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Bleed three fallen kings who leave three empty thrones.
They shrieked and giggled as they battled to keep their wall intact from the invading child and protect their stony seats.
When I could no longer hear them playing, I found myself standing at the door of a shop with dark windows on a less-frequented corner of the street. Above it an apothecary’s sign hung on creaking hinges. The glass was too cloudy to see into the building, but painted on the window was SAHLMA SALAZAR: HEALER, MAKER OF POTIONS. PREFERRED HERBALIST OF THE DE ACHLEV FAMILY.
My skin crawled at the sight of the place, but what other choice did I
have? This was the one field in which I might actually be of some assistance, and she was associated with the royal family. It gave me a small twinge of hope, despite the apprehension digging into my stomach like the claws of a startled cat.
A bell tinkled above the door as I entered the dim building, but the white-bonneted lady behind the counter did not acknowledge me. She was already immersed in a heated conversation with a woman offering a handful of coins—?Renaltan gold marks, from the look of them. “Please,” the woman begged. “This is all I have. You must help us.”
“And what am I to do with those worthless hunks of metal? I told you, three Achlevan crowns. Now go on. I’ve got other customers.”
The woman left in tears.
Sahlma was small in stature, but she loomed over her shop like a storm cloud. The shop itself was gloomy and cluttered, with cobwebs gathering in the corners, and the smell of herbs in the air was overwhelmed by a tang of decay. “Well,” she barked from beneath her bonnet, “what is it you need today?”
I stuttered, “I—?I just came in to see . . . to ask . . . if you were looking for any help . . .”
“Help?” She guffawed, which sent her into a spasm of painful-sounding coughs. “No, I don’t need any help. If you aren’t buying anything, then you can be on your way.” A man had come in behind me, and she was already waving him over.
“Wait!” I twisted my hands on the counter. “I’m really good with herbs. I know all the varieties and can make concoctions for you, and assist you in whatever you might need. And in your poor health, couldn’t you use an extra pair of hands?”
She glared at me. “My health is fine.” Several more hacking coughs suggested otherwise, but she continued, “Why would I pay someone else to bungle what I can do perfectly well myself?” She began taking down several herbs for the other order. I recognized them: belladonna, jimson weed, henbane. Powerful sedatives of dubious reputation, all. I tried not to think about it.
“But maybe you wouldn’t even have to pay me,” I continued distractedly. “I just need a place to stay and perhaps something to eat. I could work just for that.”
“Well, if that’s all you need, there’s a whorehouse about two buildings down from here. Not one of the real discerning fancy ones, either.” She looked me up and down. “I’m sure they could find some use for you.”
The other customer’s attention was on me now too, a leering smile spreading across his face as if he were pondering what those uses might be. I took a step back and tried to look busy fiddling inside my pack. I’d wait until he was gone to needle her more.
A cool gust of air brushed my arms, and I whirled around, full of dread, expecting to find the Harbinger. Instead, I saw the timid eye of a little boy peering at me from behind a door frame. A small red cap sat askew on his head, soft curls sticking out from beneath it.
“Well, hello there,” I said, kneeling.
He ducked away, but I could still see his little hands. After a second, he peeked out at me again.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I won’t hurt you.”
Wrapping up the man’s order, Sahlma barked, “Who are you talking to now, girl?”
“The little boy,” I said, standing. “He’s hiding, though. Is he shy?”
She glared at me and thrust the parcel into the customer’s hands. “There are no children allowed in this shop.”
“He’s not yours? A grandson or something? He’s very sweet. Dark curls and this little red cap . . .”
The color was gone from Sahlma’s face. “Get out,” she said.
“But . . . I just . . .”
“Get out,” she said again.
“No, listen. I know I can be of some help—?”
“Out!” she roared.
I tripped down the steps of the apothecary, followed closely by the cloud of her wrath and the man with a bag full of sedatives. I ducked behind a nearby merchant’s stall, watching as he scanned the street. When he didn’t find me, he seemed to give up and move on.
