Rosemarked

by Livia Blackburne

  “Tell me when your vision becomes brighter,” he says.

  After a few seconds, Marzban says, “Now.”

  Jesmin removes the needle, holds a cloth to the man’s nose and instructs him to blow. “This drains the phlegm,” he says to me. Then he binds the eye well with bandages.

  A few hours later, Marzban is back to normal. He has newly washed clothes to wear, and a small amount of money. Jesmin and I see him to the door, where a rosemarked woman named Estir waits. She’s here every time Jesmin has a new patient to settle in the compound.

  Jesmin nods a greeting. “How are things with your people, Estir?”

  Estir is a strong-looking middle-aged woman with a stern mouth. “Well enough. Lost a few recently, but we’re doing fine for food and shelter.”

  “Marzban will have to tend to the eye until it fully heals,” says Jesmin. “But I trust you can get him settled.”

  Once the two have left, I turn to Jesmin. “Is Estir some kind of official?”

  “Just one of the leaders of the myriad groups that form in this lawless place. Estir leads a band of settlers along the north wall. They distribute supplies equitably among themselves and defend each other against the unsavory. I may not be able to control much here, but at least I can keep my patients from falling into the wrong hands.”

  “If Estir leads a good group, who leads the bad groups?”

  “That changes as well, since the population shifts so quickly. Right now there’s a gang led by a woman named Anahi. Many of the injuries that come in the mornings are from run-ins with her people.”

  The name sounds familiar, and I think back to the one time I wandered the compound at night. “Is she older than Estir, with a slight limp?”

  “Yes. Have you seen her?”

  “I have,” I say.

  Thankfully, Jesmin doesn’t ask about the circumstances. “The gods strike without prejudice when it comes to the rose plague, but if you survive, your status in this world still matters. Mehtap, like the other aristocrats who fall ill, lives in a nice villa with personal guards. The less fortunate have to be shrewder about their survival.”

  For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then Jesmin turns to me. “But let’s not dwell on the negatives. That incense of yours was impressive. Easiest surgery I’ve done in a long time. We should be sharing knowledge, seeing what we can learn from each other. That was the original plan, wasn’t it? I lost sight of it in the day-to-day business. Forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. And it’s something we can easily remedy.” In fact, I’m excited at the thought. As uncomfortable as the surgery was this morning, it was still fascinating.

  He peers at me thoughtfully. “I hardly know where to start. Where do your interests lie? What parts of medicine excite you the most?”

  “To be honest,” I say, slightly self-conscious now, “over the past few months I’ve been mostly preoccupied with rose plague.”

  “Understandable. What aspects of it?”

  “Better treatments, mostly.” It seems too presumptuous to say I’ve been looking for a cure, and too embarrassing to tell him of my numerous failures.

  “Rose plague seems an apt place to start our discussions. I’ll see what I can procure in terms of scrolls from the academy. We can go over them together, and you in turn can tell me what your people have learned about the disease.”

  A smile pulls at the corners of my lips. “I would like that. Very much.”

  Jesmin is true to his word. Tablets of medical records soon arrive, as well as the occasional scroll. He apologizes that he can’t get me more, but we’re limited by my disease. Tablets can be passed through the fire and returned to the imperial library, but any parchments, once they enter the rosemarked compound, must stay here. In addition to these records, Jesmin shows me the detailed logs he’s kept of every person who’s come into the compound. Jesmin’s painstakingly noted each patient’s date and circumstance of infection, entry, and the day they finally died.

  In the few hours I can spare away from my patients, I pore over the material. The Amparan view of medicine is quite interesting. While Dara healers view the body as a set of systems (sustenance, air, and mind, among others) that become weighed down with disease essence, the Amparan physicians focus much more on anatomy and the individual organs. I suppose that’s why their surgeons have been so successful, but their insistence on breaking down the body into parts means they sometimes miss the subtleties of herbs and potions, which by their nature infuse the body as a whole.

