A Meklavaran physician…
At least one such man lived here in Aidon, unless his professional robes had been merely a disguise. But how could she find him again?
Perhaps Jaxar would come through this episode. If he had not improved by the following morning, she decided, she would find a way, even if it meant leaving the compound without leave, thereby risking Lycian’s wrath and the city patrols. She would hazard even worse, for she had no doubt that if she were caught by Cinath’s Elite Guards, she would have no possible defense.
Chapter Twenty
THE next morning, Tsorreh woke early, rising sluggishly through the borderlands between dream and day. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she had not rested. Astreya had not brought breakfast, which might not be a good sign. Tension twisted her belly, and even after she had scrubbed her teeth with a stick and rinsed her mouth, a cottony tang remained, like the dregs of fear. Although she wanted to rush to Jaxar’s chamber to see how he fared, she forced herself to sit still, to breathe deeply as she had been taught. There were prayers of supplication, prayers of thanks, and simply prayers of listening, of gradually quieting the mind.
“Reach out your hand, lift up my soul,” went the verse from the te-Ketav. “Be with me now, be with me now.”
As she repeated the holy words, Tsorreh’s fears gradually lessened, until she felt ready to deal with whatever she might find beyond the laboratory.
When Tsorreh knocked gently at Jaxar’s door and there was no answer, she lifted the latch and went inside. A bitter, chalky smell hung in the air, and an enameled bronze dish held a pile of brown-tinted ashes and lumps of melted resin.
Astreya was asleep on one of the benches beside the door, her mouth open, her cheeks gray with fatigue. Her legs splayed out in the awkward grace of all young sleeping things. There was no sign of Issios.
Jaxar, too, slept. Not wanting to waken him, Tsorreh tiptoed closer. It was good that he rested, but she saw little improvement in the puffiness of his skin or the sound of his breathing. She had not studied medicine in any formal sense, but she had read enough books on the subject to know that incense and prayers and a pitcher of parsley tea would not cure what ailed Jaxar.
She had made a plan, a bargain with herself, and now she must fulfill it. Clearly, Jaxar fared no better than the day before. For all she knew, he was worse. She touched the back of his hand, felt the too-soft flesh. Eyelids opening, he stirred. She saw in an instant that he still retained his wits, for the eyes that looked out at her glittered with intelligence.
“Jaxar,” she began, “this treatment is not working. You know that my people have knowledge in such matters. Will you allow me to consult a physician?”
“Tsorreh, my child, do not bring trouble upon yourself on my account.” His voice sounded weaker and reedier than ever. “My illness and I are old friends. In the end, it will win. I have known this for a long time.”
“But not yet,” Tsorreh shot back. “Not now. Danar needs you, Gelon—” the name stuck in her throat but she forced it out, “Gelon needs you.” Then, softer. “As do I.”
For a long moment, he made no answer. Perhaps he was struggling to take in what she said. Perhaps he lacked the strength to speak.
“Please.” She fought to keep her voice confident. “Let me go for help. If it is not the will of—of whatever god who watches over you, then at least we will have tried.”
Another pause, then a slow nod. The light in those bright, intelligent eyes shifted.
“I won’t try to escape,” she went on. “I promise.”
“Then go with my leave…and my blessing.”
Tsorreh squeezed his hand and felt the answering grip of his fingers around hers. She turned toward the door. Astreya was awake, watching. Issios stood in the half-opened door. For a moment, Tsorreh feared that the steward would prevent her from leaving. As she passed him, she saw in his face the love he bore for Jaxar. Issios would not stop her, not if there were the most remote chance that she might be able to help.
As Tsorreh descended the stairs, Astreya pattered after her, flushed and breathless. “I’m to come with you.”
“I don’t know how much risk this involves,” Tsorreh replied, hurrying across the courtyard toward the front doors.
“Less than if you were alone,” Astreya said with dry practicality. “Wherever you’re going, I’ve been there more times than you have.”
Tsorreh paused with her hand on the massive bronze handle of the front door. “True enough. But do you have any idea what I’m looking for?”
