She grimaced. I had better be able to help this woman, or I won’t be letting him see much at all.
The house the man led them to was at the edge of the village. Their guide only paused once to ask a boy to fetch her father’s bag. Once in the house, he led them up the stairs to a bedroom, where a woman was dozing on the bed.
That the woman was ill was undeniable. She was so thin the skin of her shoulders, neck and face was stretched over her bones. Her mouth was open and as Tessia entered she quickly and self-consciously wiped away a line of drool.
Tessia moved to the side of the bed and smiled down at the woman.
“Hello. I’m Tessia,” she said. “My father was a healer and I was his assistant most of my life. What’s your name?”
“Paowa,” the man said. “She can’t talk easily.”
The woman’s eyes were wide with fear, but she managed a faint smile and nod in response.
“Let me have a look then,” Tessia said.
The woman opened her mouth. At once Tessia felt a shiver of sympathetic horror. A growth filled one side of her mouth.
“Ah,” Tessia said. “I’ve seen this before, though most often in men. It hurts when you eat, or even smell food, right?”
The woman nodded.
“Do you chew or smoke leaves?”
The woman looked at her husband.
“She used to chew dunda until this stopped her,” he said. “Her family were hunters a generation back, and they kept some of the mountain ways.”
Tessia nodded. “It’s a hard habit to break, I’ve heard. This is called ‘hunter-mouth’. I can cut out the lump and stitch you up, but you have to promise me two things.”
The woman nodded eagerly.
“Use the mouthwash I give you. It tastes utterly foul and dries you out so much you’ll swear you’ll never have any spit ever again, but it’ll stop the cut fouling.”
“She will,” her husband said, smiling. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Tessia nodded. “And stop chewing dunda. It’ll kill you.”
A glint of rebellion entered the woman’s gaze, but Tessia stared back, keeping her expression serious, and after a moment it faded.
“I’ll make sure of that, too,” her husband said softly.
“Now, let me see how much there is.” Tessia gently probed inside the woman’s mouth. Lumps like this had been treated by her father before. While removing them was usually successful, some of the patients sickened and died within a year or two. Others lived to old age. Her father had a theory that this was related to how strongly the lump had “stuck” to the flesh around it.
This one felt loose, like a large, slightly squishy stone inserted under the skin. Promising. Tessia removed her fingers and wiped them on a cloth that the woman’s husband offered her. She considered briefly whether she should attempt to cut the lump out.
As Jayan said, I’m not a healer. But I’ve seen this done. I know how to do it. It won’t be long before the lump grows so large she’ll either starve to death or suffocate. I have all the equipment... well, except the head brace. Her father used a brace he’d devised and had the metal worker make for him to hold open the mouth of patients when working on teeth and such. It prevented them from biting him out of pain or panic.
A knock at the door took the husband away, and he returned a moment later with her father’s bag. She asked him to clear the table beside the bed and, while he did so, performed her father’s routine check of a patient’s heart and breathing rhythms. When the space was clear she opened the bag and began to remove tools, salves and a calming tonic.
“Take this first,” Tessia told the woman, giving her the tonic. “I need you to lie on your side. Right on the edge of the bed. Arrange pillows behind you and under your head. Any blood and spit will drain out, so you’ll want to protect the bed with cloths and put a basin underneath.” The couple obeyed her instructions without question, which for some reason made her less certain of herself. They were relying on her. What if she got it wrong?
Don’t think about that. Just act.
Remembering her father’s advice about involving family members, she instructed the husband to rub a numbing salve inside and outside the woman’s cheek. This had the added benefit of making sure Tessia’s own hands weren’t affected by it.
She took several blades out and checked their sharpness, but as she began to remove the burner she heard Paowa whimper. Looking up, she realised the woman’s breathing had suddenly become rapid. Paowa’s eyes were on the blades. Tessia felt a pang of sympathy.
“It’s going to be fine,” she told the woman. “It will hurt. I’m not going to lie about that. But the salve helps and I’ll work as quickly as I can. It will be done and over with soon, and all you’ll have is a cut in your mouth all stitched up neatly.”
The woman’s breathing slowed a little. Her husband sat on the bed behind her and began rubbing her shoulders. Tessia took a deep breath, picked a blade and realised she hadn’t yet seared any of them.
And realised if she delayed much longer fear would overtake the woman’s reason.
No problem, she thought, and with a slight flexing of her will she seared the blade she was holding with magic. Then she set to work.
It was not easy, but nothing unexpected or disastrous happened either. After half an hour she had coaxed out the lump, sewn up the cut and applied a protective paste. Then she checked the woman’s rhythms again and pronounced her work a success. As the woman rolled onto her back, exhausted from pain and fear, Tessia rose and swayed, suddenly dizzy with weariness.
“Sit down.”
She blinked in surprise at Jayan’s voice, having forgotten he was there. He was offering a small wooden stool. Gratefully, she sat down and immediately her head cleared. Drawing her father’s bag closer, she rummaged inside and drew out a familiar wound cleanser.
