“What are we looking for?” Astreya asked.
“Not what. Who,” Tsorreh replied. “A Meklavaran physician. I met him while you were visiting your friend at the oil shop.” She paused, turning slowly to survey the plaza. Between the booths with their slanted awnings and the press of the customers, she couldn’t see far.
“I was hoping…” Tsorreh stumbled to a halt. She felt like a fool. It had been such a slim, unlikely possibility of finding him here again. “Perhaps someone knows him, where he lives.”
“We can ask.” Astreya did not seem taken aback by the magnitude of the search. “I know these merchants. But we’re more likely to find your physician in the Reaches, down by South Gate. That’s where most foreigners live.”
Was there—even here, in the capital city of the conqueror—a quarter where Meklavarans gathered, preserving their traditions and learning?
Astreya pushed her way to first one and then another of the stalls to ask if anyone knew the foreign scholar. Yes, that was how these people would see him. With his somber robes and hat of folded cloth, he would bear little resemblance to their own priest-physicians.
The market was noisy, and people called out greetings, shouted out what they wished to buy or sell, bargaining and commenting on the quality of the produce. Tsorreh heard the high-pitched laughter of gossiping old men and the shrieks of children playing between the booths. Astreya managed to make herself heard above the din.
The first vendor was too busy to answer. He waved them away, impatient to greet a paying customer. The next had seen such a person but not this morning. The one after, scowled at Tsorreh and shook his head. Astreya pulled Tsorreh to the fountain, out of the press of traffic, and then to the shop of the oil merchant.
The young man in the canvas apron was energetically wielding a broom over the already spotless threshold when
Astreya called to him. He looked up, grinned, and waved to her.
“Varan, this is Tsorreh, Lord Jaxar’s guest by order of the Ar-King himself.”
His gaze flickered from the ivory clasps at Tsorreh’s shoulders to her black hair. Tsorreh could not help noticing the shift in his expression, the tightening of his mouth.
“We can’t talk out here,” he stated.
They went into the shop, cool and dim after the brightness of the market. The shop smelled of olives, sesame, and aromatic herbs. Jars of varying sizes lined the walls, the larger ones stacked in neat rows on the floor, several rows deep, with smaller vessels on the shelves. A cabinet sat beside the door at the far end, the only other furniture in the room. The floor and shelves were scrupulously clean.
“We’ve no time to visit today,” Astreya’s voice was businesslike, even as a smile dimpled her cheeks. “We’re looking for a Meklavaran scholar who was at the market the other day.”
At Varan’s questioning glance, Tsorreh added, “He is of my race, tall and thin, wearing long brown robes and a cloth hat. Do you know him?”
“Such a person has come into the shop once or twice.” Varan shifted uneasily from one foot to another. “I remember him because he purchased only a small amount of oil but insisted that it be of the finest quality.”
He went to the cabinet and drew out a bound sheaf of papers, flipped through them, and found the entry he wanted. “Yes, here it is. First pressing, fit for the Ar-King’s own kitchen, may-his-glory-never-diminish. It wasn’t a sufficient amount to cook with, which puzzled me at the time.”
But pure enough for medicinal purposes
, Tsorreh decided.
“Did he give a name?”
Varan peered at the sales record. “Mar—Marvenion, I think.”
Astreya glanced at Tsorreh. “That’s certainly a Meklavaran name,” Tsorreh said. “And his address?”
“Try the South Bathar Hill district, I suppose. He looked rich enough to have moved out of the Reaches.”
Tsorreh supposed that was good, a sign of the physician’s status and success. She was anxious to be on their way once more. Who knew how long it would take to walk to this South Bathar Hill, let alone find the physician there? How might Jaxar fare in the meantime?
“Thank you!” Astreya planted a kiss on Vanar’s cheek.
Varan glared at Tsorreh, took Astreya’s arm and pulled her toward the back of the shop. In a hushed voice, he said, “Whatever is going on, I don’t want you involved in it.”
“What’s happened?” The girl’s tone turned worried. “What have you heard?”
“Only that it is not good to associate with
her kind
. They bewitch people and force them to do terrible things. Unholy things…”
Tsorreh looked away, her cheeks burning. She fled through the open doorway.
