Turning Points (28 page)

“You never saw what the Hand wreaked upon this city,” Siggurd said frankly. “I lost friends, families, loved ones. I was even sorry to see my enemies go to them. It was a terror you couldn’t believe. Your thoughts weren’t your own.”

“Are they ever?” Pel asked softly. He reached for a beaker of water. No, not the well water collected in the waning moon—that was to reduce swellings and injuries. The other beaker, that one with the long neck, of running spring water gathered up under the waxing moon. That was for growing and increase. He splashed some into the mortar and dribbled a pinch of jewelweed powder into the mix. Not too much.

Siggurn watched him work with interest. “You don’t make fun of me for my problem. Why not?”

“Why should I?” Pel asked.

“Well, the other healers won’t do a thing for me. The herb woman in Prytanis Street said there’s people aplenty with genuine ailments. The last thing she wants to spend her skill concocting for is an erection.”

Pel shrugged. “I don’t mind what anyone asks for, provided they can pay, and they take responsibility for what they do with it. If it puts your body or your mind at ease, so long as you do no harm to others, I have no reason to refuse. I serve.” He glanced up at the ruined ceiling. Siggurn’s gaze followed his.

“Better not talk that way where anyone else can see you,” the carter warned.

The apothecary started. It had just seemed natural to want to pray at that moment. He’d forgotten the penalty, just like that. It was a quick way to get a beating, or catch his death of soldiers. “I was just wondering how you wished to pay this time.”

Siggurn shook his big head. “Can’t afford it twice so soon. All right, I was a frogging idiot. The tavern girls had a good joke on me. How much do you want? I’ll raise it somehow, but I haven’t got all of it right now.”

Pel let one of his salt-and-pepper eyebrows go up. “Will you trade labor for your potion?”

Siggurn’s shaggy brows matched his. “Doing what?”

Pel smiled. “Ever put in a roof joist?”

The remote Ilsigi village into which he wandered late at night on the last day he thought he’d live had only about twelve houses made of wattle and daub, set in a long oval about the market place and grazing green. Its wealth was in its goats. Pel didn’t know any of that when he arrived there. At the end of his strength, too afraid of what he was fleeing to think about where he was going, he collapsed at the gate of one of the houses.

If the old man who found him wondered about the unconscious heap of black cloak he found at his doorstep, or about the heavy tattoos all over the body within or the red stain that covered the arms from elbow to fingertip, he never asked. That was the first gift Loprin gave Pel. He did not push to hear his visitor’s name, tale, nor even his voice. A blessing, Pel always thought, because he could not have spoken. The second gift was a bowl of soup, then a blanket and a place to stay. Pel kept count of the gifts. They were the first he had received from outside the sect of the Chaos Goddess since he was a child. He had to fight his impulse to refuse them, coming as they did from a heathen. He recalled that he, too, was now a heathen.

The old man seemed happy for company. He didn’t insist that Pel participate in his prayers or do chores or even talk to him. Food and shelter came with no obligation, something that Pel had never experienced before. Loprin let him sit against the wall with an eye on the door, making sure he was warm enough, dry enough, fed enough, as he went about his daily chores and devotions.

Loprin worshiped Meshpri the Healer. The image on the polished stone altar was that of a slender girl-woman whose mouth was set firm but whose kind, intelligent eyes, older than time, promised mercy. In her lap was a baby toying with a branch of lignum vitae: Meshnom. Loprin prayed especially during difficult cases. He sacrificed medicines, money, tools and offerings from his patients. The ingredients that went into his medicines were simple: herbs, water or liquor, minerals, bark, but it was the timing of the gatherings, the precision of his actions and instructions, and the deep faith he had in his god that made Loprin a successful healer. Pel was partly of Ilsig descent, partly not, the usual mongrel mix of Sanctuary’s general population. He wondered if Meshpri or her lover-son Meshnom would listen to the pleas of a former murderer and torturer.

