He tried not to stare at the folder as he spoke, unable to meet her eyes. “My daughter, ma’am. My — her mother has agreed to visits. We were married before—” His fingers touched the bare skin at his throat, where the marriage chain once lay, and he clenched his fists in his lap. “Before I was unnamed.”
“Ah. I’m glad you still have that relationship, then.” She folded her hands on the desk. Keifon watched her knuckles, beginning to swell with arthritis, as she continued the question that he had known would come. “In confidence, you understand… was it anything that should concern us?”
She was the first person he’d encountered in Kavera who knew to ask, who knew to suspect him. To these foreigners, and even to Agna, his name did not mean anything. They thought it was a simple set of words, a Yanweian cultural quirk. It did not suggest violence and betrayal and lies. It did not make him suspect. Foreigners did not know to ask, why did your family see fit to drive you out? What have you done?
“It’s a blunt question, I realize,” the doctor said, her voice softening. “But we aren’t in Yanwei now. Directness is one of Kavera’s charming qualities.”
Her voice was still warm. From Nijin, Keifon thought. She was from the capital, educated, not noble. It was the accent that belonged to most of his superiors in the Army, all men and women of principle. She was not, he told himself in an inner voice with Agna’s cadence, probing for reasons to fire him before he began. She had known he was nameless from the beginning. She simply wanted to know why.
And so he answered. “A drinking problem. And poor business decisions. My family business — it was a horse ranch — it was reclaimed by my relatives before I could run it into the ground. I’ve been better since then.” He hadn’t relapsed since setting foot on Kaveran soil, even when he had to stay up all night praying. He had his gods to thank for that fact. And the clean break that Kazi had made in his life. And Agna, indirectly.
“Hmmn. Simple enough as a sin. You’ll excuse me if I say I’m glad to hear it. Compared to thievery, or killing too many patients.”
Keifon swallowed. “Y…yes, ma’am.” He was flushing, and he wasn’t sure whether it stemmed from embarrassment at having exposed his deepest shame to a stranger, or her easy joke about it.
“And I take it you trained in the Army afterward.”
It was easier once they moved onto his training. He could speak freely about his years in the Army. Dr. Rushu knew a few of the doctors who had trained him, which was hardly surprising for colleagues of a similar age. They had come from generations of doctors, not ranchers pretending to be doctors.
Focus. He was a medic now — it was in his name, for goodness’ sake. In this country he could even try to be more.
Eventually he worked up the courage to address it. “I need to ask, though. This apprenticeship will count as foreign training, won’t it.”
“It will. And the ban holds, for the meantime. It’s one of the radicals’ favorite chew toys, so time will tell. Until then, yes. We can’t practice at home. You’re sure you want to go down this road?”
Keifon stole a glance through her office window, which faced the branches of a pine tree. Fir? They didn’t have either pine or fir at home, only grass and meadow flowers. Agna might know what it was.
He faced the death of a life that he didn’t even have now. If he returned to Yanwei, he would go back into the service of the Army, not into private practice. Even the Yanweian Benevolent Union would not have room for a nameless medic; there were enough civic-minded second children of medical families to go around. In this country, he could practice without the Army’s oversight to make him legitimate. The Kaveran Benevolent Union trusted him to work in its clinics and hospitals and on the road. After two years of traveling around the countryside with Agna, he’d already taken on more medical work than he’d done in the Army. He’d had hundreds of patients of all ages and with all manner of maladies, instead of the same thirty, every one young and at the peak of fitness. He’d already gained more experience than he could have gotten at home.
A professional could not practice in Yanwei if he or she studied outside the country. But he, personally, could not practice freely in Yanwei at all, because he had a rancher’s blood, not a doctor’s. He mourned for a lost impossibility. This was, despite its limitations, the best path available to him.
He shook his head and opened his hands on the wooden arms of the chair. “I’m sure. I really do appreciate the opportunity.”
