Dark of the Sun by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

brought his horse alongside Zangi-Ragozh’s wagon. “I will trade places with you, my master.”
    “Thank you, but there is no need,” said Zangi-Ragozh, his punctilious response so firm that there could be no doubt as to his determination.
    The gates of Tai-Sho stood open when Zangi-Ragozh’s company arrived and paid the travelers’ tax to enter. Directed to the center of the town, they chose the largest of the inns for the night and went about stalling their horses and storing the wagons, then carried Jong to a small room at the rear of the inn that was used for quarantine.
    “I will send for a physician,” the innkeeper declared as he saw Jong laid on the bed in his isolated room; the man was middle-aged and showed signs of prosperity in his dress that was belied by his pinched mouth.
    “There is no need,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I have some knowledge of medicaments, and I am willing to tend him.”
    “Foreign medicaments!” the innkeeper scoffed. “I will send a servant to Kuo and tell him that he must come promptly.” He glowered at Zangi-Ragozh. “This man is Chinese. He must have Chinese medicines.”
    “If he must, he must,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “But I will attend him until the physician arrives.”
    “That will not excuse you paying for his care,” the innkeeper warned.
    “He is my servant,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “I will be responsible for any charges his care incurs.”
    “If Kuo agrees, then it is all right with me,” said the innkeeper, and summoned one of his slaves to carry a message to Physician Kuo, telling him to assert that the need was urgent and required the physician himself and not one of his apprentices.
    The man who arrived with the slave was a blocky individual with thick fingers and a crusty manner and the look of one used to being obeyed. Kuo Li-Dan contemplated Jong as he took his pulse, saying when he had done, “This man is very ill, perhaps beyond saving.”
    “His lungs are inflamed,” said Zangi-Ragozh, “and they are congested.”
    Kuo looked a bit surprised. “Yes. Fire and wind have invaded him.” He tugged on his long mustache. “An astute observation, foreigner. Have you had some training in treating the sick?”
    Zangi-Ragozh ducked his head. “I have.” He did not mention that he had spent more than eight centuries at the Temple of Imhotep, rising from slave to High Priest in that time.
    The innkeeper, who had lingered in the doorway, regarded Zangi-Ragozh narrowly. “A merchant who is a physician?”
    “Merchants are often wholly on their own, and if any injury or illness occurs, they must deal with it,” Zangi-Ragozh said smoothly. “Knowledge of medicaments has proved extremely useful to me.”
    “You must be a good pupil, and your teachers more able than many foreigners are,” said Kuo. “It has seemed to me that foreigners are not skilled in such matters. They rely upon the power of the Immortals or their powerless gods; they depend upon amulets for magic and not teas for the body.” He laid his hand on Jong’s chest and put all his attention on what he felt. “I will leave a tea that he is to drink as frequently as he can be roused to drink it. It will balance the heat and cold in his body, which should help him to fight the inflamation.”
    “While I am sure you are most diligent in your treatment, is there nothing more to be done?” Zangi-Ragozh asked, and went on before Kuo could answer. “For I have a remedy that may be of some help.”
    “Foreign potions!” Kuo glowered. “What sort of preposterousness are you—”
    “It has been helpful before, where there is fever,” said Zangi-Ragozh. “As this man is in my employ, I believe I am obliged to do all I can to help him recover from his illness.”
    Kuo was wary. “You learned of this where you were trained to treat the sick?”
    “I did,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and did not elaborate. “I have used it on many different injuries and illnesses.”
    “Has it been beneficial?”