn’t really blame her for breaking in. With the injuries she’d sustained, she needed any sort of healing she could find, regardless of whether it came from an apothecary or one of the physickers, though if she really was lowborn, the physickers wouldn’t take her on. It was often hard enough to get them to take on those from Arrend, especially since they were so far removed from the wealthier sections of the city. Arrend wasn’t near the edge of the city—not lowborn as Sam would have said—but situated where they were, they weren’t highborn. They were merchants, a middle class in the city.
It was one of the reasons why Alec didn’t think he’d ever be able to study at the university, even if age weren’t an issue. He trained with his father, and he had come to terms with the fact that he would never be anything more than an apothecary, but part of him did want to go and study. How much more could he learn if he went? How many more could he help?
The street was busy. In the distance, he heard the sounds of gulls swooping over the canals, and the loud hollers from the barge drivers stopping to deliver grain, or textiles, or other supplies to the merchants. A few people made their way along the street, and most nodded at him as he passed. Alec weaved through the street on his way toward Mrs. Rubbles’ shop and paused outside.
She had a well-kept shop that was the envy of many of the other shop owners in the area. Clean glass windows displayed her recent acquisitions, with prices neatly written on them. Most wouldn’t dare waste paper on something like that, but as she was a stationery seller, it seemed only fitting that she would.
Through the window, he didn’t see anyone inside, and when he pushed open the door—hearing a tinkling bell much like the one his father used above their door—he didn’t see her behind the counter, either.
Alec wandered the rows of supplies. Stacks of paper were neatly arranged toward the front of the shop, most of high quality. He traced his fingers along the pages, realizing that even these of high quality didn’t really compete with the fine paper Sam possessed. Where had she gotten paper like that?
One wall had various inks, all of different colors. A few powdered inks were there, letting those with particular artistic flair have the ability to mix whatever colors they wanted. His father would occasionally mix specific colors, mostly because he liked to add diagrams to his journal, but Alec had never really found the need to draw the same way his father did. That was as much because he had no artistic skill as because he didn’t find the same value.
She had pencils and paints and other kinds of paper throughout the store. Lumps of wax and various seals could be found also.
“Alec,” she said, sweeping out from the back of the store, a wide smile plastered on her face. “I’m grateful to see you! Whatever you gave me worked. I’m feeling much better than I was before.”
He appraised her with a clinical eye and noted the swelling of her neck seemed to have gone down, and she no longer had the sheen of sweat he’d seen the last time. Would her heart rate have slowed too? She’d had an obvious glandular issue, one the medicines he’d given her should only have suppressed, but she looked as she claimed she felt—better than when he’d last seen her.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d still like you to see my father when he gets back.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Only if I start feeling poorly again. Why bother Aelus when I’m well?”
“I think I only masked it, Mrs. Rubbles. You’ll need to see my father to get a more definitive solution.”
“Alec, you shouldn’t doubt your skills. You’re nearly the healer your father is. I think in a few more years, he might even succeed in getting you into the university.”
Alec forced a smile. As much as he wanted that opportunity, he would take over the apothecary when his father decided it was time to retire and continue to help others in this part of the city.
“That’s nice of you to say,” he said. “When you have some free time, you should stop down to the shop so I can do a more thorough assessment. You know how my father likes to have everything documented.”
“I know. That’s why he’s my best customer. You know he’s the only one I order specific paper for? He has particul
ar needs for the stock, wanting to ensure it holds up over time, as if the other paper I could sell him wouldn’t.” She shrugged. “But for Aelus, I’d do anything.”
Alec nodded. Most felt the same way about his father. This part of the city was close in ways other parts were not, but his father’s willingness to care for others—regardless of their ability to pay—endeared him to others. Alec didn’t always agree with his father and the fact that he was willing to give away his services.
“Do you have any of his preferred paper?”