“That’s ridiculous!” Astreya’s voice rose, clearly audible from the interior of the shop. “Who told you such hateful lies?”
Standing outside the shop, blinking away tears that arose more from anger than pain, Tsorreh heard only fragments of Varan’s reply, which included the words, “omens” and “priests of Qr.”
So it was not she herself who had been the target of the priest’s inquisition back in Gatacinne but her entire race. No, somehow that did not seem right. She was too distraught to remember the interview in its entirety, but had the priest become interested in her only when he sensed the presence of the
te-alvar
?
“Lord Jaxar does not believe in such superstitious nonsense and neither do I!” Astreya stormed out of the shop with such vehemence, she almost knocked Tsorreh over. Fury turned her face red and taut.
“I’m sorry—” Tsorreh trotted to keep up with Astreya. But sorry for what? For causing trouble between Astreya and Varan? For being what she was?
They angled through the periphery of the crowd and onto a medium-sized street, heading east. Between the buildings, Bathar Hill rose low and flat, a short distance away.
“No, it is Varan who should be sorry,” Astreya said. “His family have always been devoted to The Protector of Travelers, who extends kindness to all, especially the poor and homeless. He should be ashamed to speak so of any stranger! And within your hearing, too! How could he be so—so
rude?
”
Tsorreh could not think of a reply. Would it have been any better to say such things in secret?
They walked on for a time without speaking. The street began to rise as they passed from a working-class district to one of more prosperous shops and dwellings. Once Astreya burst out, “Oh, my mother will be furious!” and Tsorreh thought it better not to make any comment.
After several inquiries of passers-by, they were directed to a modest street where tastefully discreet signs indicated a scattering of tonsorials and herbalists. A temple, sparse and gray, dominated the corner; the only visible offerings were tiny stones, moon-pale shells, and white ribbons. When Tsorreh asked what they meant, Astreya explained that it was dedicated to The Remover of Sorrows, and it took Tsorreh some time to understand that this god represented death itself.
The houses here were well-made, joined in rows, with bright blossoms in pots or on wooden balconies whose railings were carved like graceful, intertwining vines and painted soft green and purple. A row of dwarfed apricot and plum trees, some of them in fruit, ran down the center of the street. The shade and the smell of the fruit blended with an occasional waft of incense from one of the opened windows. It was, Tsorreh thought, a pleasant street, a street of hope.
“I can’t tell which house it might be,” Astreya said, pausing. “We’ll have to ask again.”
“This is it.” Tsorreh pointed to the small painted sign
beside a door. Meklavaran script formed the initials, MRVN PHY.
Marvenion, Physician.
Tsorreh went up the single broad step and knocked. A moment later, a young girl of maybe ten or twelve opened the door. Instead of the usual Gelonian tunic of simple white cloth, she wore a long sleeveless vest of blue-black cotton, split along the sides for easy movement, over full pants gathered at the ankle. Her hair had been braided with little bells and tied back, and her smooth round cheeks were the same honey-gold as Tsorreh’s own. If Tsorreh had not been so anxious, so single-minded in her errand, she would have embraced the girl with delight at seeing a face so like her own, and familiar clothing, even the sound of the bells and the faint smells of cedar and sandalwood used to keep the clothing fresh.
The girl stared, wide-eyed.
“It’s all right.” Tsorreh spoke in Meklavaran and noted the girl’s instant comprehension. “We’re here to see the physician about a patient.”
Shortly, she and Astreya were ushered into a ground-floor room fitted as an office with chairs, divan, and table. Shelves held rows of jars and canisters, wooden boxes, and stoppered glass vials. It looked like a tidier version of Jaxar’s laboratory.
The girl returned in a few minutes with the very same man who had spoken to Tsorreh in the market. He wore his physician’s robes but no hat. When he recognized her, he hesitated. His gaze rested for an instant on her ivory shoulder clasps, the sure token that she was not a slave as he had first supposed.
“I never expected—” he murmured in Meklavaran, glancing at Astreya, with her pale skin and red-tinted hair. “Is this wise?”
“I have not come on my own behalf,” Tsorreh said, switching to Gelone, “but for the sake of my protector, who is in need of your tending.”