“So it wasn’t just pretty words.”
Keifon looked up, and the doctor smiled. Keifon tried to smile back.
Agna: The Association of Academy Alumnae
The assistant left her at the door. Agna stood in the doorway — not lingering, not lurking, she reminded herself — until the head of the Benevolent Union base looked up from his writing.
“Do have a seat, I’m almost through.” He spread a hand toward the chairs arrayed in front of the polished bulk of his desk. Agna swept in and chose the center chair. As she smoothed her dark brown healer’s robes, she wondered whether normal clothes might have made a better impression. No matter; she was here now, dressed as a Divine Balance healer, despite being off duty. She’d play the hand she’d chosen.
Aines Shora hadn’t changed much since her first glimpse of him a year and a half ago. He seemed to be in his late forties, dressed in a wool suit with a few tasteful touches of detailing — polished buttons here, a trace of embroidery there. Agna’s memory of men’s fashion was imprecise, especially after two years in the back country, but the quality of his clothes spoke of exacting standards and careful selection. He wore his hair and beard short, making no attempt to downplay the streaks of gray. And though he continued writing as Agna waited, his tone had not been that of an overlord too mighty to give an underling due attention, but that of a colleague caught at odds and asking for a moment’s patience. It was probably just as cultivated as the rest, Agna suspected, but she appreciated the gesture.
She folded her hands in her lap and took in the room as he set down his pen and blotted the letter. His office was just as well-appointed as his personal grooming; the walls were dark, polished wood, and the carpet under her chair was a springy wool pile. A few implements were laid out on his desk — an inkwell, a tray of blotting paper, boxes for incoming and outgoing mail.
Now that their second meeting was upon her, Agna found it harder to resent him for the circumstances of their first meeting, a year and a half ago. She’d searched too hard of her own volition for signs of Rone, her old Academy mentor, for reasons why he might have come to this country, and for reasons why he would tell her so little about his life once he had come here. She’d found a sign in this Benevolent Union base, just ambiguous enough to drive her mad: a painting of Rone with a building crew, and Aines Shora standing by. He’d come by in real life just then, and an offhanded, admiring comment from him had echoed in her head for weeks afterward.
She’d tripped right into it at New Year’s, and gotten the truth she had feared. Over a simple cup of tea with her old friend, she had cracked open so many old misunderstandings. Rone was no longer a campus leader and tournament champion, but an expatriate like her, just one more person trying to build a life without blueprints. He’d done things he regretted and things he hadn’t, and some things that were both regretted and not. She couldn’t resent either Rone or Agent Shora anymore for that. Questionable decisions came with being human. She’d learned it well enough.
Surely Agent Shora wouldn’t remember her first meeting with him, as brief as it had been. Enough of her old hero worship remained to make her certain he’d remember Rone fondly, but the awkward girl who had followed him across the sea would make a much less lasting impression. He couldn’t remember now, after a year and a half of meetings with Benevolent Union agents and patients and donors and local politicians. The thought was too unsettling.
“Have you spoken to Rone lately?”
Agna jumped. Agent Shora had set h
is letter aside and laced his fingers together on his desk.
“Uh — well, I spent New Year’s in Prisa with him. And we write letters.” Her cheeks warmed.
“Is he well, I hope?”
Deliriously, annoyingly happy, in fact — at least by the end of the festival. Agna twisted her hands together, remembered her composure, and made herself stop. “He’s well. Still, uh, running his swordfighting school.”
The flicker of expression that passed over Aines Shora’s face seemed more like acknowledgment than recognition — new information, received and cataloged. “Do give him my regards.”
“I will.” She wasn’t sure Rone would want to hear about him — she remembered the handsome priest she’d convinced him to speak to at the spring festival — but she would do her best.
She was thrown so far off track that the next shift in subject was an intense relief. “Moving on to your assignment here, Agent Despana. I’m glad to have another healer in our employ. And your records from the Union are exemplary. Thank you for your service.”
