can. Then maybe we’ll see if you’re ready for something to eat.’
It was a five-day later, I think, that the Doctor was called to the Slave Master Tunch. His house was an imposing one in the Merchants’ Quarter, overlooking the Grand Canal. Its tall, raised front doors sat imposingly above the sweeping double staircase leading from the street, but we were not able to enter that way. Instead our hired seat was directed to a small quay a few streets away, where we transferred to a little cabin-punt which took us, shutters closed, down a side canal and round to the rear of the building and a small dock hidden from the public waters.
‘What is all this about?’ the Doctor asked me as the punt’s shutters were opened by the boatman and the vessel bumped against the dark timbers of a pier. It was well into summer yet still the place seemed chilly and smelled of dankness and decay.
‘Mistress?’ I said, fastening a spiced kerchief round my mouth and nose.
‘This secrecy.’
‘And why are you doing that?’ she asked, obviously annoyed, as a servant helped the boatman secure the punt.
‘What, this, mistress?’ I asked, pointing to the kerchief.
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up and rocking our small craft.
‘It is to combat the evil humours, mistress.’
‘Oelph, I have told you before that infectious agents are transmitted in breath or bodily fluids, even if they are insect body fluids,’ she said. ‘A bad smell by itself will not make you ill. Thank you.’ The servant accepted her bag and laid it carefully on the small dock. I did not reply. No doctor knows everything and it is better to be safe than sorry. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I am still unclear why all this secrecy is required.’
‘I think the Slave Master does not want his own doctor to know of your visit,’ I told her as I clambered on to the dock. ‘They are brothers.’
‘If this Slaver is so close to death, why isn’t his doctor at his side?’ the Doctor said. ‘Come to that, why isn’t he there as his brother?’ The servant held out a hand to help the Doctor out of the boat. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. (She is always thanking servants. I think the menials of Drezen must be a surly lot. Or just spoiled.)
‘I don’t know, mistress,’ I confessed.
‘The Master’s brother is in Trosila, ma’am,’ the servant said (which just goes to show what happens when you start speaking to servants).
‘Is he?’ the Doctor said.
The servant opened a small door leading to the rear of the house. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, looking nervously at the boatman. ‘He has gone in person to seek some rare earth which is said to help the condition the Master is suffering from.’
‘I see,’ the Doctor said. We entered the house. A female servant met us. She wore a severe black dress and had a forbidding face. Indeed her expression was so bleak my first thought was that Slave Master Tunch had died. However, she gave the tiniest of nods to the Doctor and in a precise, clipped voice said, ‘Mistress Vosill?’
‘That’s me.’
She nodded at me. ‘And this?’
‘My apprentice, Oelph.’
‘Very good. Follow me.’
The Doctor looked round as we started up some bare wooden stairs, a conspiratorial look on her face. I was caught in the act of directing a most harsh stare at the black back of the woman leading us, but the Doctor just smiled and winked.
The servant who had talked to the Doctor locked the dock door and disappeared through another which I guessed led to the servants’ floor.
The passage-way was steep and narrow and unlit save for a slit window every storey, where the wooden steps twisted to double back on themselves. There was a narrow door at each floor, too. It crossed my mind that perhaps these confined quarters were for children, for the Slaver Tunch was well known for specialising in child slaves.
We came to the second landing. ‘How long has Slaver Tunch?’ the Doctor began.
‘Please do not talk on
It was a five-day later, I think, that the Doctor was called to the Slave Master Tunch. His house was an imposing one in the Merchants’ Quarter, overlooking the Grand Canal. Its tall, raised front doors sat imposingly above the sweeping double staircase leading from the street, but we were not able to enter that way. Instead our hired seat was directed to a small quay a few streets away, where we transferred to a little cabin-punt which took us, shutters closed, down a side canal and round to the rear of the building and a small dock hidden from the public waters.
‘What is all this about?’ the Doctor asked me as the punt’s shutters were opened by the boatman and the vessel bumped against the dark timbers of a pier. It was well into summer yet still the place seemed chilly and smelled of dankness and decay.
‘Mistress?’ I said, fastening a spiced kerchief round my mouth and nose.
‘This secrecy.’
‘And why are you doing that?’ she asked, obviously annoyed, as a servant helped the boatman secure the punt.
‘What, this, mistress?’ I asked, pointing to the kerchief.
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up and rocking our small craft.
‘It is to combat the evil humours, mistress.’
‘Oelph, I have told you before that infectious agents are transmitted in breath or bodily fluids, even if they are insect body fluids,’ she said. ‘A bad smell by itself will not make you ill. Thank you.’ The servant accepted her bag and laid it carefully on the small dock. I did not reply. No doctor knows everything and it is better to be safe than sorry. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I am still unclear why all this secrecy is required.’
‘I think the Slave Master does not want his own doctor to know of your visit,’ I told her as I clambered on to the dock. ‘They are brothers.’
‘If this Slaver is so close to death, why isn’t his doctor at his side?’ the Doctor said. ‘Come to that, why isn’t he there as his brother?’ The servant held out a hand to help the Doctor out of the boat. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. (She is always thanking servants. I think the menials of Drezen must be a surly lot. Or just spoiled.)
‘I don’t know, mistress,’ I confessed.
‘The Master’s brother is in Trosila, ma’am,’ the servant said (which just goes to show what happens when you start speaking to servants).
‘Is he?’ the Doctor said.
The servant opened a small door leading to the rear of the house. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, looking nervously at the boatman. ‘He has gone in person to seek some rare earth which is said to help the condition the Master is suffering from.’
‘I see,’ the Doctor said. We entered the house. A female servant met us. She wore a severe black dress and had a forbidding face. Indeed her expression was so bleak my first thought was that Slave Master Tunch had died. However, she gave the tiniest of nods to the Doctor and in a precise, clipped voice said, ‘Mistress Vosill?’
‘That’s me.’
She nodded at me. ‘And this?’
‘My apprentice, Oelph.’
‘Very good. Follow me.’
The Doctor looked round as we started up some bare wooden stairs, a conspiratorial look on her face. I was caught in the act of directing a most harsh stare at the black back of the woman leading us, but the Doctor just smiled and winked.
The servant who had talked to the Doctor locked the dock door and disappeared through another which I guessed led to the servants’ floor.
The passage-way was steep and narrow and unlit save for a slit window every storey, where the wooden steps twisted to double back on themselves. There was a narrow door at each floor, too. It crossed my mind that perhaps these confined quarters were for children, for the Slaver Tunch was well known for specialising in child slaves.
We came to the second landing. ‘How long has Slaver Tunch?’ the Doctor began.
‘Please do not talk on
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