Mrs. Rubbles tapped the side of her nose. “I always keep a little in stock. Nothing like that paper you had. I would love to have a chance to learn more about it.” Alec smiled as she hurried around to the back of the store, moving with a swifter pace than he’d seen her manage in quite a while, before popping back out and handing a large stack of paper to him. “I’ll bill your father as I always do.”
Alec nodded, looking at the quills on one of the shelves. Most were standard quills, but there was one that looked as if it had an ink reservoir within it. He picked it up and turned it over. “This is new, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Rubbles smiled. “This style comes from Lycithan.”
“Lycithan?”
“They’re far down the coast. A hard sail, from what I hear, but they have such artisans there who can turn the wood.”
“It’s amazing.”
“If you like this, you should see the jewelry they produce. It’s equally impressive, and equally expensive, but a Lycithan jewel is said to steal any woman’s heart,” she added with a laugh. “Did you ever figure out the right mixture of ink?”
Alec frowned. For some reason, he felt uncomfortable sharing with Mrs. Rubbles what he’d needed to do to write on the page. There was a part of him that felt uncomfortable admitting that he’d used his own blood to write on the paper, but it was the only thing that had worked. Nothing else, even with all the different colorants he could try, made a difference.
“Have you ever known any paper not to accept ink?” he asked.
Mrs. Rubbles frowned. “Not take ink? That wouldn’t be common, or of much use, unless there was only a particular kind of ink that worked. I could see that having some value.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “There are plenty of reasons to want to communicate covertly, Alec.”
“But once it’s written, there’s nothing covert about it.”
Mrs. Rubbles grinned at him and winked. Alec was taken aback. Normally, she was a reserved woman, and the arthritis in her hips made her move slowly. There was something almost playful about her today. Had he given her something that would make her like this?
“Watch this,” she said. She went behind her counter and pulled out a sheet of parchment. It had yellowed edges that curled slightly as if it had been rolled up for a long time. She took a bottle out from underneath her table and dipped a narrow pen into the ink, then wrote her name in a flowing script: Marcella Rubbles.
She set her pen down and reached for another bottle beneath the table. She dipped a brush into the bottle and brushed it across the ink. Alec watched, fascinated. As he did, the ink began to fade then disappeared completely. It looked much like what the other paper had done, almost as if it were coated in the liquid Mrs. Rubbles used.
“What is that?” he asked.
She winked at him again. “That, my boy, is the secret most in my position would not share. Since you have me feeling better than I have in years, I figured I owed you at least a demonstration. Now watch.” She took the page over to a lantern and held it above to catch the heat. As she did, the paper began to glow softly, and the writing became clearer, revealing her name once more.
Mrs. Rubbles set the page down on the counter with a flourish.
“What’s to keep people from just holding any page up to heat to reveal the writing?”
She nodded. “That’s a good question. There’s always a mark on the page, usually in the corner, that tells you what reagent to use to reveal the writing. Some will be revealed by heat, though that’s too common to be of much use. There are a few that are combustible, so that when heat is applied, the page blackens and burns. A few require a specific chemical, but those are only useful if you can guarantee the recipient will have the right chemical.”
Had the page Sam stole—he had to believe the page was stolen, and not one she’d come across by any other means—had such a mark? He didn’t remember. He’d been so focused on trying to write on the page that he hadn’t considered looking to see if there was anything else.
“And you know the different marks?” he asked.
“Not all. Many are kept secret, only shared between those who will need to know. Those within the palace have a specific treatment they use on all their pages, making intercepting them almost impossible.”
With the quality of the page, he wondered if maybe that was what Sam had acquired. If that were the case, what was hidden beneath his writing? What secret did he mask?
“Ah, this isn’t really a topic I should be sharing with you, anyway, Alec. You’ll be more likely to document the medicines you use and the way treatments succeed, especially when you get to the university, so I shouldn’t fill your mind with worry about things like this. If you’re interested in inks today, I can show you the collection I have, and see if there’s anything there that might interest you?”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Rubbles. I should be getting back to the shop.”