“Have you a small clean jar with a lid?” she asked the husband. “And a bowl of clean water?”
The man produced the items, and she set about ensuring the jar was clean by steeping it in water she set boiling with magic.
The man watched calmly without comment, as if water boiling by itself was an ordinary and regular occurrence.
Into a measure of water she counted drops of the cleanser. As she gave it to the man she instructed him how it should be used, and when he should cut and remove the stitches. He drew out a pouch and she heard the sound of coins clinking.
“No, you don’t need to pay me,” she told him.
“But how else can I repay you?” he asked.
“Your whole village is feeding and accommodating us. That’s got to be cutting into everyone’s food stores and stock. My master would not approve of me taking money for this, either.”
He reluctantly pocketed the pouch again. “Then I’ll make sure you two have one of my fattest rassook each for dinner,” he said, smiling.
“Now that I could not easily refuse,” she replied, smiling ruefully. “We’d best get back in case our master needs us.” She looked down at Paowa. The woman was asleep, her mouth closed and face relaxed. “And remember, no more dunda.”
“I will. Whether she does . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll do what I can to help her stop.”
They walked in a weary, comfortable silence back towards where the apprentices were waiting. From the shadows cast by the trees, she guessed only a few hours had passed. Paowa’s husband left, at her request, to take her father’s bag to Crannin’s house instead of the stables. Next time someone took a peek inside they might not be as sensible or respectful of the contents.
As they came in sight of the apprentices she realised Jayan was watching her, and glanced at him. He was looking at her with a quizzical expression.
“What?” she asked.
“I, ah, I’m impressed,” he said, his face reddening. “What you did back there... I’d have given her up for dead.”
She felt her own face warming. He was acknowledging her skill as she had wanted, but for
some reason it didn’t feel triumphant. Just... embarrassing.
“It just looked impressive,” she told him, looking away. “But it was simple, really. Routine work.”
“Ah,” he said, in a tone that was too accepting.
No, it wasn’t simple! she wanted to say. I don’t know why I said that! But his attention had moved away, to the apprentices, and even if she could think of a way to correct herself without sounding a fool it was too late to try.
The last rays of sun tinged the highest leaves of the forest when the magicians emerged from Crannin’s house. A feast began, served on makeshift tables outdoors and lit by numerous torches and lamps. When Tessia and Jayan were served a large, fat rassook each, Jayan had smugly commented that Tessia certainly had a way with villagers and he would not be surprised if she could charm pickpockets into putting money into her wallet.
Only after the meal was done did Dakon find a moment in private to talk to his apprentices. He led them away from the main table, walking down to the end of the village, then turning back. From there the sight and sound of laughing and drinking gave the impression of a festival day. It only made the ache and guilt at the loss of Mandryn harder to bear. He turned to Tessia and Jayan. Both looked tired despite not having spent the day in the saddle.
“So what can you tell us?” Jayan asked, the tension in his voice obvious despite the quiet pitch.
Dakon sighed. How much can I tell them? The magicians had agreed that secrecy was necessary for their plans to work, but from what some had said it was clear they intended to let their apprentices know at least the general gist. Dakon too did not think it fair or wise to drag apprentices into danger without their knowledge.
“We’re going to rebuild Mandryn,” he said.
Two pairs of eyebrows rose.
“But . . .” Jayan paused to glance at Tessia. “But who is going to live there? Nearly everyone is dead.”
“People will come from other parts of the ley, or other leys, once it is known that there is no further danger. And we will eventually need a place to live.”
“Eventually,” Jayan echoed. “And in the meantime?”
“We deal with the Sachakans.” Dakon shrugged. “Which involves finding them, of course, then driving them out of Kyralia and making sure, by placing a watch on the mountain passes, that they do not return.”
“Drive them out?” Tessia looked surprised. “Not kill them?”
He looked at her, wondering if she was disappointed or angry. If she wanted revenge. She stared back, her expression growing uncertain.
“No, not killing them unless they force us to,” Dakon answered. “Werrin says the king fears doing so will stir up more support for Takado. Even if it didn’t, relations of those we kill may seek revenge. And we will be obliged to seek justice for further deaths. It could begin a cycle of vengeance – them retaliating for what we do in retaliation for what Takado and his allies have done.” He grimaced. “A cycle like that could start a war.”
His two apprentices nodded in what he hoped was understanding.
What would I prefer? he asked himself. Would I risk war for the sake of avenging the loss of Mandryn? Oh, I want justice for the deaths of my people, for the ruin of the home I grew up in. The thought of the rare, irreplaceable books that had burned stung, but not as much as the thought of the ordinary men, women and children who had been tormented and slaughtered while he was absent. Servants he had known so long they were more like family. People who had known and loved his father. Such a cowardly act, to wait until I was gone. Or did Takado not realise I wasn’t there? Well, I’m sure the king wouldn’t have been so reluctant for us to kill any Sachakans if a member of one of Kyralia’s powerful families had been murdered. That would have been an act of war.