Repose and the lack of obligation allowed Pel to take time to think, and heal on his own. After a few weeks of having the blood taint out of his nostrils, Pel began to do chores for Loprin, rising before the dawn to draw water and light the fire. Because his appearance would have been remarked upon, he wore his enveloping cloak and gloves any time he went outside. During the day he cleaned and swept and cooked their simple meals. At night he followed Loprin’s instructions on where to hunt for certain herbs and when to gather water from the streams and wells. After two months he found his voice again. Loprin seemed delighted he had decided to speak. Sensing that Pel didn’t want to talk about what had driven him so far into the country, Loprin discussed his craft. He explained the names of all the plants he used: what their purposes were; when in the month, or even the year, one might be used, and how much of a dose to use for what ailments. Pel was interested in it all, but listened most closely to the last. Adherents of Dyareela abhorred the use of poison. Pel might have rejected everything else the Chaos Goddess stood for, but he felt strongly about that. They talked about the foibles of Loprin’s patients, the difficulty of some treatments, and how each bore his suffering and recovery. The old man had responsibility for the well-being of every living creature around him, much like a god, but he bore it with humility. Pel respected that. Hearing about the problems of others was healing in itself. Listening to Loprin talk he found he cared about the people as much as his mentor did. He wanted them to live and prosper, with all their faults intact that made them so human. He rediscovered compassion, a sense of humor, and a sense of purpose.

Five months after he had arrived, he asked Loprin to take him as a pupil.

For the first time the old man held back immediate affirmation. “This is a serious thing you ask me,” he told Pel. “The most important thing is to harm no one. If a patient is going to die, he will die. You can ease his going, if it is his wish. That is mercy. For the rest, do your best and trust in Meshpri. There will always be those who blame you for the loss of a loved one, but if you are honest they will understand you could did all you could.”

He stayed with Loprin for several years, learning the old man’s craft. He had discovered life-oriented gods to whom he felt he could honestly devote himself, but as it had been Meshpri who had led him to his new life, Pel gave her the greatest devotion. He had traded one goddess for another, and never regretted it for a moment.

As Loprin’s apprentice the villagers had accepted his care, but he knew the robe, mask and gloves frightened them. They needed to see a human face, see human hands giving to them. He wanted to rid himself of the marks of Dyareela that covered his entire body, including his scalp. For that, Loprin explained, they had to turn to the gods. Still not judging, but with a twinkle in those kind old eyes, he began preparations.

Shaved as bare as a newborn, he lay on Meshpri’s altar in the light of the new moon. Every tattoo, every word and number, every sacred whorl and scroll stood out in the silver light. The red on his hands glimmered like blood. The potion Loprin poured into his na-vel had taken many months to prepare. It was cold. Pel felt himself divided into three people: the one on the altar reaching out to his new goddess and taking everything very seriously, the watcher standing back and trying to save all these strange sensations and thoughts for later, and the little boy, stifled for so long, who wanted to giggle at the whole process.

“Be as a newborn,” the healer had intoned. “Unmarked, untouched, at the beginning of your life once more. Clear your heart of what went before. As without, so also within.”

Then the pain had begun.

“You should’ve froggin’ asked me to come first,” the large young man said to Pel, not for the first time, as he dodged a falling tile. It crashed on the floor between their feet. In spite of the cold of the day he was sweating, having just hauled in half a cart of stone blocks. He raised his voice to shout above the noises of sawing, hammering and talking, the busy sounds of fifteen other people who were present on an Anensday to work off their medical bills.

“Shoring up those pillars, resetting the walls—those ought to be done before anything on the gods’ cursed roof!”

“Sorry,” Pel said, brushing fragments off the front of his tunic. “I don’t know anything about construction. I can have them all stop what they’re doing and help you instead.”

“Why in the froggin’ hell didn’t you ask Carzen?” Cauvin asked, pointing to the woodman, who was standing near a wall with his arms folded. “He could’ve told you the same.”

He wanted Pel to make a fool of himself, the apothecary thought, half-humorously. “He said labor’s extra. I guess that included advice, too.”

Cauvin spat, but he grinned, too. He knew Carzen well. “I won’t charge extra for getting these puds workin’, but Grabar wants paying for his stone. He says the sleep remedy didn’t froggin’ work!”

“It was one of two possible cures for the symptoms he described,” Pel explained. “Loud snoring, sudden wakefulness, feeling like he’s choking in his dreams, and so on. One condition’s more dangerous than the other. I hoped it wasn’t that. I’ll send the other potion with you today.”