Agna swallowed and cleared her throat. “Thank you. I’m glad to be able to help.” She unfolded her hands on the polished scrolls of the chair’s arms. “I should be direct on one point, I think. I hope to pursue other opportunities in Wildern, and it may not be possible to devote my full schedule to the Union indefinitely. Likewise, I may have to travel back to Nessiny for a time, for matters related to this pursuit. I hope to make as much use of my healing training as I can, but I also want to be realistic about my long-term goals.”
“I see no problem with that.” Agent Shora steepled his fingers. “As long as adequate notice is given and we are not short-staffed, leaves of absence are a right extended to any full-fledged Benevolent agent. You can consult with Tima, the director of staffing in the hospital division, when it’s time.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Would you prefer a full-time post in the meantime, or less than that?”
“Oh, full time, please, certainly. At least for some time. I will need to get established here and begin to work on my other project.”
Agent Shora made a note on the file in front of him. “As for your contract, might a shorter term be more agreeable to you? A six-month or one-year renewal cycle, perhaps?”
“That’s very generous of you,” Agna said. “I appreciate the flexibility. I imagine I’ll stay on as long as I can.”
“Your project,” Agent Shora said, leaning back in his swivel-mounted chair. “That would be Jaeti Essry’s museum proposal?”
“Yes,” Agna said. It was too late to get unnerved now, and besides, it was heartening that her business partner had begun to spread the word. “I’m overseeing the art gallery half of the project. My family business is art dealing, you see. And I’ve built up some contacts during my travels, both in Nessiny and in Kavera. I hope to gather more advisors in Wildern now that I’ve arrived.”
A smile tilted the Benevolent Union leader’s mouth. Bait taken. “I see.”
There was no need to rush in yet. Agna pushed away the tingling feeling in her middle. She was here to talk about her healing career — what was left of it — not to hare off after art leads. She filed away Agent Shora’s apparent interest and kept her reaction down to a mild smile. “I want to assure you, my attention will stay focused on the work while I’m here. I’ve always been dedicated to my healing practice, whatever other plans might arise.”
“I don’t doubt that, judging by your records. It’s not a liability to have goals beyond one’s work. I employ people, Agent Despana, not machines. I’d be more concerned if you had no interests beyond your post.”
It had the shape of a rebuke, but Agna took it as a compliment. “Thank you for your understanding.”
“Glad to have you aboard. Now, you’ll want a tour with some of the hospital staff. Gaspare Angelico, if you can find him, and if not, there should be someone who can help you find your way. Stop in at the hospital offices; they’re on the third floor of the east wing.” He paged through some papers in her file and dipped his pen to sign one of them. “Welcome to the team, Agna.”
It was unprofessional to blush like this, but she could do nothing to stop it. “Thank you, sir.”
* * *
Agna vaguely remembered the other healers who had boarded the King’s Glory at Costa more than two years ago. Five Academy graduates had headed east that spring, Agna and four others. What were four more peers when she’d spent eight years surrounded by hundreds of them? They’d kept to themselves during the crossing — the two priests, the other two healers, and Agna. She’d all but forgotten about them in the intervening years.
They wore the standard dark brown belted robes, like the one Agna had worn nearly every day on the road, like the ones she’d worn every day to class and lab and practicum. The boy worked at a stone lab bench, surrounded by books and papers. The girl was tall, with shiny black hair in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder to her belt. She leaned casually against the lab bench, reading some papers. When Agna knocked on the door frame, she set them aside to make the Academy’s salute, both hands over her heart. Agna returned it.
“You’re Agna, then.”
“Yes, hello.” She’d practiced Nessinian with Keifon, but reverting to it now gave her the urge to add eighth-year healing student, which she was not. Not anymore.
The girl nodded. “I’m Fulvia Barbano, and that’s Ettore Cruti. He’s working right now and doesn’t like to be bothered, but this was a better place to meet than out in the halls.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Ettore said. “Welcome to the fortress, anyway.”
