“God’s blood,” Keifon whispered. He hurried to gather the rest of his instruments, scrubbed them in water and soap, then rinsed them with alcohol. He scrubbed his hands, pulled the bloody cloth from under the patient’s arm, and washed off the sticky antiseptic and flakes of scab tissue. The Nessinian pillowed her head on her crossed arms. Keifon could see antiseptic residue on her fingers, but she did not move to clean up.
“Excuse me?” Another patient, a young woman, peeked around the curtain.
Keifon forced a welcoming smile past his grim thoughts. “Hello there. We have a patient recovering here, but if you don’t mind staying quiet, we can see you.”
She flicked a glance over at the unconscious man. “Oh, it’s Curno. Were you able to do something for his arm?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now, if you’ll have a seat over here...”
The new patient was exceptionally susceptible, and he found himself scaling the act back. She had to pay attention and take him seriously, instead of just gazing into his eyes. He listened to her afflicted lungs, prescribed more sleep and twenty minutes a day breathing herb-infused steam, and wrote his recommendations for the apothecary. The Nessinian stepped away to let him use the desk, and paced over to the water barrel to wash up. No one saw that the book he spread over the desk was a dictionary, not a medical reference. The patient didn’t know that he had to copy the words individually. The apothecary would have noticed by now, from his recommendation slips, that his handwriting in the Kaveran script was childish and awkward. It was embarrassing. But it couldn’t be helped.
As the young woman left, thanking him effusively, the patient on the table stirred and groaned. Keifon jumped to his side. “Sir, please lie still for a little while longer.” The man muttered something incoherent. “That’s right. We’ve gotten it out, and your arm will be good as new. Just let the anesthetic wear off.” He patted his arm. “You’re doing fine.”
The Nessinian had recovered enough to make notes in her logbook – which, Keifon reflected, she had the right to do now. She had stolen his patient, and now she could take the credit.
She picked up a new patient soon afterward, and by the time both of them had finished their next set of examinations, the man with the sickle wound began to come around for good. He lifted his arm and stared at it.
Keifon cleared his throat. “Um. She – Agent Despana closed you up after I’d cleaned the wound.”
The man flexed his hand, bent his elbow, and touched his fingers to his thumb one by one. “I can go back to work?”
Keifon looked to the Nessinian, and she continued. “I don’t see why not. Please rest for a while longer, a day or two. If it starts to swell, please see the local doctor immediately. But your arm should be fine.”
He clasped the spot where the wound had been. “Bless you,” he said at last. “Bless you both.”
“Thank you, sir,” Keifon said, as the Nessinian echoed something similar.
He paid them both, despite their polite protests. When he had gone, Keifon lingered by the door, his hand on the curtain. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t undermine my expertise in front of the patients.”
“...What?”
“I had the situation under control. You didn’t need to barge in.”
“You couldn’t have done what I did, and you know it. I was doing what was best for the patient.”
He turned halfway. “If you can handle this clinic on your own, I’ll have the Benevolent Union transfer me.”
She was on her feet, clenching her fists. “Ugh! That’s not what I said.” She sighed, but Keifon’s glacial resentment would not shift. “You took care of taking the metal out. I would have had to do the same thing. But you couldn’t close it the way I could, and I knew he would recover faster that way. I did what was best for the situation at hand.”
Keifon sized her up. She seemed to believe that. He sank into one of the stools, arms folded, staring at the examination table. She wasn’t wrong. A recovery time of some weeks had reduced to no time at all. Still. Was he of any use here? Or was he to be this spoiled child’s servant, carrying her things, lining up her patients, while she accomplished healing that was completely out of his reach?
“Fine,” he said at last. “But don’t do that again. I’ll handle my patients, and you handle yours.”
“Fine.” She turned toward the sound of the food vendor outside. “I’ll be back.”
She left, and after several minutes Keifon began to try to relax. His stomach knotted. Were it not for the expense, he would have taken some ginger extract from his kit to soothe it. Of course, he hadn’t eaten all day, which might also have contributed. But the thought of food made him queasy; if the Nessinian came back with her dinner, he would have to leave.
Rereading his notes helped a little. He made a few notations to clarify the more rushed entries from the late morning. He did not elaborate on the sickle wound cleaning.
The Nessinian returned, empty-handed, saying nothing. Keifon claimed the next patient who came in and left the next two, in quick succession, to her. The flow of traffic picked up outside the tent as evening approached. Many of the townsfolk seemed to be finished with their own work, and had come to the caravan to socialize and shop.
If he’d understood the Benevolent Union’s notes, they would be on the road for a few weeks straight, with one-day stops at some villages along the way. The next long stop was far to the east, where they’d stop and trade in the hill country for a full week, over the Feast of Darano, before turning north. It would be four years – four very long years, unless the Nessinian broke her contract first – but dividing it into pieces, concentrating on this stop and that stretch of road, made it feel almost manageable.
At nightfall, the caravan guard circulated and lit torches on the path. The patients had stopped straggling in. Both Keifon and the Nessinian admitted that they would stop for the night. She began to fold the stools and the table. He left her to that minor task and began to untie the tent’s side walls. Grumbling, she carried half of the furniture toward the passenger wagon as he continued to break the tent down.