  The information in these records is valuable for other reasons as well. Over the past weeks, I’d been so preoccupied with placing Dineas in the army that I’d lost sight of Tal’s charge to find out how the Monyar soldiers fell ill. Now though, as I read over these texts, it’s clear that there might be useful information here.

  There’s at least one physician in the Imperial Academy with an interest in rose plague. Several of my tablets are reports made by a physician named Baruva to an Imperial Minister Utana. In each of the reports, he details his findings about the way rose plague can be spread. Much of what he writes, I already know—that the disease is spread by touch and bodily humors, that fire destroys the disease. Beyond the basics though, he goes into painstaking detail about other circumstances—for example that strong sunlight over the course of several days cleans the essence from a surface. Also, there’s a warning to keep the blood of a rosemarked patient from mixing with weak vinegar, as it seems to make the disease essence stronger.

  The minister Utana’s name strikes me as familiar, though for a long time I don’t know why. I ask Jesmin if he knows of him and the physician.

  “Baruva is still a well-respected scholar in the Imperial ­Academy,” Jesmin says.

  “Is he umbertouched?” I can’t imagine anyone doing this kind of research who is not immune.

  Jesmin’s mouth quirks humorlessly. “No, but he’s very careful. And he has many slaves to help him with the more dangerous aspects of his work.”

  My stomach flips. There’s no forgetting that I’m in the middle of Ampara. “And what of the minister Utana?”

  “Utana fell ill with rose plague a few months ago. One of the hazards of being a minister of health, unfortunately. He was not as careful as Baruva.”

  And I realize that’s why Utana’s name seemed so familiar. I’d seen it in Jesmin’s ledgers for the compound. “Is he still alive?”

  “He lives with a servant on the east side of the compound. The emperor was quite fond of him, so he provided well for Utana after he fell ill.”

  “I see.” A former minister of health, here in the rosemarked compound. I wonder what secrets of the court he was privy to, and if there is some way to meet him.

  That night, I’m milking Diadem in my room when I hear unusual sounds from the hallway. I’m fairly sure it’s muffled crying, and it’s coming from Mehtap’s quarters. For a moment, I stand outside her door, uncertain what to do. Though I’ve lived under her roof for some weeks now, I still don’t exactly know how to relate to the commander’s daughter. Perhaps it would be better to let her cry in peace. Still, it doesn’t feel right to walk away.

  I knock hesitantly on her door. “Mehtap?”

  A shuffling of skirts. A sniffle. “Yes?”

  “May I come in?”

  There’s a long pause before I hear her footsteps. The door opens a sliver, and then she steps back and motions for me to come in. She’s either a dainty crier or quite skilled at cleaning herself up. Other than a slight reddish tinge to her eyes, she looks put together. Her dark blond hair is neatly combed back, and her dress is smooth and unrumpled. The sheets on her bed are piled into a small nest, and she climbs on, pulling her feet up after her. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Is there anything bothering you?” I ask her. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”

  Mehtap looks down and lets out a wry chuckle. “You heard me, didn’t you? And here I thought I was being discr
eet.”

  “If you’d rather I leave it alone…”

  “No, it’s all right.” She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “It’s silly, really. I was just reading a letter from my good friend. She’s…” She gestures helplessly toward a tablet nestled in her blankets. “She’s getting married.”

  Understanding comes quickly. I think back to the day Leora came by my cottage with her bridal veil, and I feel that familiar twinge in my chest.

  “I’m happy for her,” Mehtap says. “I really am. It’s just…” She bites her lip.

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  Apparently, my words give Mehtap the permission she needed, because tears start to stream silently down her face. “She’ll have a beautiful wedding. Her betrothed is a good man. And she’ll have children….” And here she stops herself and laughs a little. “I don’t even like children.”

  Her words bring a rush of memories. Leora’s eyes sparkling as she tells me about her betrothed. Alia’s animated recountings of village feasts, her arms akimbo as she imitates the wildest dancers. Mother and Father, speaking sensibly about the harvest and plans to rotate the crops over the next years. I craved the news they brought, the window they offered into what I’d left behind. But the stories came with a bitter aftertaste. I missed my family dearly between visits, but my moments with them were poisoned by my illness as well.