“The fortress?”
Agna noticed that a bit of white threaded through Ettore’s hair, which fought with his round, unlined face to produce an effect like a kid playing dress-up as an older man — even though she knew they were the same age. “Seeing as we’re all stuck here, and—” He twirled a hand in the air, indicating, perhaps, the bulk of the hospital itself. “For a while the upperclassmen were calling it the Healer Pit in Kaveran, but I forget how you say that.”
“‘The healer pit,’” Agna remarked in Kaveran.
“Is that it?” Ettore smiled as though Agna had pulled off an amusing pub trick.
“Uh…yeah.”
“Ha. ‘The healer pit.’” He laughed toward Fulvia, whose expression did not change. “Did you talk to them already?”
“Well, no, I just translated. I must say ‘hi, I’m Agna, I’m a healer from Nessiny, what seems to be the trouble today’ a hundred times a day, plus, you know, ‘pit’ isn’t too uncommon a word.”
“Wow, you’re good at Kaveran.”
“You’re just terrible at it, Torie,” Fulvia said. “So you’re the seventh healer. We’re still outnumbered.”
Seven healers, in the whole hospital? “Outnumbered by…?”
“The Tufarians. They’re up to twelve. Though Brother Nemi probably isn’t going to live much longer,” Fulvia said. Her voice ricocheted off the lab’s polished surfaces like a skipping rock.
“Yul.” Ettore’s eyes flicked toward the exits, as if affirming that no Tufarians were eavesdropping behind the cabinets or in the sinks. “Less of that.”
Fulvia crossed her arms. “Anyway, it’s good to have another person. Giada and Lorenzo graduated two years before us. Rubina and Gaspare were a year before us. Gaspare is probably going to stay after his assignment is over, like you. His Kaveran is really good. Ettore hardly bothers to speak any, so he does research here.”
“Hey, I speak plenty,” Ettore broke in. “One beer, please! Which way to the Benevolent Union?” He spoke the Kaveran words as though he’d memorized them, without meaning. He seemed to expect Agna to laugh along, but his chuckles petered out alone, and he turned back to his notes.
Fulvia went on. “I’m pretty good. Sounds like you’re really good, though.”
“I studied at the Academy,” Agna said, realizing that for the first time in a long while,
her listeners could appreciate what that meant. “And I’ve been living here for two years.”
Fulvia shrugged. “Yeah. So do you specialize? I’m very good with nerve blocks, and Torie is the best reconstructive surgeon in the world.” Behind her Ettore blushed through his boyish scruff, but did not protest. “Except they only bring him out when they need to, because he has to have everything translated, and it’s a pain.”
Backtracking through her speech, Agna found the original question. “I didn’t specialize, no. I spent most of my side credits on Kaveran language, business courses, and world history.”
“You’ll be good at general rounds on the floor, then. Most people don’t care if you’re a foreigner as long as you can heal them.”
“I see. I’ll have to have a look around.” She’d hoped she could reconnect with her fellow students and have a tour at the same time, but her brain itched at the thought of a full barrage of Fulvia’s observations, all the way through the hospital. Though neither of them seemed like bad people, exactly. She wouldn’t mind trying to get to know them, for as long as they were here. “Hey, we should get coffee sometime. Though — not coffee, I suppose, around here. Tea.”
“Oh, we brought in coffee.” Ettore laughed. “There’s always some in the second floor break room. Bet we’re the only place in Wildern that makes coffee. Can’t live without it. We get it imported from Yul’s folks’ company. There’s a collection box in the break room so everyone can chip in for it.”
“Heh. Well then. I’ll have to check that out if they put me on night shift. Thanks.”
“I’ll go for dinner sometime,” Fulvia said. “Nobody has anything Torie likes, but I like Kaveran food.”
“Great. We’ll work that out sometime. I’ll see you.”
The Healers' Home Page 5