With the tent walls rolled up and tied, Keifon could watch the camp around them as he dismantled the tent’s framework. The caravan was swarming with activity, though many of the visitors flowed toward the town. Many of the merchants headed for the center of the camp, and between the other tents he saw glimpses of a bonfire being built.
“Coming?”
Keifon started at the voice. The apothecary stepped off a chair, having untied the awning over his stall. “We get together every night, unless there’s rain.”
Keifon remembered the evening gatherings of the farmhands, alive with ale and music and loud conversation. The members of his unit in the Army had gathered as well, in smaller groups – the full fifty gathered only at holidays and after training milestones. He’d avoided most of those large gatherings, stealing away with Kazi or seeking out the handful of his fellows who had accepted his limitations. He wet his lips and remembered that he could leave if the tone turned threatening. Or if he couldn’t resist temptation. “Thank you for the invitation. I may do that.”
The apothecary folded the awning and packed it into one of his cases. He put on a bored expression, but Keifon realized that the apothecary was watching him.
Keifon nearly lost control of the tent poles as he began to disconnect them. The apothecary hauled off his equipment and inventory. The Nessinian reappeared, picked up the rest of the folding tables and chairs and headed toward the passenger wagon. By the time Keifon was finished fuming at her, the tent was down.
The Nessinian had stowed their other gear under one of the seats, and Keifon added the tent to the pile. He made one more trip to the clinic’s space to pick up his notebook and valise and plodded toward the camping tent.
She wasn’t there when he arrived. Keifon went about building a fire and set a kettle to boil over it. All he wanted was to sleep, or to sit by the bonfire and listen as well as
he could, but with the end of the business day his appetite returned. When the kettle boiled, he poured in some of the rice he’d bought in Vertal and put on the lid.
Keifon lay back to rest while it simmered, staring at the sky. His mind churned with medical terms and fragments of conversation in Kaveran. He let it roam for a while. This would become easier in time, just as his Army training had, or his apprenticeship. He believed this theoretically, although the bleary fatigue that enveloped his brain made it difficult to fully accept.
The Nessinian returned to the campsite with a handful of wildflowers. He frowned at her and let it go. She would do what she wished. It was no concern of his.
When the water had boiled off, he dished out a bowlful and ate slowly, not bothering to flavor the rice. The blandness was easier on his stomach. The Nessinian, ignoring him, poured some water into her cup, and placed the flowers in it. She set this by the fire and fetched a flat wooden case and their lamp from the tent. She propped the case on her knees, pulled out a notebook and a pencil, and turned the book to a fresh page. She bent aside to light the lamp, and then set about drawing the bunch of flowers.
This was unexpected. Keifon tried not to react, sipping water along with his dinner. Was art her hobby? Nessiny was full of artists, wasn’t it? Artists and opera, and backstabbing nobles. That was all he knew about Nessiny. Wondering about this at least kept his mind off the clinic. Or the apothecary.
Half of the rice was enough for tonight. Keifon sealed the rest in a crock and left it in the larder chest for the next morning. The Nessinian went on ignoring him, absorbed in her work, as he set the teakettle over the fire. Some tea, and then he would join the gathering at the fire. Or he might take his nanbur and find a quiet place to practice. That seemed more appealing at the moment. He could talk to the apothecary when he was less exhausted. Playing for a little while would help him relax, and it would not be mentally taxing.
When the water was ready, he let the tea leaves steep for a while. The Nessinian looked up from her notebook and addressed him for the first time in hours. “Do you mind if I have some tea?”
“Uh... no. Go ahead.”
She poured herself a cup as he drank his tea. Her notebook lay on the ground. The drawing was a study of the plant, with insets detailing the leaves and flowers. It looked more like a medical illustration than a painting. Perhaps it was a Kaveran medicinal herb that he hadn’t encountered.
He was taking an interest in her actions, Keifon realized. She had crossed his path, like an oddly shaped cloud, and he was curious. That was all.
When the tea was finished, he slipped into the tent to retrieve his nanbur. He’d been away all day, and it was just where he’d left it. He would have to trust in the caravan guard to keep it safe, he’d realized on his first day out. It was a little difficult to accept.
“Oh, are you going to play?” She looked up from her drawing as he emerged.
“Practice, that’s all. I’ll be back soon.” He headed for the edge of the camp before she could respond. She could get angry, be disappointed, bargain with him – he didn’t have the patience for any of it.
Outside the camp, a fence ran along the edge of the road, separating it from a pasture. The caravan’s stable master had a tent at the nearest edge of the camp, and the pasture owner’s farmhouse was visible in the distance. Otherwise, the area was deserted. Most of the caravan’s traders had dismantled their stalls and gone to the bonfire, or gone back to their own tents. At most, he would be overheard by a grazing horse.