“Should I care?” Astreya closed the door soundlessly behind them.
“All right, then. We’ll start at the marketplace.”
* * *
The sun was well overhead as Tsorreh and Astreya reached the bottom of Cynar Hill. Every time they passed a pair of city patrolmen, Tsorreh tensed. Lycian had not seen them leave, and according to Astreya, the lady had left before dawn to pray at the Qr temple. She might well return before Tsorreh did and take action, if Jaxar were sleeping, or too ill to make his wishes known, or unable to testify that Tsorreh had gone on her errand with his permission.
The market had been busy before, but now it teemed with buyers and sellers, beggars and sightseers. The number of stalls had doubled. Between the rows of booths, more food-sellers had set up their wares. Fruits and vegetables, some of them looking so fresh they must have been brought into the city that very morning, covered tables and overfilled baskets and crates. Sights and smells filled Tsorreh’s head: a dozen kinds of greenery, turnips and radishes glowing like jewels, vats of olives swimming in their own oil, heaps of dried plums and apricots, fresh grapes like tiny purple globes, garlands of tarragon and oregano, braided strings of garlic and little red onions, and jars of vinegar.
“What are we looking for?” Astreya asked.
“Not what. Who,” Tsorreh replied. “A Meklavaran physician. I met him while you were visiting your friend at the oil shop.” She paused, turning slowly to survey the plaza. Between the booths with their slanted awnings and the press of the customers, she couldn’t see far.
“I was hoping…” Tsorreh stumbled to a halt. She felt like a fool. It had been such a slim, unlikely possibility of finding him here again. “Perhaps someone knows him, where he lives.”
“We can ask.” Astreya did not seem taken aback by the magnitude of the search. “I know these merchants. But we’re more likely to find your physician in the Reaches, down by South Gate. That’s where most foreigners live.”
Was there—even here, in the capital city of the conqueror—a quarter where Meklavarans gathered, preserving their traditions and learning?
Astreya pushed her way to first one and then another of the stalls to ask if anyone knew the foreign scholar. Yes, that was how these people would see him. With his somber robes and hat of folded cloth, he would bear little resemblance to their own priest-physicians.
The market was noisy, and people called out greetings, shouted out what they wished to buy or sell, bargaining and commenting on the quality of the produce. Tsorreh heard the high-pitched laughter of gossiping old men and the shrieks of children playing between the booths. Astreya managed to make herself heard above the din.
The first vendor was too busy to answer. He waved them away, impatient to greet a paying customer. The next had seen such a person but not this morning. The one after, scowled at Tsorreh and shook his head. Astreya pulled Tsorreh to the fountain, out of the press of traffic, and then to the shop of the oil merchant.
The young man in the canvas apron was energetically wielding a broom over the already spotless threshold when Astreya called to him. He looked up, grinned, and waved to her.
“Varan, this is Tsorreh, Lord Jaxar’s guest by order of the Ar-King himself.”
His gaze flickered from the ivory clasps at Tsorreh’s shoulders to her black hair. Tsorreh could not help noticing the shift in his expression, the tightening of his mouth.
“We can’t talk out here
,” he stated.
They went into the shop, cool and dim after the brightness of the market. The shop smelled of olives, sesame, and aromatic herbs. Jars of varying sizes lined the walls, the larger ones stacked in neat rows on the floor, several rows deep, with smaller vessels on the shelves. A cabinet sat beside the door at the far end, the only other furniture in the room. The floor and shelves were scrupulously clean.
“We’ve no time to visit today,” Astreya’s voice was businesslike, even as a smile dimpled her cheeks. “We’re looking for a Meklavaran scholar who was at the market the other day.”
At Varan’s questioning glance, Tsorreh added, “He is of my race, tall and thin, wearing long brown robes and a cloth hat. Do you know him?”
“Such a person has come into the shop once or twice.” Varan shifted uneasily from one foot to another. “I remember him because he purchased only a small amount of oil but insisted that it be of the finest quality.”