She tapped her hand on the counter. “You tell your father when he returns that he needs to come speak to me. Now that I know you’re such a skilled healer, I think he might be able to hand over more of the responsibility of the day-to-day activity to you, and I have ways I can use him!”
Alec bobbed his head in a nod. “I’ll tell him.”
He left the stationery store, holding on to the bundle of paper from Mrs. Rubbles. Heavy clouds darkened the sky, and he worried about coming rain. Alec had hopes of being able to wander in the city a little longer, thinking maybe he could find his way toward the Caster section—not because of Sam, but to see where she would have gotten hurt—but with rain coming, he decided against it. Better not to risk damaging the paper.
When he returned to the shop, he noted the door ajar.
Hadn’t he repaired the lock?
Alec was certain he had, but maybe he hadn’t managed to completely fix it. It was one more problem to deal with. A gust of wind met him at the door, and he hurriedly closed it behind him. He’d need something to hold it closed until he could fix it properly. For now, the simple barricade would have to do.
Turning back to face the inside of the shop, he realized he wasn’t alone.
A hulking man stood near the back of the shop. With the coming storm, the inside of the shop was dimly lit, though a lantern remained glowing. The man held papers out toward the lantern, his thick brow furrowed as it appeared he attempted to read them. A sword hung from his waist, but that wasn’t what drew Alec’s attention. It was the crossbow slung over his shoulder.
The man pulled his eyes off the page and glared at Alec.
“Can I help you?” Alec asked. He noticed that one of the pages the man held was the one he’d written Sam’s symptoms on.
“Is this your place?” He had a thick accent. Was that from one of the outer sections? Alec hadn’t traveled across the entirety of the city—the extensive canals made that difficult—but his father had. He’d probably recognize the accent.
“This is my father’s apothecary,” he answered. Alec stayed toward the front of the shop, not wanting to risk the crossbow. If this was the man who attacked Sam, then he wanted to be as careful as possible. That meant having a way out.
“Apothecary. With notes like these, it appears you would be one of the famed physickers.”
Alec swallowed. That was always the risk of his father’s notes. Some within the university didn’t take all that kindly to having others do many of the same things they did, especially wh
en they had as much skill as his father did.
“Not a physicker. An apothecary. We keep notes of what works, and nothing more. We’re not trying to infringe on the physickers.”
The man’s glower deepened. “Do you think I care about the physickers?”
Alec didn’t know. As he took a slow step backward, moving toward the door, the massive man pulled the crossbow from his shoulder and casually aimed it at him.
“I thought you said this was your shop?”
Alec nodded.
“Then where are you slinking off to?”
His heart started pounding, and his mind began working through all the symptoms he experienced. Rapid heart rate. Sweating. Breathing becoming erratic. They could be Hyp’s symptoms just as well as they were his.
“I don’t want any trouble. Take whatever you need.”
The man snorted. “No trouble?” He took a step forward, the crossbow still aimed at his chest.
Alec didn’t dare move. If he did, and if the man triggered the crossbow, who would be there to heal him? He’d seen the effect the poison used on the bolt would have, and without his father or access to the university, he doubted he’d survive.
“What I need is to find out where she is.”
Sam.
“I don’t know where she went,” he said quickly. Lying to this man would only end up with him hurt. Telling the truth might lead to the same place, but at least he might survive.
“You helped her?”
Alec nodded. “She broke in and was bleeding. She nearly died from a crossbow…”
The man smiled grimly. “Nearly. That’s what I needed to hear.” He shook the pages in his other hand, hovering them slightly above the lantern. “And which of these is your notes on her?”
Something about this man told Alec that he didn’t want him to have the page describing Sam’s injuries, so Alec took a chance. “The one on the bottom,” he said, pointing to the page on which he’d first written Hyp’s symptoms. If the man couldn’t read—and there were many who could not—maybe he’d leave Alec alone and only take the sheet.
Wasting: The Book of Maladies Page 10