Page 51

Miana studies the ceiling with great interest.

I retrieve a stoppered black bottle from the upper shelf. This is the tonic I offered in exchange for help clearing the solarium, improved after treating two guards from the residential levels. Goligan reduces the swelling. Fylvek loosens the residue coating the lungs. A trace of neutralized numiscu slows the spasms without causing paralysis.

No incantation binds the ingredients. No chaos sigil forces damaged tissue to obey. Proportion, preparation, and the body's own response do the work.

I pour three measures into shallow metal cups.

The liquid is dark green and thick enough to cling to the sides.

"Drink all of it," I say. "Slowly."

The iron-grey guard lifts his cup, sniffs, and looks offended.

"Medicine is not required to flatter you."

He drinks.

His expression becomes more offended.

The bone-white guard follows. The mottled one waits until both survive, then empties his cup in a single swallow. He coughs at once, bending forward as the tonic loosens what has settled in his lungs.

The other guards reach for him.

"Let him cough," I say. "Do not strike his back."

I place a basin beneath his mouth. Blue-grey mucus lands against the metal, threaded with old blood. The fit lasts nearly a minute. When it passes, his next breath travels deeper.

He looks at me with yellow eyes, surprise overtaking humiliation.

"Again tonight," I tell him. "Then morning and night for six days. You are not returning to the discharge channels during treatment."

"I do not choose my patrol."

"Your commander chooses whether to lose a trained guard. Give him that calculation."

The iron-grey guard flexes his throat. "How soon should this ease?"

"You should breathe more freely by evening. The lesions will take several days. Return if they darken or if any of you develop fever."

"What is the price?"

Miana places the folded linens on my counter. From between them, she removes a small leather pouch and sets it beside the empty cups.

The contents click softly.

I loosen the cord.

Kaffo beans fill the pouch, each one hard, angular, and dark copper in color. Their bitter infusion is prized in the upper spires, where nobles drink it before long Council sessions and complain if the beans are not evenly roasted over stormglass. Humans usually receive the cracked remnants after grinding.

These are whole.

"Where did you obtain this?" I ask.

The bone-white guard answers. "A merchant's escort paid us after a storm crossing."

"This is worth more than six doses."

"There are three of us."