“If it works the deal’s on, but if not, you’ll have to come up with the soldats,” Cauvin said, folding his meaty arms. Pel nodded humbly.

“Done.” Pel felt like a stripling beside the stonecutter. Because of his skin-renewal they looked to be about the same age, but Pel knew he was a good ten years older then Cauvin. Though the stoneyard put out that Cauvin was their long-lost son, Pel knew better. In fact, the man who had been the priest Wrath remembered when the Servants had dragged Cauvin in from the streets and dropped him in the pits. The boy had been big for his age, and in trouble a lot of the time. What a scrapper he’d been even then, determined to survive in the hell in which the adults had trapped him. Pel had had to haul him out for punishment once when a boy had died. The others had blamed Cauvin, but the other had been far larger and had fewer marks on him.

Thank all chance Cauvin didn’t seem to remember him. To grow up so well, to become a respected man in this disrespectful town, was an achievement, twice so coming from such disadvantages. Pel rejoiced for him that he’d found a good sponsor, as good as Loprin had been for him.

“Friends!” he shouted. He picked up a mixing paddle and banged it on the altar to get everyone’s attention. “Stop! There’s a change in plan. Stop what you’re doing and come down. Master Cauvin will tell you what to do.”

With a curt nod to the apothecary the stonemason turned to his new workforce. Pel went back to his brazier, where a huge jug of water was brewing for tea. Some of the visitors had hinted that beer or liquor would have been more welcome, but there was no chance Pel was letting someone climb to the forty-foot ceiling with a skinful. Just in case of accident, he had prepared a load of bandages and salves. There was food, though. He’d asked the people who couldn’t work to bring things to eat for the workers. A few of them had shirked it, like Ma Sagli, who’d brought half a dozen biscuits and called it her share. Pel was holding his ire until the next time she came in looking for her phlegm medicine. Others, like Chersey, the money-changer’s wife, brought in a big basket of meat rolls, far more than she owed for the vial of flux medicine she had needed for her youngest. She was keeping one eye on the comestibles and the other on her two small children, who were playing with the scraps of wood near his herb baskets. A few others had come to watch the construction, huddles of blankets safely out of the way of the workers.

The place would be very fine when it was finished. He hoped the goddess would be happy with her refurbished temple. Every padpol Pel didn’t use for food or the raw materials for his medicines was put onto the altar as offerings to be used toward remaking the goddess’s house. He had sixteen strong new joists, some blocks of stone, and waterproof cloth that would go up on top until he could afford the right enameled copper tiles for the roof. That could take years, money being what it wasn’t.

This was the third workday that Pel had organized. The first was only a couple of months after he had returned to Sanctuary. The idea had come about because hard currency seemed to be in such short supply everywhere. If the Rankan lords had plenty of money, they weren’t spending it in the city. Nearly all businesses but the taverns were taking some of their pay in trade. What Pel needed more than anything was helping hands. Meshpri’s temple needed to be restored, but before that could occur all the rubbish that had accumulated needed to be cleared out and the building shored up so he could live in it without fearing for his life. In spite of his rejuvenation by Loprin, Pel could neither move stone blocks nor hammer up buttresses by himself. He tried to be as fair as he could in estimating the value of his services, but quickly discovered that any man who didn’t add a hundred or even three hundred percent onto the base cost was a fool, and an exhausted and resentful one at that. He’d ended up doing most of the hauling himself.

The second time he had grown wiser. Requiring hard labor or hard cash kept the idly curious from trying out potions for the fun of it. Having everyone come on the same day served several purposes: first, it amassed the necessary manpower for the work. Second, it showed each patient he was not being singled out by Pel, and let some of them feel they’d gotten away cheap not having to fork over coin. Third, it brought people together in a cooperative effort of creation. Sanctuary needed healing. Even after the passage of years the place was filled with hidden wounds. The act of building up instead of tearing down was important to Pel not only actually, but spiritually. He’d been responsible for some of those wounds. He was ashamed to have run away instead of helping to heal them. His practical common sense butted in again to remind him that if he’d stayed he would have been killed, accomplishing nothing.