He went to the cabinet and drew out a bound sheaf of papers, flipped through them, and found the entry he wanted. “Yes, here it is. First pressing, fit for the Ar-King’s own kitchen, may-his-glory-never-diminish. It wasn’t a sufficient amount to cook with, which puzzled me at the time.”
But pure enough for medicinal purposes, Tsorreh decided.
“Did he give a name?”
Varan peered at the sales record. “Mar—Marvenion, I think.”
Astreya glanced at Tsorreh. “That’s certainly a Meklavaran name,” Tsorreh said. “And his address?”
“Try the South Bathar Hill district, I suppose. He looked rich enough to have moved out of the Reaches.”
Tsorreh supposed that was good, a sign of the physician’s status and success. She was anxious to be on their way once more. Who knew how long it would take to walk to this South Bathar Hill, let alone find the physician there? How might Jaxar fare in the meantime?
“Thank you!” Astreya planted a kiss on Vanar’s cheek.
Varan glared at Tsorreh, took Astreya’s arm and pulled her toward the back of the shop. In a hushed voice, he said, “Whatever is going on, I don’t want you involved in it.”
“What’s happened?” The girl’s tone turned worried. “What have you heard?”
“Only that it is not good to associate with her kind. They bewitch people and force them to do terrible things. Unholy things…”
Tsorreh looked away, her cheeks burning. She fled through the open doorway.
“That’s ridiculous!” Astreya’s voice rose, clearly audible from the interior of the shop. “Who told you such hateful lies?”
Standing outside the shop, blinking away tears that arose more from anger than pain, Tsorreh heard only fragments of Varan’s reply, which included the words, “omens” and “priests of Qr.”
So it was not she herself who had been the target of the priest’s inquisition back in Gatacinne but her entire race. No, somehow that did not seem right. She was too distraught to remember the interview in its entirety, but had the priest become interested in her only when he sensed the presence of the te-alvar?
“Lord Jaxar does not believe in such superstitious nonsense and neither do I!” Astreya stormed out of the shop with such vehemence, she almost knocked Tsorreh over. Fury turned her face red and taut.
“I’m sorry—” Tsorreh trotted to keep up with Astreya. But sorry for what? For causing trouble between Astreya and Varan? For being what she was?
They angled through the periphery of the crowd and onto a medium-sized street, heading east. Between the buildings, Bathar Hill rose low and flat, a short distance away.
“No, it is Varan who should be sorry,” Astreya said. “His family have always been devoted to The Protector of Travelers, who extends kindness to all, especially the poor and homeless. He should be ashamed to speak so of any stranger! And within your hearing, too! How could he be so—so rude?”
Tsorreh could not think of a reply. Would it have been any better to say such things in secret?
They walked on for a time without speaking. The street began to rise as they passed from a working-class district to one of more prosperous shops and dwellings. Once Astreya burst out, “Oh, my mother will be furious!” and Tsorreh thought it better not to make any comment.
After several inquiries of passers-by, they were directed to a modest street where tastefully discreet signs indicated a scattering of tonsorials and herbalists. A temple, sparse and gray, dominated the corner; the only visible offerings were tiny stones, moon-pale shells, and white ribbons. When Tsorreh asked what they meant, Astreya explained that it was dedicated to The Remover of Sorrows, and it took Tsorreh some time to understand that this god represented death itself.
The houses here were well-made, joined in rows, with bright blossoms in pots or on wooden balconies whose railings were carved like graceful, intertwining vines and painted soft green and purple. A row of dwarfed apricot and plum trees, some of them in fruit, ran down the center of the street. The shade and the smell of the fruit blended with an occasional waft of incense from one of the opened windows. It was, Tsorreh thought, a pleasant street, a street of hope.
“I can’t tell which house it might be,” Astreya said, pausing. “We’ll have to ask again.”
“This is it.” Tsorreh pointed to the small painted sign beside a door. Meklavaran script formed the initials, MRVN PHY.
Marvenion, Physician.
