Марк Ньютон - Drakenfeld

‘Was there anyone else who worked here?’

Her reply came as a whisper, ‘Another cleaner, but your father had to let him go.’

‘Could he not afford him?’

‘He would not say. Please, I must attend to dinner.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, listening to the soft sound of her slippers across the tiles.

So the sad truth was that I had never really known him well enough to be a decent judge of his true character. Just as the rest of the world had seen him, all I witnessed was the urbane investigator, more concerned about closing a case than spending time with his family. Perhaps if I’d visited more, if I’d written to him more often…

So many ‘ifs’.

I would have the rest of my life to worry about being a more considerate son, but for now I slipped down the bathtub and buried my face under the warm water, hoping it would wash away my concerns – if just for a moment.

Leana later asked if she could use the bath after me, refusing my offer that she could use fresh water, with an admonishment about the waste ‘so typical of this godforsaken, sinful city’. There were times I wish she wasn’t quite as adept with my language – or as colourful – as she is.

While she was bathing I informed her of my plans to go out into the city to pick up a few supplies. She didn’t question me, thankfully, and agreed to my request that she saw the bribe was paid to Yadrix Velor. I left the necessary money in a purse on her bed. In the corner of the room stood her wooden Atrewen idol, a representative of the spirit master Gudan – he was not a god exactly, since there were no definite gods in Atrewen culture. Gudan was a legendary figure to Leana, a man who could converse with the spirits, and someone on whom her spirituality could be focused. It prompted me to take a moment to pray to my goddess.

Finding the shrine that Bellona had moved into the hall, and bowing before the statue of Polla, I requested her aid in cleansing my mind and strengthening my powers of logic and intuition. Polla was a gentle goddess, her human form one of exquisite beauty and modesty – unlike many of the other gods and goddesses in existence. With the subtle, knowledgeable tilt of her head, and the Book of Wisdom open in her hands, the statue was deeply inspiring. Lighting some incense in a small burner and waving the smoke over my face, I lost myself in the ritual, letting her cool logic and calm presence fill me.

A few moments later, wearing a green cotton shirt and a decent pair of black trousers, I threw my cloak around me and headed out into the night with a spring in my step.

Walking out of my gates with a pocketful of coin, the city seemed pleasantly cooler after the rain. Where to tonight? The niggling sensation of the seizure last night had remained at the back of my mind all through the day, and though I had prayed to Polla, I did wonder if a more earthly solution was possible.

Leana had mentioned there was an apothecary nearby.

It wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

The apothecary seemed to be one of those shops that never quite looked either open or closed. And it was on one of those streets that meant a lot of people had to be asked before I was directed to the right place. But sure enough, under a sign with long-faded gold lettering, stood the apothecary. I was glad of its concealed location.

This street was just about wide enough to get a horse through; it wound tightly down a gentle slope, with two-storey structures on either side. Several cats sashayed back and forth before me, pausing to nose the air as if my presence had somehow ruined the ambience.

I knocked on the apothecary’s door, making certain my face remained in the shadows. All around were the sounds of the city moving into its evening alter ego, while on the next street along was yet another cart grinding its wheels against a wall or pavement, and at least three local residents cursing at the driver.

The door opened and a woman in her forties, wearing a smart grey gown, stood there. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m just about to finish for the night, sir.’

‘Perhaps I should come back some other time then. I don’t wish to impose.’ My voice felt uncomfortably frail and I turned away quickly.

‘No, please, come in,’ she said rather jovially, placing a hand gently on the side of my arm. She looked me in the eye and had such a determined look about her. ‘It’s been a quiet day and I could do with the trade. Besides, you actually seem as though you are avoiding me, which I find curious. Please, put yourself at ease.’

Laughing awkwardly, I followed her inside and closed the door behind me.

The smell was incredible: a whole array of herbs, spices and oils blending together, some on a small stove, others sitting in open jars. In the light of a couple of paper lanterns, I was able to take a better look at the woman. She was maybe a bit younger than I first thought, her hair a pale blonde rather than grey – the kind of colouring found in people from the far north. Her eyes were an intense shade of green, and set in a narrow face. Her gown covered a grey woollen tunic that was splattered in stains, much like that of an artist. She also seemed to have a surprisingly good posture, and not that of someone who had spent years hunching over a table.

Thick wooden shelves held up ledgers, one of which was open on a desk, next to a candle. From my quick glance, I noted long lists of complex plant names with observations alongside them, much like those of a physician. This was promising: there seemed to be the satisfying air of logic about her profession.

‘So how can I be of help?’ she asked. ‘It is not often I have a gentleman of such lofty upbringing visiting me.’ Her voice was soothing. I could have listened to her talking all night long.

‘Is it my accent?’ I wondered if I sounded out of touch with people who lived even a few streets down from my own.

She gave a gentle laugh and walked behind her work desk, on which stood glass jars and wooden trays with little dividers. ‘Your boots, actually. I’ve not seen boots that well made for a long time.’ Her gaze moved up and down my body, keenly assessing me.

‘I’m here because I need something to calm the mind.’

‘Could you be more specific?’ she asked. ‘Is it a headache?’

‘No.’ I watched her grind some seeds or herbs with a pestle and mortar.

‘It’s OK, it really is,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who you are; you don’t have to tell me either. I won’t even tell you my name, if anonymity is important. But I can’t help you unless you tell me the specific symptoms. I’m not some countryside witch. There’s a considered process to my methods. Now, are you having strange thoughts or dreams?’

‘No more than anyone else,’ I replied.

‘Well, we can rule out trying a mage to read them for diagnosis then. Tell me more.’

‘It’s my father. He suffers from seizures. I’m concerned I might have inherited such things, though I’ve shown no signs of it. I’m worried that I too might be cursed by the gods.’

‘Who is your god?’

‘Goddess,’ I replied. ‘Polla.’

She nodded. ‘The lady of knowledge – I’ve read her texts and can see why your mind matters to you. But tell me about your father’s symptoms.’

We probably both realized this was a charade, but I revealed what I could under the guise of my father: that the seizures occurred, sometimes in sleep; that they came and went with no reason nor rhyme; that he could remember nothing about them at the time; and that the experience was certainly not one conducive to visions. I added that he was used to them – that they were part of his life now, and he accepted them and the headaches that sometimes came with them, but he would certainly appreciate them to strike less often so that he could get on with his life.