Anthology - Thieves World - Turning Points

"Healer," a voice whispered to him. Pel glanced down at one of the blanket-wrapped heaps near the brazier.

"Yes?" he asked.

A gloved hand reached out of the mass of cloth to beckon to him. He could see nothing of the face. It was hooded by the heavy wool blanket. Good fabric, too, without a single patch or caught thread. Had a wealthy patron come here seeking his attention in the guise of a curious onlooker? Everyone knew the date of Pel's latest workday. Why, a handful of people who owed him had made a point of being out of the city today. Why shouldn't someone who wanted to see him come along?

"How may I serve?" Pel asked, crouching down.

"I hear you make the jewelweed potion."

"Yes, I do."

"I need some."

"For yourself?"

"Yes…" the breath came out in a hiss. "There aren't enough children in Sanctuary. I am called to make some. I cannot… try."

Icy fingers crawled along Pel's back. The way the huddled figure phrased his words alarmed him.

"What about… the mother?" he asked, very slowly.

"Ahh… so it's true," the voice breathed. The hand curled until the forefinger was pointing at his temple. A familiar gesture, one Pel hadn't seen in a decade. His heart contracted with fear. As surely as if he had torn it away to look, he knew the cloak concealed a body marked with red stain and tattoos. It came rushing back to him that he had told his former masters that he was going underground. He hadn't meant it then. He was even more determined now not to return.

"No!" Pel almost shouted. "I mean, you are sure the mother can have children? Is she old enough?"

"They are all old enough. My body will not obey the Mother's command." Now Pel could distinctly hear the capital letter.

"Ah, you must be an Irrune, sir," Pel said, carefully, still with his voice low enough so only the gloved visitor could hear, though he was tempted to shout out to the nearby crowd of big burly men with hammers and chisels, There's a Dyareelan here! Kill him ! "We poor Ilsig only take one wife. So… you cannot raise your sword? Is that the help you wish from me?"

"Yes. As soon as possible."

"The potion takes but a short time to prepare, but I cannot do my work with so much dust in the air. Would you return tomorrow?"

"That will do," the blanket inclined its head. "After dark. I do not wish to advertise my… problem. Or my presence."

"As you wish," Pel said. "Many of my patients prefer to be discreet about seeing me. That means you'll be paying in cash, then? Otherwise, you'll be joining these," he gestured at the workers, "next workday."

"Cash."

"Healer!" Cauvin shouted at that moment. "Do you want this froggin' pillar replaced with wood or stone?"

Pel started toward him automatically, then turned to look back toward the heap of blankets. It was not there. A shadowed shape was slipping out of the door. He'd been too surprised to take action; now it was too late. With an act of will he went to listen to an argument between Cauvin and Carzen.

The ringing of hammers and voices had long since died away. Pel huddled near the last orange embers of his brazier, alone in the echoing temple ruin. Night had fallen, and with it came a miserable, frosty drizzle. Sanctuary had always had terrible weather, Pel reflected. It had gotten worse since he had returned. The night was bitterly cold, but at least now the rain didn't come through the roof. The cloth could hold for a good long time, perhaps until another owner came to claim Meshpri's temple. The building would not fall down, thanks to Cauvin and Pel's other patients. It could house another servant of the healing god, one who would carry on the task of helping to heal Sanctuary…

Visions of his former life came rushing back to him: the clean-sings, the sacrifices, the dismal pits full of miserable children, and lastly the triumphant, mad look on his wife's face when she showed him the body of their daughter with the heart torn from it. No! He slammed his open hand down on the altar. He would not run away. Dyareela's priest couldn't have recognized him as Wrath. But there were other Servants hidden throughout the empire. Even if the man did not know him, he could think he was one of the others who'd gone underground.

But the important thing was that he knew the hooded visitor as a priest of the Bleeding Hand. Arizak had not, then, wiped out the entire warren. Like a cancer, the cult was growing back again somewhere in Sanctuary, and Pel might be the only one who knew it.

His visitor must be gathering new devotees, probably street children. By what he'd told Pel there were certainly a few girls old enough to bear, but no boys old enough to impregnate them, leaving him as the only one who could do the deed. That meant the cell was small as of yet. Thank all chance for that. But the priest was impotent. And so he had come to Pel.

What a dilemma he was in! His conscience wouldn't let the priest beget more babies to become assassins or die as sacrifices, yet he must give the man what he asked for. What could he do? Less than a full day from that moment, just after nightfall, the priest would return for his jewelweed potion. Pel could go to the palace and bring guards to wait here with him, to capture the man. But if he did, the man would denounce him as a former Servant. Pel could not hide the truth from his questioners. He and the other would both die, trampled by a herd of horses. He could-he had to steel himself just to think the thought-he could kill the priest. He'd kept his skills honed sharp all these years. But the man might not arrive alone. There was a chance he'd miss at least one defender, and his life here would be over, one way or another. And if he succeeded, there'd be the question of what to do with the body.

What was he thinking? Pel paced around and around the brazier, now filled with cold ashes. He was a healer now, a servant of Mesh-pri! He couldn't spill unjust blood. He'd have to answer to his goddess one day. Poison… no! Absolutely not. Never.

Pel thought hard. There must be a solution that would serve both his oath and his patient. He had no good reason to refuse to make the potion. He'd promised. But the Hand couldn't be permitted to sire more innocent children. No more babies must be born into the hell he'd survived. He just couldn't bring himself to kill in cold blood, even for them.

A thought struck him, so hard he stopped dead in the dark. What had he promised? He felt the slow smile spread over his face. Yes, that was the solution! He could keep his word. Hastily he felt his way back to the altar, and scrabbled with sensitive fingertips until he found his tinder and flint. Striking a hasty light, he began to gather up bundles of herbs, piling them on Meshpri's altar.

The buildings on the Avenue of Temples were reputed to be haunted. Anyone passing by the ancient shrine to Meshpri late that night would have heard the banshee cackling of restless spirits and hurried home to lock their doors.

Night had just drawn its cloak over Sanctuary when the hooded visitor returned to the apothecary shop. Pel had been waiting impatiently all day. Unable to think about anything but the impending meeting, he couldn't trust himself to mix medicines, lest he make an error that might prove fatal. Instead, he set himself the backbreaking task of cleaning up after his conscripted workforce. The bristles of his broom were at least a handspan shorter than they'd started out that morning, so vigorous was he in sweeping. He had just bent to brush up a panful of stone dust, when the low voice came almost at his elbow.

"Healer?"

Pel jerked bolt upright. The pan flew out of his hands, scattering the dust all over. "You're here!" he exclaimed.

"I am. Is it ready?"

"Yes, it is," Pel said, knowing he was babbling. "This way. It's ready. Seven uses' worth for one soldat. If you need more, I can make it. Any time."