Tsorreh went up the single broad step and knocked. A moment later, a young girl of maybe ten or twelve opened the door. Instead of the usual Gelonian tunic of simple white cloth, she wore a long sleeveless vest of blue-black cotton, split along the sides for easy movement, over full pants gathered at the ankle. Her hair had been braided with little bells and tied back, and her smooth round cheeks were the same honey-gold as Tsorreh’s own. If Tsorreh had not been so anxious, so single-minded in her errand, she would have embraced the girl with delight at seeing a face so like her own, and familiar clothing, even the sound of the bells and the faint smells of cedar and sandalwood used to keep the clothing fresh.
The girl stared, wide-eyed.
“It’s all right.” Tsorreh spoke in Meklavaran and noted the girl’s instant comprehension. “We’re here to see the physician about a patient.”
Shortly, she and Astreya were ushered into a ground-floor room fitted as an office with chairs, divan, and table. Shelves held rows of jars and canisters, wooden boxes, and stoppered glass vials. It looked like a tidier version of Jaxar’s laboratory.
The girl returned in a few minutes with the very same man who had spoken to Tsorreh in the market. He wore his physician’s robes but no hat. When he recognized her, he hesitated. His gaze rested for an instant on her ivory shoulder clasps, the sure token that she was not a slave as he had first supposed.
“I never expected—” he murmured in Meklavaran, glancing at Astreya, with her pale skin and red-tinted hair. “Is this wise?”
“I have not come on my own behalf,” Tsorreh said, switching to Gelone, “but for the sake of my protector, who is in need of your tending.”
At Marvenion’s invitation, Tsorreh and Astreya sat down, the physician in one of the chairs, the two women on the divan. Tsorreh described Jaxar’s condition in as much detail as she could remember. He nodded from time to time. Occasionally she paused to consult with Astreya regarding what treatments had already been tried.
Some instinct prompted Tsorreh to avoid naming the patient. She did not know how a Meklavaran exile would react to the prospect of attending a member of the Ar-King’s own family. The physicians she had known in Meklavar were bound by solemn oaths to devote themselves to the welfare of their patients, regardless of rank, fortune, or political connections. She felt confident that once the physician had accepted the commission, he would treat Jaxar with the same scrupulous care as if Jaxar were his own father.
“You were correct to come to me,” Marvenion said, when Tsorreh had finished her description. “Symptoms such as these, the difficulty in breat
hing and the sogginess of the flesh, often indicate a grave condition. It is difficult to say whether the problem lies in the kidneys or the heart or another indisposition, not until I have examined the patient, but yes, I can treat him.”
A sigh escaped Tsorreh’s lips. Until that moment, she had not realized how shallow and tight her breathing had become. Her shoulders ached with tension.
“Then you will come at once?” she said, getting to her feet. “I fear the risk of every passing hour.”
“Then we will not delay to offer you the hospitality of my house,” he replied. “I will bring those medicines most likely to be indicated. It will take me only a few minutes to assemble them.”
From the cabinet, he took a box of patterned wood inlay, strips of pale cream alternating with russet and gold. The inside was divided into sections and padded with quilted cloth. A clasp secured the lid, reinforced by a braided carrying strap.
“Where is the patient?” he asked, as he selected several stoppered vials and placed them in the box’s compartments.
“Cynar Hill.” As she answered, Tsorreh’s heart gave a curious thump.
Marvenion frowned. “He must be a person of importance, your protector. He’s not—?” He turned to face her. “He is a Gelonian noble, then.”
She lifted her chin.
He paled visibly, his lips soundlessly repeating the name of the hill. With trembling hands, he set the medicine box on the table. “No, no. What you ask is quite impossible.”
“You accepted him as a patient! Will you now renege on your word?”
“I did not know what he was. If you had told me, I would never have agreed.”
“Why, because he is a Gelon?” she demanded. “Do you base your decision to treat a man on his rank?”
“He is of the race of our oppressors!” Marvenion shouted with such vehemence that Astreya cringed. “Besides, he must have a host of his own priests to tend him. There is no need for me to become involved.”
The Seven-Petaled Shield Page 26