At Marvenion’s invitation, Tsorreh and Astreya sat
down, the physician in one of the chairs, the two women on the divan. Tsorreh described Jaxar’s condition in as much detail as she could remember. He nodded from time to time. Occasionally she paused to consult with Astreya regarding what treatments had already been tried.
Some instinct prompted Tsorreh to avoid naming the patient. She did not know how a Meklavaran exile would react to the prospect of attending a member of the Ar-King’s own family. The physicians she had known in Meklavar were bound by solemn oaths to devote themselves to the welfare of their patients, regardless of rank, fortune, or political connections. She felt confident that once the physician had accepted the commission, he would treat Jaxar with the same scrupulous care as if Jaxar were his own father.
“You were correct to come to me,” Marvenion said, when Tsorreh had finished her description. “Symptoms such as these, the difficulty in breathing and the sogginess of the flesh, often indicate a grave condition. It is difficult to say whether the problem lies in the kidneys or the heart or another indisposition, not until I have examined the patient, but yes, I can treat him.”
A sigh escaped Tsorreh’s lips. Until that moment, she had not realized how shallow and tight her breathing had become. Her shoulders ached with tension.
“Then you will come at once?” she said, getting to her feet. “I fear the risk of every passing hour.”
“Then we will not delay to offer you the hospitality of my house,” he replied. “I will bring those medicines most likely to be indicated. It will take me only a few minutes to assemble them.”
From the cabinet, he took a box of patterned wood inlay, strips of pale cream alternating with russet and gold. The inside was divided into sections and padded with quilted cloth. A clasp secured the lid, reinforced by a braided carrying strap.
“Where is the patient?” he asked, as he selected several stoppered vials and placed them in the box’s compartments.
“Cynar Hill.” As she answered, Tsorreh’s heart gave a curious thump.
Marvenion frowned. “He must be a person of importance, your protector. He’s not—?” He turned to face her. “He
is
a Gelonian noble, then.”
She lifted her chin.
He paled visibly, his lips soundlessly repeating the name of the hill. With trembling hands, he set the medicine box on the table. “No, no. What you ask is quite impossible.”
“You accepted him as a patient! Will you now renege on your word?”
“I did not know what he was. If you had told me, I would never have agreed.”
“Why, because he is a Gelon?” she demanded. “Do you base your decision to treat a man on his rank?”
“He is of the race of our oppressors!” Marvenion shouted with such vehemence that Astreya cringed. “Besides, he must have a host of his own priests to tend him. There is no need for me to become involved.”
“Those priests are worse than useless, and you know it!” Tsorreh said. “I am no physician, but even I know you cannot properly evaluate a patient by reading burnt entrails! I know that diseases follow certain principles, regardless of whom they afflict. If the priests could have cured him, they would have done so by now. His only hope lies in Meklavaran medicine.” With an effort, Tsorreh reined in her impatience. “Think of the good—to all of us—that will arise from this man’s gratitude when you have made him well again.”
“You cannot know what you are asking. Please, sit down. I will try to explain.”
Reluctantly, Tsorreh lowered herself back into the divan.
“The situation is a difficult one,” Marvenion said, his voice thick. “If what you have told me about this lord’s condition is true—”
“It is!”
“Then he is seriously ill. But he is no ordinary patient. I
cannot simply walk up to his compound and expect to be admitted.”
“He has given me leave to search out a physician of my own people,” Tsorreh pointed out, struggling to keep her voice calm.
Marvenion met her gaze, his irises a rich dark brown, deep and expressive, so different from the washed-blue of Gelonian eyes. In them she read fear, and not merely for himself.
“Surely, when a sick person asks for our help, we must answer,” she said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage. “The
te-Ketav
teaches us that all human life is sacred and commands us to preserve it regardless of our own convenience, considerations of rank or nationality or property, does it not?”
How can there ever be peace between our peoples if we harden our hearts and turn away from those in need?
Might one act of kindness create ripples through the temper of the times? How could she make Marvenion understand? And yet, she thought in a moment of understanding, the physician had every right to feel angry. Tsorreh sent a silent prayer to the Source of Blessings that she might find a way beyond that animosity.