Dakon understood the king’s caution, however. Sachakans would most likely be amused if Kyralians caught a few of their misbehaving ichani and threw them out of the country. But if Kyralians dared to kill Sachakans for merely attacking one little village and slaughtering a few commoners, the Sachakans might decide the empire needed to put their neighbour back in its place.
And if the Sachakan emperor’s grip on his own people was as weak as it was rumoured to be, he would not be able to stop them.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 21
The sun warmed Stara’s back as the wagon climbed the shoulder of the hill. As the horses hauling the heavily laden vehicle reached the top of the rise, the view beyond was revealed, and the young woman caught her breath.
A great city fanned out over the land before her. At the limit of its spread was the coast, and the dark sea lay beyond. The apex of the fan was the mouth of a river. The buildings and roads that radiated from that point were linked by the concentric curves of connecting thoroughfares.
Arvice. She smiled. The largest city ever built. I’m home at last.
She had waited fifteen years for this. Fifteen long years since her father had taken her and her mother to Elyne and left them there. Now, at last, he had sent for her, as he had promised so long ago.
As the line of wagons continued down the other side of the rise it moved into shadow. She shivered and drew her shawl up around her shoulders. For fifteen years of her life the sun had set over water, painting the city of Elyne gold and red. Now if she wanted to see a spectacular meeting of sun and water she would have to wake early enough to catch the dawn.
It feels like I’ve travelled from one side of the world to the other.
The climate was similar in Elyne and southern Sachaka, however. She almost wished it wasn’t. The same kinds of plants fed the same kinds of animals. The same types of trees bore the same kinds of fruit stolen by the same kinds of birds. The same views of fertile farmland surrounded her. Only occasionally did she notice something unfamiliar and exotic – an unknown bird, or a strange tree.
The mountains had been more exciting and interesting, with their cold stone precipices, towering spires, and trees that sprang stunted and twisted from impossibly steep inclines. The wind had sung with the voice of a demented, ageless woman and the air had been crisp and clean.
Once or twice the wagon drivers had spotted distant figures on unfeasibly high paths above. Ichani, they said. They had assured her there was little chance they’d be robbed. The ichani had no use for the dyestuff her father traded, and even if they had been tempted to steal it to sell, the pottery jugs it was transported in were too heavy and fragile to be worth carrying along those precarious mountain tracks. They knew there’d be no money on the wagon, and minimal food.
The wagoners had given Stara men’s clothing to wear, however. A woman of her beauty was worth stealing, they told her, using flattery to persuade her to co-operate.
They hadn’t needed to flatter her. She had liked dressing in the trousers and shift. Not only were they more practical than the dresses she usually wore, but she felt almost as if she was actually working for her father already as she helped the men with the lighter duties to enhance her disguise – much to their amusement.
She doubted her father would give her this sort of work to do when she arrived in Arvice, though. As the daughter of a Sachakan ashaki, she would be set to more dignified tasks. Like making trade deals and entertaining clients. Or overseeing the dye-making process and ensuring orders were filled and delivered.
She was well trained for the responsibility. Her mother had performed such work in Elyne for years, and included her daughter in every part of the process. Stara had hated it at first, but one day it had occurred to her that her father might want her back sooner if she was useful to have around, and from then on she had dedicated herself to learning everything she could about his trade.
Stara smiled to herself as she imagined listing her skills to her father.
I can read and write, do sums and accounts. I know how to talk a client into paying twice what he meant to, and be happy to. I know where all the dyes are made, and how, which minerals set them and what kinds of cloth take them best.
I’ve learned the names of all the important families in Elyne and Sachaka, and their alliances. And most useful of all...I can...I have...
She felt her heart skip. Even in her mind it was hard to imagine telling him her greatest secret. One she had never even told her mother.
A few years after arriving in Capia, Stara had befriended the daughter of one of her mother’s friends. Nimelle had just been apprenticed to a magician, and was disappointed to find how few other girl apprentices there were. The girl had tested Stara for magical ability and found plenty. But when Stara had asked her mother what she would do if her daughter had magical ability the woman’s answer was firm and unhesitating.
“I need you here with me, Stara. If you became a magician’s apprentice you’d have to live with your master for many years. Do you want to be separated from your mother as well as your father?”
Stara could not bring herself to abandon her mother. When Nimelle had heard this, she had called it a “waste’. She offered to set loose Stara’s magical ability herself, and teach her the basics – but she must keep it a secret. Stara had eagerly agreed. Since then Stara had taught herself to use her magic, borrowing Nimelle’s books and practising with her friend.
I’m going to miss Nimelle, she thought. She was the only person who never treated me differently for being half Sachakan.
They’d both blinked away tears at their last meeting. But Stara suspected Nimelle would be too busy to miss their friendship soon. Granted her independence as a higher magician last summer, Nimelle had married in the autumn and was now expecting her first child.
I’ll be too busy helping Father to pine for her, either, she told herself firmly. We have both started new lives. Yet she was already looking forward to Nimelle’s first letter.
Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 00] - The Magician's Apprentice Page 24
