“What payment, then?”
“My reward will not come from you. I will reap my own reward, and it is no concern of yours.”
The Tenkin granted them the use of three sizable huts and Wesley divided his crew accordingly. The accommodations were surprisingly luxurious, subdivided by walls of wide woven ribbons that gave the impression of being inside a basket. Carpets of tight-threaded fibers inlaid with beautiful designs covered the floor. Peanut-shaped gourds hung from the rafters, burning oil that provided more than enough light.
Having convinced Wesley to linger in the village, Hadrian watched over Royce, who looked worse with each passing hour. Royce’s skin burned and sweat poured down his forehead even as he shivered beneath two layers of blankets.
“You need to get better, pal,” Hadrian told him. “Think of Gwen. Better yet, think what she’ll do to me if I come back without you.”
There was no reaction. Royce continued to shiver, his eyes closed.
“May enter?” a soft voice asked. Hadrian could see only the outline in the doorway, and for an instant he thought it was Gwen. “He grows worse, but you refused Zulron to see him.”
“Your oberdaza has been keeping close company with the man who nearly killed my friend. I don’t feel comfortable letting Zulron treat him.”
“Will allow me? Am not skilled like Zulron, but know some things.”
Hadrian nodded and waved her in.
“Am Fan Irlanu,” she said, dipping her head into the hut while, outside, two other women waited in the rain with covered baskets.
“I’m Hadrian Blackwater, and this is my friend Royce.”
She nodded, then knelt beside Royce and placed a hand to his forehead. “He has fever.”
She motioned for the oil lamp and Hadrian pulled it down, then helped her open Royce’s cloak and pull back his tunic to reveal the stained bandage, which she carefully removed. Irlanu grimaced as she peeled back the cloth and studied the wound.
She shook her head. “It is the shirlum-kath,” she said, pressing lightly on the skin around the wound, causing Royce to flinch in his sleep. “See here?” She scraped a long nail along the edge of the bloody wound and drew away a squirming parasite the size of a coarse hair. It twisted and curled on her fingertip. “They are eating him.”
Fan Irlanu waved to the women outside, who entered and deposited their baskets beside her. She spoke briefly in Tenkin, ordering them to fetch other items, which Hadrian was unfamiliar with, and the two dashed from the hut.
“Can you help him?”
The woman nodded as she took out a stone mortar and began crushing bits of what looked to be dirt, leaves, and nuts with a pestle. “They common here with open wounds. Left alone, shirlum-kath will devour him. He die soon without help. I make poison for the shirlum-kath.”
One of the women returned with a gourd and an earthen pot, in which Fan Irlanu mixed the contents of her mortar with oil, beating it until she had a thick, dark paste, which she spread over Royce’s wound, packing it into the puncture. They turned him over and did the same to the exit wound. Then she placed a single large foul-smelling leaf over each and together they wrapped him in fresh cloth. Royce barely woke during the procedure. Groggy and confused, he soon passed out once more.
Fan Irlanu covered Royce back up with the blankets and nodded approvingly. “He will get better now, I think. I brew drinks—more poison for shirlum-kath and a tea for strength. When he wakes, make him drink both, eh? Then he feel better much faster.”
Hadrian thanked her. As she left, he wondered why Royce always attracted beautiful women when he was near death.
When Royce woke the next morning, the fever was gone, and he was strong enough to curse. According to him, the draft Fan Irlanu had provided tasted worse than fermented cow dung, but he actually liked the tea. The following day, he was sitting up and eating. By the third, he was able to walk unassisted to the communal ostrium for his meals.
No one complained about the delay because the rain continued. Seeing Royce in the ostrium that morning, Grady winked and asked Hadrian if it might be possible for Royce to have a relapse.
“He is good?” Fan Irlanu asked, coming to them after the evening meal had concluded. Her movement was entrancingly graceful, her dress glistening like oil in the lamplight. All eyes followed her.
“No—but he’s feeling a lot better,” Hadrian replied. His mischievous grin left a puzzled expression on her face.
“My language is perhaps not—”
“I’m very good, thank you,” Royce told her. “Apparently I owe you my life.”
She shook her head. “Repay me by getting strong—ah, but I do have a favor to ask of your friend Hay-dree-on. Joqdan, warlord of the village, asks that he speak with you at the sarap.”
“Me?” Hadrian asked, looking across to where the man in the bone necklaces sat. “Is it all right if Royce joins us? I’d like to keep an eye on him.”