keeping him safe.
That made him feel small.
Daja he called out silently, sheepishly. Daja, I’m sorry.
He could feel the Trader’s hurt, as sharp as if he’d cut her. Then Daja too relaxed.
It’s bad there?
Bad enough,
he replied, stroking the
shakkan’s
wrinkled trunk.
Ain’t you heard?
Only a bit, just now,
she told him somberly.
We’ve been making sample boxes ‘round the clock, with breaks for catnaps.
She felt exhausted to him. Now he was
really
ashamed of himself.
Sleep and eat,
he told her sternly.
Lots of both.
One epidemic and you’re a master healer?
she asked, amusement threading her weariness.
That’s it,
he agreed, mock-serious.
Tell them at home me and Rosethorn miss ‘em.
I will,
she replied, drawing away.
Feeling better for the contact, Briar carried his tree into the ward he’d left that morning. His bed had been filled.
“You aren’t sick,” replied a healer when he protested. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Briar settled his tree on the shelf behind Flick’s cot. “I should be and I am,” he said firmly. “I’ll see to my – my mate, here.” The term wasn’t strictly accurate: a mate was someone who stayed with you in dire times, as the girls had with him the year before. Still, he was as much of a mate as Flick was going to get. Lifting his eyebrows, he asked, “You want to argue?”
“Just keep out of my way,” the man warned him, moving on to other beds.
That was easy enough. Flick had sunk into a high fever while Briar was out. He checked her mouth, to find her tongue as dry as paper. Her cracked lips bled; her skin was ashy and dry. When he pinched her gently, the fold he’d made in her skin flattened very slowly. He’d been around healers enough to know this was the worst possible sign. His friend was drying up inside.
His heart pounded heavily. What was going on here? He’d thought she was on the mend that morning. Looking around, he saw that the homeless man Yuvosh was gone. A kid Henna had brought in and one of her old people were missing too.
“Dead,” said a healer – not the one who’d told him he didn’t belong there – when he asked. “Yuvosh, did you say his name was? – had a stroke. The old woman in her sleep; her heart stopped. It was quick. The little boy went into a coma and died – fever cooked his brain. Your girl started to heat up about an hour after you left. You won’t be able to give her enough liquid to make a difference,” she added as Briar grabbed a clean jar and filled it with water.
“We’ll see,” he said grimly, filling a smaller jar with willowbark tea. He marched back to the bed, determined to do battle. Flick’s response was not encouraging: she swallowed two mouthfuls and let the rest dribble onto her blanket.
“Open your eyes,” Briar ordered, trying to sit her up. “C’mon, Flick, you’re drier than the rooftops in Wort Moon. You
have
to drink.”
Flick’s eyes popped open. “Ma, don’t!” she cried, raising her hands against an unseen threat. “I’ll learn, I will, only
don’t
– ” Her head snapped back. She keened deep in her throat and curled into a ball. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good,” she whispered, sobbing.
“Flick, drink this,” Briar said, badly frightened. “I know it’s nasty, but it’ll help.”
Flick sat up with a grin. “There’s a haul, and proper nicked!” she sang out. “And food enough for everybody after the Dirt Mayor gets his cut.”
Briar got the cup to her mouth and tipped it, pouring half down her throat. She drank, thinking it was part of the food she’d stolen in her waking dream. “Naw, give ‘em dates to the littles,” she announced. “Too bleatin’ sweet for me. How ‘bout some o’ that wine, there.”
Briar filled the cup from the water jar and raised it to her lips, but he was too late. Flick lay back, eyelids fluttering. “You want Petticoat to work the Bag trade. She’s got the lingo. Gimme wharves any road.” She slept briefly,
That made him feel small.
Daja he called out silently, sheepishly. Daja, I’m sorry.
He could feel the Trader’s hurt, as sharp as if he’d cut her. Then Daja too relaxed.
It’s bad there?
Bad enough,
he replied, stroking the
shakkan’s
wrinkled trunk.
Ain’t you heard?
Only a bit, just now,
she told him somberly.
We’ve been making sample boxes ‘round the clock, with breaks for catnaps.
She felt exhausted to him. Now he was
really
ashamed of himself.
Sleep and eat,
he told her sternly.
Lots of both.
One epidemic and you’re a master healer?
she asked, amusement threading her weariness.
That’s it,
he agreed, mock-serious.
Tell them at home me and Rosethorn miss ‘em.
I will,
she replied, drawing away.
Feeling better for the contact, Briar carried his tree into the ward he’d left that morning. His bed had been filled.
“You aren’t sick,” replied a healer when he protested. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Briar settled his tree on the shelf behind Flick’s cot. “I should be and I am,” he said firmly. “I’ll see to my – my mate, here.” The term wasn’t strictly accurate: a mate was someone who stayed with you in dire times, as the girls had with him the year before. Still, he was as much of a mate as Flick was going to get. Lifting his eyebrows, he asked, “You want to argue?”
“Just keep out of my way,” the man warned him, moving on to other beds.
That was easy enough. Flick had sunk into a high fever while Briar was out. He checked her mouth, to find her tongue as dry as paper. Her cracked lips bled; her skin was ashy and dry. When he pinched her gently, the fold he’d made in her skin flattened very slowly. He’d been around healers enough to know this was the worst possible sign. His friend was drying up inside.
His heart pounded heavily. What was going on here? He’d thought she was on the mend that morning. Looking around, he saw that the homeless man Yuvosh was gone. A kid Henna had brought in and one of her old people were missing too.
“Dead,” said a healer – not the one who’d told him he didn’t belong there – when he asked. “Yuvosh, did you say his name was? – had a stroke. The old woman in her sleep; her heart stopped. It was quick. The little boy went into a coma and died – fever cooked his brain. Your girl started to heat up about an hour after you left. You won’t be able to give her enough liquid to make a difference,” she added as Briar grabbed a clean jar and filled it with water.
“We’ll see,” he said grimly, filling a smaller jar with willowbark tea. He marched back to the bed, determined to do battle. Flick’s response was not encouraging: she swallowed two mouthfuls and let the rest dribble onto her blanket.
“Open your eyes,” Briar ordered, trying to sit her up. “C’mon, Flick, you’re drier than the rooftops in Wort Moon. You
have
to drink.”
Flick’s eyes popped open. “Ma, don’t!” she cried, raising her hands against an unseen threat. “I’ll learn, I will, only
don’t
– ” Her head snapped back. She keened deep in her throat and curled into a ball. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good,” she whispered, sobbing.
“Flick, drink this,” Briar said, badly frightened. “I know it’s nasty, but it’ll help.”
Flick sat up with a grin. “There’s a haul, and proper nicked!” she sang out. “And food enough for everybody after the Dirt Mayor gets his cut.”
Briar got the cup to her mouth and tipped it, pouring half down her throat. She drank, thinking it was part of the food she’d stolen in her waking dream. “Naw, give ‘em dates to the littles,” she announced. “Too bleatin’ sweet for me. How ‘bout some o’ that wine, there.”
Briar filled the cup from the water jar and raised it to her lips, but he was too late. Flick lay back, eyelids fluttering. “You want Petticoat to work the Bag trade. She’s got the lingo. Gimme wharves any road.” She slept briefly,
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