Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

“I know of no arts, young man, just remedies and potions,” the voice told him cautiously.

“Sir, if we may come in? Such matters are best not discussed on the streets.”

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, and then the door opened wider, to reveal a man so wizened he was almost bent double. He rested on a crooked cane, his neck craned at a painful angle to look at them through red-rimmed eyes. The sunlight seeped into the dark building lighting the flitting dust disturbed from the floor by the grey man’s passage.

“And are you able to pay for such a service?” enquired the old man.

“Able and willing. We will pay you for your time, even if you are not able to heal our friend. You will be well compensated.”

“Music to my ears, my pretty lady, but I am no hedge wizard or witch. I am a physician, and you could have got as much at the hospital. Or,” he said with a glint in his eye, “could it be something…other…that you desire?”

For a moment, the old man’s meaning escaped Tirielle, but j’ark was quick enough.

“It is of a fey nature, right enough,” the paladin told him. “Are you afraid of that which you do not understand?”

Reyland grunted. “I’m too old for fear, and way past pride. If I can heal your friend I will. The Protectorate have nothing to hold over my head. Let me get my bag, then you can take me to your friend.”

“It is a fair distance from here.”

“Lady, I am not so frail that I cannot walk. But if your sir would be kind enough to carry my bag?”

“Of course,” said j’ark.

They waited for a few minutes at the open door, without being invited inside, when the old man returned, dragging behind him a pack almost half his size.

j’ark looked at him pointedly.

“Well, why do you think my back is so crooked, young man?”

With a sigh j’ark shouldered the pack.

The old man scooted along at a fair pace, his cane clacking against the uneven paving stones at regular intervals. They skirted the edges of the marketplace, where there was sure to be a Protectorate presence, sticking to alleys, crossing two canals by means of rickety wooden bridges, rather than the sturdy stone bridges that served main thoroughfares. By the time they reached the Great Tree (so called not because it was housed in a Southern Brant, a tree which grew so wide it could be hollowed out and used as an abode by a family, but because its two storeys were supported by two main cross-beams, both at least sixty feet long) the old physician was panting, but less so than j’ark, who had to bear the weight of the huge pack on his shoulders the whole way.

Tirielle realised that j’ark was not as broad as she once thought him, now that he was no longer clad in breastplate and pauldrons, yet he was still broad enough across the shoulder. She watched his back as he struggled on in the midday heat, noting the steady flow of sweat on the nape of his neck. While he laboured, she enjoyed the walk, and found the old man to be passable company, even if his eyes did roam to places one of his age should no longer have any business with.

By the time they arrived, he had told her a potted history of the city, his speech interspersed with entirely inappropriate winks. She could live with the attention. It wasn’t, she thought with mild annoyance, as if any one else was paying her any attention.

According to Reyland, the Beggar’s Mile, where they had come from, was protected by the Pauper’s Edict from destruction, and, abutting against several other districts, could not be burned or destroyed without risk of damage to many ancient monuments and buildings. It was even cleaned at regular intervals, at the city’s expense. They passed few major monuments, apart from two statues, one of a distinguished looking man, one of a rahken. It was strange that a city of humans would honour a rahken, but Reynard assured her that the statue, of a beast called Prill, had been there since before the Beggar’s Mile had infested the city, growing within the confines of the city like a canker, or a fungal infection.

Prill had set up the hospital, and had thus been honoured. The regal gentleman, depicted in a shirt and trousers, holding a staff with an orb at one end, was the last human wizard to live openly in the city. If Tirielle thought it strange that the Protectorate would allow a statue that so obviously venerated a wizard, Reynard did not. He merely shrugged his narrow shoulders and moved on.

“Wizards are a thing of the past. This man is no threat to the Protectorate. He is a symbol of hope, and if there’s one thing the Protectorate like to give more than pain it is false hope,” he explained.

Tirielle couldn’t argue.

She pushed the door to the Great Tree open and held it for j’ark to enter. Typraille was still on guard duty. Although no swords were allowed within the city confines, he was armed. He wore a long dagger at his belt.

“This is Reyland, Typraille. He has come to see the girl.”

They never called her the Seer in company. Rumours would spread like wildfire and a thousand people would congregate outside there door. A Seer was someone that came along once in an age, and people didn’t realise that they had more important work to do than find lost amulets, or lost loves, or tell what sex a baby would be.

They would never leave the city if that were the case, even should the wrong kind of attention be drawn, that of the Protectorate, but so far they had been lucky. Tirielle could only hope that her luck held.

“Well, take me to your friend, then. I can’t very well do anything standing around here.”

“Of course,” said Tirielle, and took the old man’s arm as she led him up the stairs. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught him trying to look down her dress. She pulled the neck tighter and gripped his arm.

“A little less tight, if you please, lady,”

She wasn’t sure if he referred to her dress or her grip. She relaxed her grip.

“I wouldn’t want you to take a tumble, doctor,” she said politely.

He was nimble enough, though. In the gloom of the hallway Tirielle tried once again to look at his eyes, but they were so murky she could not tell if he was magically gifted or not. Perhaps he had cataracts. That would explain the almost filmy appearance of his eyes.

Perhaps, she thought, he was something she had never seen. She would never know, she was sure, for even if he had some magical aptitude, the chances of him using it openly in front of them was minimal.

“Wait here,” she told him when they reached the top of the stairs, and j’ark, who had been huffing on his way up the stairs with his burden, laid it down with a sigh of relief.

She pushed open the door to the Seer’s room, round a corner and out of sight of the old doctor.

“Roth?” she called lightly into the gloomy room.

“Yes, Tirielle, I am here.”

It stepped from the shadow and Tirielle could see that it had been there all along. It was a creature of stealth indeed.

“Can you go along to Quintal’s quarters and send him here? The physician has come and I’m not sure it would be a good idea for him to see you.”

“I suppose not. What is he like?”

“He is an old lecher, but harmless enough. Whether he is a skilled physician or not I could not say. We shall have to see.”

“We can but hope.”

She had to back out of the doorway for it to pass. She watched her friend walk down the hallway and knock on Quintal’s door. Only when the giant rahken was out of sight did she return to where the doctor was waiting.

“She is ready for you,” she told him.

“Let’s just hope I am ready for her,” he said with a warm smile, and Tirielle found herself wanting to trust the old man.