  “It seems unfair sometimes, doesn’t it?” I say. “That life goes on outside these walls. We get put inside, but everyone just continues without us.”

  Mehtap wipes at her eyes. “I just want to know what I did wrong. What did I do to offend the gods so?”

  She looks at me with something close to desperation, and my words tangle in my throat. There are so many things I could say. That the gods’ ways are mysterious. That it makes no more sense to question our misfortune than it does to question our good fortune. That it would be arrogant to think we deserve not to suffer when plenty of others share our fate.

  There are many things I could say, but they crumble like ashes in the face of our reality. They do nothing to lessen the pain.

  “I don’t know” is all I can say. My skin prickles, and I rub my forearms. It’s the threat of a flush, the fever’s ever-present promise to return.

  Mehtap pulls her blankets close around her and she seems to shrink into them. “The way they throw us in here and leave us to our own devices. It’s as if we’ve already died.”

  The list is posted three days later in the training yards, and I push my way to the front of the crowd. I see Naudar’s name, then mine near the bottom of the list. And I can’t help the smile that spreads over my face.

  The next morning, Walgash gives me a hearty clap on the back as we head over to the riding fields for training. “Must have been your archery skills that pushed you over the top.”

  I make a mental note to put lizards in his bed.

  “You know,” Walgash muses, “Arxa gave an interesting command at the trials. Seems he ordered the men at one of the stations to snack on wild fruit when the candidates were coming through. Curious, isn’t it?”

  And that’s the thing about Walgash. He always follows up something annoying with something interesting or useful. Makes it hard to pull pranks with a clear conscience.

  Commander Arxa stands outside the stables, adjusting the saddle on a roan stallion. “Dineas,” he calls as we pass.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I’m pleased to have you in Neju’s Guard,” he says. “You don’t give up, even when you’re at a disadvantage. That’s something I value in my soldiers.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Arxa’s stallion paws the ground. He’s an impressive beast, five hundred ingots of solid muscle.

  “Anything on your mind, Dineas?” asks Arxa.

  “No, sir. I was just admiring your steed.”

  The commander nudges the horse to keep him looking ahead. “He’s a recent addition to our stables. Rovenni breeding stock. We’ve been trying to get ahold of some for years, and the law’s finally come down on our side. Are you a horseman, Dineas? I had my men ask around the markets, but none of the traders there recognized your brand. We’ll try again later in the year, when new tribes pass through.”

  “I honestly have no idea, sir. But I do like the look of that stallion.” I rub absentmindedly at the scar on my wrist. If all Rovenni animals are like that, I’d be ecstatic to claim a past with them.

  Arxa jerks his chin toward the stables. “The stables will match you up with a good steed.”

  When I tell the stablehands I don’t know if I’ve ridden before, they pair me with one of the gentler mares. The Neju’s Guard old-timers spend the morning testing our riding ability. When it turns out I’m comfortable leading my horse through all the gaits, I’m told to join the soldiers practicing formations.

  At one point, I see a man standing with Arxa by the side, watching us. The stranger looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

  “Who is that?” I ask Masista.

  He looks over his shoulder. “That’s Prince Kiran, the emperor’s heir. He spends a lot of time at the training fields.”

  And that’s why he looks familiar. The prince bears a clear resemblance to the portrait of the emperor. The prince’s beard is black and trimmed shorter than his father’s, and his nose is sharper, but he has the same wide mouth and heavy brows. From the way he stands I can tell he’s a soldier himself.

  The day’s training goes by quickly. Hard work, and I know I’ll be sore the next day, but I come out with the feeling I’ve made a good day’s effort.

  When Arxa finally dismisses us, Walgash gathers everyone up.

  “Tonight we feast in the city,” he says, “courtesy of us old-timers. Meals and drinks on us!”

