“It’s not for me,” said Thomas. “There’s a little boy and girl outside. Both have the plague.”
Asmodeus closed his eyes and nodded. A stream of light brightened the room, and the Theurgeon’s eyes snapped open. “Mmmm. Terrible times. May the gods lift us from our dark abyss.” He stroked Thomas’s silver watch. “I do have a foxglove tincture for you—charmed with a particular Angelic spell that I find most effective for the plague. It will keep the symptoms at bay for a few weeks.” He furrowed his brow in something like sympathy. “Of course, they’ll need another dose at that point.”
Oswald snorted again. He muttered something that might have been quacksalver—an old world for “charlatan.”
Asmodeus ignored him. “Jedediah!” He snapped his fingers without turning his head. “Fetch the potion for the plague. And check the door. I thought I saw it swing open.”
Thomas’s temples throbbed. He was possibly making one of the stupidest decisions of his life. “Will one bottle be enough for two children?”
Asmodeus nodded again. “Split the dose between them.”
A servant in a simple black uniform shuffled to one of the shelves lining the wall, scratching at his sparse beard. He muttered to himself as he scanned the rows of glass vials and jars.
Asmodeus crossed his legs, folding pale fingers over his knees. “There are those who think we should give these things away for free, but of course then we’d have no money to make new potions. I may know the secrets to making gold, but our laws state that we may only create gold for the King. The rest of the nobility must turn a profit. Or we would all be in a dark abyss.” He slipped Thomas’s watch into a pocket in his gown.
Oswald’s sigh was deep and guttural, nearly a growl, and Thomas’s shoulders tensed. We need to get out of here before Oswald shoves that wizard cap up his dark abyss.
Asmodeus scowled at the servant. “What is taking so long? The purple one! On the shelves by the door!” He clucked. “Honestly. Sometimes it’s irritating to work with Tatters, even if they’re cheap.” He raised his eyebrows innocently at Oswald. “No offense, of course.”
The front door swung open, and Thomas saw someone run out—someone the size of a child, gripping a purple potion.
Asmodeus jumped to his feet. “Guards! She stole a tincture!” He toppled his chair, scrambling to the door. His robes billowed behind him as he dashed across the hall, a black wand in his hand. One of the Viking-looking fellows sprinted behind him, while the other remained, scowling while he readied his pike to guard the dais.
Oswald stood, rubbing his hands. “It seems someone believes this medicine should be free,” he whispered.
Thomas rose, and the servant brought over another glass jar of violet liquid, handing it to Thomas with a low bow before gesturing to the door. Clearly, he wanted Thomas and Oswald to leave.
“Thank you.” Thomas gripped the small vial, sealed at the top with a cork.
They crossed to the exit, and Thomas rolled the bottle around in his hands. Was that Chloris, the little girl?
Oswald yanked open the front door. The morning sun dazzled Thomas’s eyes, but when they refocused, his heart stopped.
Asmodeus’s wand pointed to Chloris, who stood immobile in the center of the square. A stream of light bound her wrists together. She screamed, still clutching the potion in her hand. Next to her, her brother Ayland sobbed, tears streaking through the dirt on his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Asmodeus shrieked at Chloris.
“My broder ha’ the token.” Her voice quavered, and her whole body shook on the square’s flagstones.
“And you thought you’d help yourself.” Asmodeus snatched the tincture out of her hand, still shackling her with his wand’s light. The little girl must have been listening in when Asmodeus had described the bottle. “Guard! You know the penalty for thievery.”
Oswald took a ragged breath, running a hand over his open mouth. All the color had drained from his face.
Thomas stared in horror as the guard lifted the girl, dragging her toward the fountain. “What’s going to happen to her?”
Oswald’s whole body had gone rigid. “They’ll cut off her hands and fill the fountain with her blood as a warning to others.” His voice was toneless. “They could do it painlessly, but that wouldn’t make it as good of a warning.”
A punch to the stomach would have hurt less. “We can’t let this happen.”
Oswald eyed him. “We don’t have a choice. We have no weapons, and there are hundreds of guards in the fortress.”
Thomas sized up the guard, who lumbered toward the fountain—the girl in one arm, his pike in another.