Arram trotted into the hospital, where a healer grabbed his arm. “Where are you supposed to be, youngster?” she demanded. “You don’t look sick.”
“Master Ramasu said I grind herbs and strengthen them well,” he said, unnerved by the fierceness in her eyes.
“Oh, Hekaja, I thank you!” the healer told the ceiling high above, though Arram thought she could also thank Master Ramasu. “Here.” She led him into a large area partitioned off into many small canvas rooms. Looking him over, she pulled a folded length of canvas from one of many piles stacked against the wall. “Go in there, close the flaps, take off all but your loincloth, and throw the old clothes in the barrel,” she said rapidly, as if she’d said it a thousand times before. “That includes your mask. Keep sandals and loincloth, nothing else. If those who sent you didn’t say you couldn’t keep your clothes, take it up with them, not with me. Move, youngster. I have work to do!”
Once he was done, she led him at a fast walk through long rows of canvas-fronted rooms for the sick, some with the canvas lifted wide to reveal plain, empty cots and chamber pots, others with the canvas shielding those who moaned or wept inside. Some chambers were open to reveal stacks of basins, sheets, blankets, buckets, and small tables. Others held those who were clearly well, visiting family or children. Healers, priests, and priestesses moved along the aisles, looking weary and preoccupied.
They reached the far side of the warehouse. Arram’s guide opened a door and thrust Arram through it. “Here we are,” she said. “Healers work on supplies in here. There are cots for naps and food down that way.” She pointed. “And medicines are that way. Good luck.” She left before he could even thank her.
A wave of plant spells, most of them familiar, flowed from behind the section the healer had identified as “medicines.” When he extended a feather of his Gift, he felt the plants he’d ground earlier that day.
“Who did that?” someone nearby asked sharply. “Whose Gift do I feel?”
He wasn’t sure who had spoken out of the identically gowned people, so he raised his hand. A tall, slender black woman swept down on him. “Who are you? You’re much too young to be here.”
“Master Ramasu sent me to grind and strengthen herbs,” Arram replied.
“Are you the one who did the batch that just came in from the university?” she asked, walking Arram into the workroom for medicines.
Arram saw his jars on the floor in their crate, unbroken, the seals still whole. “This is mine,” he told the woman. People never introduce themselves here! he thought. “This crate and the one next to it.”
The new mage produced her Gift, using it to inspect the jars. When she released her magic, she looked at Arram. “Some of the herbs—the plants are dry, but their power is as great as if they were green.”
Arram rubbed the side of his head. Between the journey, the stinks, and the vomiting, it hurt. “I told you, I don’t just grind, I strengthen. That’s why Master Ramasu sent me along. You could ask him, and I could do something about this headache.”
“I’ll do better,” the senior mage said. “Gieyat!” she called, looking over the large space. “I want Gieyat!”
A short Southern man, with the heavy muscles of someone who had worked hard labor all his life, appeared immediately. “To hear your enchanting call is to be wafted to your side, O wise woman,” he said, his eyes twinkling. His head was shaved bald. His sleeveless tunic revealed the scar of the gladiator on his right shoulder, a circle around crossed short swords. Beneath it was a fresher scar, a stylized bird flying up toward the swords: the mark of a freed gladiator.
“Can you and one of your lads carry these to the medicine cooks?” the mage asked. “Just these two crates, special. Have that savage Viya prepare medicine from these, no one else.”
Gieyat picked up the top crate as if it weighed nothing and handed it to a young man. “I will see to it, Nazaam,” Gieyat said. “And you were supposed to go to supper the last time I saw you.”
“As soon as I settle this youngster, I will, Mother,” Nazaam replied. “Get someone to bring the lad the stomach-soft headache tea. The odors do not suit him.” There was less snap in her voice, and a softening in her eyes. She turned to Arram and said, “Let’s get you settled, boy, and me eating supper, or Gieyat will never leave me alone.”
It was plain that Nazaam and Gieyat were lovers. I’d like that, Arram thought as he followed Nazaam. To be comfortable with my lover, and laugh together, even when things are terrible. Like I do with Ozorne and Varice.
“How did you know I’d been sick?” he asked.
Nazaam took him to a worktable, one of many lined up against the chilly rear wall. Workers—mages and older students—stood at each one, pummeling and mixing the contents of mortars. A slate leaned against the big, bowl-shaped mortar where his guide halted. On it someone had written “Arram Draper.” No one was positioned at the table on his right; a much older mage labored on his left. He didn’t even look up.
Nazaam twitched a finger; a man ran up with a sack. He cut it open with his belt knife and poured its contents into the mortar until it was half full. Arram flinched. The herbs were so stale as to be useless. “They’re old,” he said, forgetting his company.
“Really?” Nazaam asked with awful sarcasm. “What a dreadful oversight on our part. You’d think we’d labored for weeks and gone through the fresh stuff.” She leaned close to Arram, her masked face a thumb’s width from his, her gloved forefinger poking his chest. “Now see here, student. If Ramasu foisted you on me, I must hope you have something useful. If you give me extra trouble, I swear to the Black God, granter of peace, you’ll be outside keeping order in the burning pile, understand?”
Arram gulped and nodded.
“And if you slack on work when people are dying…”
Arram straightened and replied stiffly, “I never slack on work, mistress.”
“It’s Master. Master Nazaam. I judge if you slack. When you’ve finished with one mortar’s worth, pour the contents into one of these”—she produced a bowl from a shelf beneath the table—“and start on your next mortar full. If you must stop, tell the next person who asks you if you need anything. Don’t leave until you’ve told that person, understand? We’ll let you know when it’s time for meals, sleep, or a halt.”
“Yes, Master Nazaam,” Arram murmured. He knew who she was now: the director of magic at the university’s School of Medicine. When the emperor panicked, he sent for her. One thing of which Arram was certain—he would not call for her, no matter how panicked he was. She was too frightening.