  The announcement is met with cheers, and we stream out the palace gates. Our mob of soldiers attracts quite a few curious looks as we move through the streets. It feels good to be here, in a group where I’ve earned my place.

  “Do you know where they’re taking us?” I ask Naudar, who’s distracted by a merchant girl smiling at him from the side of the street.

  “No idea,” he says, when he realizes I’ve spoken.

  “For gods’ sake, Naudar. Next time you drift off I’ll walk you into a wall.”

  We follow the crowd into a large tavern that looks like it’s been reserved for us for the night. The drinks start flowing immediately, and food follows soon after. It’s good fare, even better after a long day.

  Several games of dice start up in the corner, though I stay at the main tables with Naudar. A serving girl brings us each a goblet of wine.

  “Are you the soldier with no past?” she asks.

  “That’s probably me,” I say, studiously ignoring Naudar’s smirk.

  Her smile has a spark to it. “Maybe you could tell me about it later.” Her hips sway from side to side as she walks away.

  Naudar claps me on the back. “Well done, my friend! And the night is yet young.”

  I take a deep gulp of wine. The girl was pretty—red lips, and round in all the right places. But I don’t know, something about her seemed off. Maybe she was too flawless. Her skin was too smooth.

  Over the course of the evening, a parade of new faces rotate through. Mostly I just eat, drink, and listen to battle stories. There’s a native of Sehmar who tells how he fought off ten bandits with only his horse for backup. Another soldier was captured by the Shidadi for three days. I’m guessing there’s a good bit of imagination mixed into these stories, but they’re entertaining. I soon start losing track of which tale belongs to who.

  In fact, my entire head starts to feel fuzzy.

  A grizzled soldier looks my way. “Enjoying yourself, Dineas?”

  “Yes, but I need some fresh air,” I say, standing up. My legs wobble underneath me, which is strange because I haven’t had that much to drink. I stumble and catch myself on another man’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I mutter.r />
  The soldier who was captured by the Shidadi looks over. “First one down?” he asks the man I fell on.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Careful,” someone adds. “Arxa will have our hides if any of them hit their heads.”

  And that’s the last thing I hear before my legs give out.

  The first thing I notice is my splitting headache. It’s relentless, and it makes me want to shrink back into unconsciousness.

  Then I notice how cold it is. The wind blows over every inch of my skin, raising goose bumps. After that, I start hearing voices and murmurs below me.

  Groaning, I force my eyes open. The sky above is just turning light. That’s why it’s so cold. I’m outside. Also—I look down—I’m not wearing a single stitch of clothing. That’s when I jump, and realize that I’m tied to a pole.

  Now I’m wide-awake. I blink, casting around for any hint as to what had happened. Naudar’s to my right, naked and trussed up just like me. He’s still unconscious, and I can see in the growing light that someone has drawn rude symbols on his face, as well as written “Ampara’s Best” on his chest. I looked down to see “Ampara’s Finest” written on me.

  And then I remember the voices I heard earlier. Oh no. I’m afraid to look, but there’s no avoiding it.

  We’re on a rooftop above a crowded marketplace. Vendors are setting up their stalls, and already, a crowd has gathered to gawk up at us.

  “Naudar,” I whisper, my voice tinged with panic. He doesn’t stir. “Naudar!”

  He groans, pries one eye open, then closes it. A moment later, both eyes open wide and nearly pop out of his head. Then he lets out string of curse words that capture my feelings exactly.

  “Gods,” he says. “I knew we should have been suspicious. The old-timers are never that generous.”

  “Naudar, what’s going on?”

  “Let’s just say that Neju’s Guard has a long tradition of elaborate welcomes for their new recruits.”

  If this is a welcome, I never want to get on their bad side.

  The crowd below is growing larger with men, women, and children of all ages. A young umbertouched woman covers her mouth and giggles. My face flushes to the roots of my hair. There’s even a few priestesses of Mendegi in the crowd. Mendegi, the goddess of women. Shouldn’t they be looking somewhere else?