On the sixth day of Ramasu’s absence there were no instructions. Baffled, Arram began to catch up on his reading.
He had not been at it for long when the master himself came in. He wore an oiled cloak and hat, both of which streamed with rain, and carried a heavy basket. This he set on the floor. Coat and hat he set on hooks in the covered walkway outside.
“Put those away,” he instructed Arram. “We are going to change course slightly.” As soon as the worktable was clear of Arram’s books and papers, the master set cloth parcels from the basket on its surface. “Name these for me,” he ordered.
Arram touched the red bundle with his fingertips and his magic. “Shepherd’s purse, for diarrhea and lesions in the intestines,” he said. Putting his fingers on the brown one, he said, “Red raspberry leaves, to fight nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea.” He did the same for the others, which included white willow, licorice, and herbs that soothed pain or calmed stomach and intestinal spasms. Well before he finished he realized what Ramasu wanted to treat with these herbs.
“Typhoid?” he asked softly.
The healer rubbed his chin. “There went my next box of candied cherries from Maren. I wagered Sebo you wouldn’t know why I needed them. And she’ll gloat, too, which is unbecoming in a woman of her age and humiliating for me. Yes, typhoid in the Riverfront District of the city, and in Sweet Hollow. I’ve been at Riverfront.”
“I’ll go with you, Master,” Arram said impetuously. “I can—”
Ramasu held up a hand. He settled into the chair beside his desk. “Start with the shepherd’s purse. Grind it for medicine, as fine as possible. Grind all of it that’s in the cloth. Place it in a jar from those cupboards.” He pointed to show what he meant. “The ones with cork stoppers. Do that with each bundle of herbs. Don’t disturb me until you’re done.” He began to examine papers on the desk. A fire sprouted in the braziers in the room, driving back the chilly dampness.
Arram gathered the materials he would need: a big mortar and pestle and a necessary jar. He settled Preet near enough to a brazier to be comfortable. She fluffed herself up and gave a soft cheep of contentment.
Arram surveyed the table, wondering if he had everything. There was a cone to transfer the ground herbs into the jar. He’d gotten a brush to clear the herbs from the pestle, and a cloth to wipe it out.
“You have forgotten nothing,” Ramasu said, looking up from his papers. “Staring won’t get the work done. If anyone knocks, you don’t know where I am. This is my first sleep in three days.” He closed his eyes, then raised a hand. “Onestu will bring us lunch. Wake me for that.” He arranged his booted feet on a hassock next to his desk and linked his fingers on his belly. Within moments he was snoring.
Carefully Arram lifted the cloth under the dried plants and poured them into the mortar until it was half full. Then he went to work turning and grinding, mixing and pushing, until he had a fine powder. Carefully, using the funnel, he poured it into the jar.
He’d worked his way through the shepherd’s purse and started on the raspberry leaves when a man he didn’t recognize knocked on the door. He was a big man, a Scanran, with muscular arms and legs, and corn-gold hair that he wore in braids. “I’m Onestu,” he said quietly. “His ragze. I brought him a proper lunch, since he’s been eating nothing but infirmary fare.”
Arram stood aside. “I didn’t know he was married,” he whispered. “Forgive my bad manners.”
The big man chuckled. “I’d be surprised if he ever talked to you about anything but medicine.” He saw a clear spot on a counter and laid out dishes and utensils, a soup thick with beef, chickpeas, and dumplings, fried balls of lamb kibbeh, eggplant dip, pieces of chicken, and fresh flatbread. “Help yourself to some of this. Let him sleep—”
“I need food as much as sleep,” Ramasu announced as he lurched out of his chair. “You were good to come, Onestu.” He walked his husband outside and returned shortly, looking tired but cheerful. “He’s a glassmaker,” he told Arram. “And he looks after our children when I’m called out like this. A fine man—I don’t deserve him. Where’s the soup?”
Arram dished up a bowl for the master, then fed Preet and gave her water. Once everyone had been cared for, he got back to work.
Some plants were dry, lacking the greenness, or vigor, that the others had. He talked to them silently, a trick he’d learned from Master Hulak. Stand up for yourselves! he told them, letting the words float on his Gift. You can be just as strong as the fresh plant—I know it’s still in you!
Slowly he felt their swelling pride and growing strength. They would do well.
When he looked up from the last jar, Ramasu had finished his meal. Arram hadn’t noticed his movements, any more than he had seen Preet fly to perch on the master’s shoulder. Ramasu was watching him, an odd look in his eyes.
“Do you often talk to plants?” he inquired.
“Master Hulak does,” Arram said defensively. “He says it helps them to grow.”
“I don’t believe even Hulak talks to them after they’re dead.”
“I just thought they might like it,” Arram replied, looking at the floor. “They were older than some of these others, and they felt bad about it.”
Ramasu stroked Preet’s chest feathers. “It’s very interesting, where you live, isn’t it, Arram?” He tapped his forehead to show what he meant. “Does Hulak know you can do this?”
“He lets me encourage living plants, if things go well,” Arram replied. “He says it’s a reward, but I’m not sure why. The plants do it for him when he’s just there.”
“Perhaps it’s meant to be a reward for you,” Ramasu suggested. He was staring at Arram as he rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin.
Arram tried not to fidget. He was not quite comfortable with Ramasu. The man was always aloof and dignified. His snoring and the introduction of Onestu had made him seem more human, but the look in those eyes was making Arram nervous all over again.
“Well, you aren’t getting any younger,” Ramasu said at last. He reached for paper and a pen. “Can someone take your bird for a time?”
“Well—well, yes, of course,” Arram stammered, not understanding the reason for the question. “Ozorne, Varice—they’re my friends—Master Lindhall, of course…”
“Lindhall! Perfect!” Ramasu picked up a small glass globe and passed his hand over it. It whirled with colored fires as the blaze of Ramasu’s power formed a circle around it. “Lindhall, it’s Ramasu.”
Arram jumped when he heard Lindhall’s impatient reply as clearly as if Lindhall stood there. “Great Mithros, surely you know I’m teaching a class!”
“Yes, but I am returning to the city. I want Draper to go, and I need you to keep his bird. There’s no telling when I will return the boy,” Ramasu told the globe.
“Haven’t you been in—” Lindhall began. Then his voice softened. “Oh. Must you? Your other beginners are at least three or four years older.”