Keifon pulled out the nanbur before hopping onto the top rail. He took a deep breath, readjusting to the weight of the instrument in his hands. He had practiced on a riverbank last time. It wasn’t the same as feeling the grasslands roll out around him, hearing the distant sounds of the herd. But he wasn’t a rancher anymore, or a rancher’s son.
He plucked the strings one by one. The air was dry enough here not to damage the tuning. He could be thankful for that. A few scales up and down loosened his fingers. It seemed dangerous to play half of the songs he knew – he did not want to play anything nostalgic or patriotic. Not here. He started a love song and abandoned it; too much resentment was creeping into its happy notes. A lament would have to do, one that he had played on the riverbank. It was another love-lost story. Tragic circumstances, implied death, nothing too close to the bone. No anger. No betrayal. Not in this story.
He had brought his nanbur to the inns sometimes, playing with chord patterns and putting phrases together, turning Kazi’s political ranting into an anthem. Sometimes he had backed the polemics with fragments of patriotic hymns, pretending not to notice, turning them into something strange and contradictory. Kazi would stop and glare at him, too proud to acknowledge the jest any other way. Keifon would smirk, Kazi would sigh, and they would move on to things other than talking.
Keifon rested the nanbur on his knees and stretched his shoulders. Was this helping? He wanted to do this, to remember everything Kazi had said until it stopped hurting. It had to stop hurting, or at least hurt less. People said that it took time. For him, with Eri, it had taken time, and nearly dying, and joining the Army, and Kazi. And it had hurt a little less. When he’d gone to say goodbye to their daughter, he had tried not to look at Eri.
This wasn’t helping. He stretched his hands and started a more neutral song, a harvest song, even though it was the wrong time of year for that. It was brisk, uplifting, and difficult to remember. He hadn’t played it for months, and it took concentration to summon the proper progression. It was just a song. Pleasant sounds in the air. A challenge for his hands and his mind. Nothing more. He played until his hands tired. The torches in the camp showed him the way back.
Agna: Loss
The next campsite, in a clearing in the woods outside Prisa, was just like all of the others. A little while after dark, the patients stopped coming. The Yanweian stood and began to pack up his kit. Agna wordlessly did her part, and between them they dismantled the clinic tent and returned to the camp tent. In the field next to the camp, a mulberry tree reached a heavy branch over the fence. Agna paused to pick a sprig of leaves and berries. It would make a good subject. She could even send her sketch to Lina. Her sister would enjoy studying such things, identifying the subtle differences between the plants here and those at home.
Cradling the leafy twig in her hands, Agna returned to the campsite and filled her drinking cup with water. She propped the little sprig in the water, leaning against the side of the larder chest, before fetching her drawing supplies from her trunk and the unlit lamp from the tent floor.
Agna settled in and laid out her pencils, charcoal for shading, and drawing paper. She turned her notebook to a blank page, propped the stationery box on her lap, and sketched out the dominant lines of the composition. It would strain her eyes to do fine detail work in this light, but she could at least rough in the beginnings of her drawing.
Look, Mama, I’m finally practicing, she thought wryly. Too late, though. The Agna who had gone to art school instead of the Academy lived in another world, in another time. She would have stayed in Murio. She would never have met Esirel or Rone, her best friends. She would never have learned how to speak Kaveran. She would never have discovered how much she loved healing. She would walk an uncomplicated path into her destiny, and she would have her parents’ unequivocal support. She would sleep in a real bed, and consort with respectful and like-minded peers... but all the same, Agna felt a little sorry for her.
The Yanweian ignored her, stacked half of their remaining firewood and lit some tinder. He cooked whatever it was he ate, and then left. Agna packed away her drawing supplies and poked through the larder chest to find something halfway edible.
The Yanweian returned in a sleeveless undershirt, his sleeping pants, and socks, carrying his clothes and shoes. He traded his laundry for his lute case, sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire, and plucked some notes.
Agna ate dinner, ignoring him as best she cou
ld. She wondered what he had made for dinner, and whether she could learn anything from his technique. She couldn’t ask any questions without irritating him, and she hated to admit that he knew more about it than she did. She wondered whether anyone had written books about cooking over fires, and whether the bookseller in the caravan might carry them.
Leaving him to his practice, Agna gathered her kit and left for the baths. It was difficult to soak comfortably in their small tubs, but a good scrub always improved her mood. She would get a good night’s sleep and feel better in the morning. The soft, strange melody underlay her thoughts as she lay down to sleep.
***
Agna opened one eye a slit when the Yanweian returned to the tent. He bent and pulled her trunk toward the tent flap, and Agna’s blood froze. “Hey, what are y—” She sat up, and the Yanweian stood, and it was not him at all. It was a stranger, taller than the Yanweian.
“Shit.”
Agna screamed. From outside she heard a choked cry. The tent was empty apart from herself and the burglar. She found the Kaveran word at last. “Guards! G—”
The stranger clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, cinching an arm around her neck. Two more strangers erupted into the tent, one tripping over her trunk and swearing. Where was he? Where were the guards? One of the strangers hauled her trunk backward through the tent flap, while another grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back. The two of them dragged her, stumbling, from the tent.
The Healers' Road Page 6
