spaces, secrecy, and abominations. But it lasted only
until he remembered the Watch, presumably keeping an eye out for a fugitive
answering his description, Krieger’s agents, spying to make sure he didn’t run
away, and the Purple Hand, quite possibly lurking about awaiting another chance
to strike at their rivals. After that, he felt vulnerable and exposed.
Mama Solveig clung to his arm. Proximity to the taint in her
dangling basket made his forehead itch. Her neighbours called out greetings as
she passed, and she responded as if she were everyone’s doting granny.
At length they reached their first stop, a brick boarding
house as smoke-and soot-stained as the one in which she made her home. The old
woman looked up the shadowy stairwell and sighed. “This is the part that’s a
trial. All the climbing up and down.”
Maybe so, but they tramped all the way to the top floor, and
she never called a halt to rest.
She tapped on a door, and a feeble voice called, “Come in.”
Mama Solveig led Dieter into a small room stinking of spoiled food and sweat,
and crammed with cots and pallets. A young woman with a small, skinny frame and
a distended belly lay on her side on one of the straw mattresses. All the other
occupants had presumably gone to work.
“This is Dieter, my new helper,” Mama Solveig said. “Dieter,
this is Sophie.”
“Hello,” Sophie said in the same thin little voice.
“Help me down,” Mama said, and Dieter steadied her and
supported her weight as she lowered herself to her knees. “How are you getting
along?” she asked.
“It still hurts,” Sophie said, “and the baby kicks and
squirms and makes it worse. Is he supposed to do it all day and all night? I
can’t sleep.”
“Poor dear,” Mama said. “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard
time.”
Sophie shook her head, spilling a lock of wavy brown hair
over her eye. “I can stand the pain if I have to, but I can’t lose this one,
too. Is he going to be all right?”
“Let’s see.” The midwife began an examination of sorts, first
pressing Sophie’s abdomen at various points. When she pulled up her patient’s
skirts, Dieter felt a pang of embarrassment, and wondered if he ought to turn
away. But perhaps an assistant healer was expected to observe even the most
intimate portions of the process. Sophie must think it appropriate, for she
didn’t object. Or maybe she was simply too desperate and exhausted for modesty
to matter any longer.
Finally Mama Solveig said, “Well.”
“Tell me,” Sophie pleaded.
“I think both you and the child will be all right.”
Tears welled up in Sophie’s eyes, and she blinked to hold
them back. “Thank you!”
“Mind you, you must stay in bed, and you have to keep taking
the powder and applying the balm. I brought more of both.” She folded back the
lid of the basket and extracted two ceramic jars.
Dieter had understood the point of contaminating the
medicines and believed himself ready for this moment. Now he discovered he
wasn’t. Sophie seemed little more than a child, and the baby in her womb was
more helpless and innocent still. He yearned to grab Mama Solveig and fling her
away from her victims.
But he couldn’t. It would wreck his mission, and it was
inconceivable that a relentless brute like Krieger would agree that the good so
accomplished outweighed the opportunity lost.
“Thank you!” Sophie repeated. “I’ll drink some right now.”
Trembling, she pulled the cork from one of the containers.
Mama Solveig smiled up at Dieter. “She has a cup right here
beside her bed, and I see a pitcher in the corner.”
He fetched the water. The moment felt both horrific and
surreal, not unlike his vision of Chaos. He filled the pewter cup. Sophie took
it in her dainty hand, spilled a dash of grey powder into it, mixed the contents
with her fingertip, and raised it to her lips. Which, he supposed, made him a
poisoner. His guts squirmed as if he’d
until he remembered the Watch, presumably keeping an eye out for a fugitive
answering his description, Krieger’s agents, spying to make sure he didn’t run
away, and the Purple Hand, quite possibly lurking about awaiting another chance
to strike at their rivals. After that, he felt vulnerable and exposed.
Mama Solveig clung to his arm. Proximity to the taint in her
dangling basket made his forehead itch. Her neighbours called out greetings as
she passed, and she responded as if she were everyone’s doting granny.
At length they reached their first stop, a brick boarding
house as smoke-and soot-stained as the one in which she made her home. The old
woman looked up the shadowy stairwell and sighed. “This is the part that’s a
trial. All the climbing up and down.”
Maybe so, but they tramped all the way to the top floor, and
she never called a halt to rest.
She tapped on a door, and a feeble voice called, “Come in.”
Mama Solveig led Dieter into a small room stinking of spoiled food and sweat,
and crammed with cots and pallets. A young woman with a small, skinny frame and
a distended belly lay on her side on one of the straw mattresses. All the other
occupants had presumably gone to work.
“This is Dieter, my new helper,” Mama Solveig said. “Dieter,
this is Sophie.”
“Hello,” Sophie said in the same thin little voice.
“Help me down,” Mama said, and Dieter steadied her and
supported her weight as she lowered herself to her knees. “How are you getting
along?” she asked.
“It still hurts,” Sophie said, “and the baby kicks and
squirms and makes it worse. Is he supposed to do it all day and all night? I
can’t sleep.”
“Poor dear,” Mama said. “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard
time.”
Sophie shook her head, spilling a lock of wavy brown hair
over her eye. “I can stand the pain if I have to, but I can’t lose this one,
too. Is he going to be all right?”
“Let’s see.” The midwife began an examination of sorts, first
pressing Sophie’s abdomen at various points. When she pulled up her patient’s
skirts, Dieter felt a pang of embarrassment, and wondered if he ought to turn
away. But perhaps an assistant healer was expected to observe even the most
intimate portions of the process. Sophie must think it appropriate, for she
didn’t object. Or maybe she was simply too desperate and exhausted for modesty
to matter any longer.
Finally Mama Solveig said, “Well.”
“Tell me,” Sophie pleaded.
“I think both you and the child will be all right.”
Tears welled up in Sophie’s eyes, and she blinked to hold
them back. “Thank you!”
“Mind you, you must stay in bed, and you have to keep taking
the powder and applying the balm. I brought more of both.” She folded back the
lid of the basket and extracted two ceramic jars.
Dieter had understood the point of contaminating the
medicines and believed himself ready for this moment. Now he discovered he
wasn’t. Sophie seemed little more than a child, and the baby in her womb was
more helpless and innocent still. He yearned to grab Mama Solveig and fling her
away from her victims.
But he couldn’t. It would wreck his mission, and it was
inconceivable that a relentless brute like Krieger would agree that the good so
accomplished outweighed the opportunity lost.
“Thank you!” Sophie repeated. “I’ll drink some right now.”
Trembling, she pulled the cork from one of the containers.
Mama Solveig smiled up at Dieter. “She has a cup right here
beside her bed, and I see a pitcher in the corner.”
He fetched the water. The moment felt both horrific and
surreal, not unlike his vision of Chaos. He filled the pewter cup. Sophie took
it in her dainty hand, spilled a dash of grey powder into it, mixed the contents
with her fingertip, and raised it to her lips. Which, he supposed, made him a
poisoner. His guts squirmed as if he’d
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