“Good lad.”
The doctor sat alone when they returned. “Sponda’s in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s just as well. She told me what she knows, but it’s nothing a woman needs to see.”
“I’d like to put George’s treatment onto my account,” Ian said.
“I can do that.” The doctor hesitated. “But, Ian, I must warn you. If Sponda is correct, the curative costs much more than a common gout-salve.”
“I understand,” Ian said. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Natto moaned. If he got in too deep, Ian might come after him. No. He smiled. Ian would come after Petin. Natto sat down and held out his hands.
“His johnson, too,” Ian added. “Black as night.”
“I see,” said the doctor. “Blue urine?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Just since this morning,” Natto said.
“That’s good. If you’d waited until tomorrow, there would have been nothing I could do.” The doctor opened his bag and took out an amber bottle with a cork stopper, then laid a mortar and pestle on the table. “How much do you know about medicine, Mr. Petin?”
“Not much.”
“That’s all right. I’ll explain it in layman’s terms.” He clasped his hands behind him. “You see, the four humors of the body are each governed by a particular mineral compound.” He stopped and looked at Natto. “Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Fine. Now a blood disorder calls for iron. Lungs react to salt, and the stomach and intestines to charcoal. The bladder—and its related organs—respond only to calcium.” He paused in his recitation. “Still with me?”
Natto shrugged.
“However, when it comes to a specialized ailment such as your own, the minerals themselves also become more specific. The only known cure is a compound of crystallized calcium carbonate, powdered and dissolved in an acetic elixir.”
“And you have all that?” Natto asked. His head spun with every word.
“This is the elixir.” He held up the amber bottle. “It’s a formula of my own devising. Extremely difficult to distil in the proper proportions.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Ian said. “He’s one of the few doctors in the realm that keeps a supply on hand.”
Natto felt anything but lucky. “What about the other part? The calcium bit?”
“In a separate vial,” the doctor said. He rummaged in his bag, pulling out bottles and jars, frowning more and more. “Oh dear,” he said. “It appears to have fallen out on the ride here.”
“What?” Natto said in a panic. “Then how will you—?”
“I suppose I’ll have to improvise.” He tapped his beard again. “It doesn’t need to be laboratory grade,” he muttered. “I suppose any pearl would do.”
“Pearl?” Natto’s mouth was suddenly dry.
“Yes.” He picked up the mortar and pestle. “I crush it in here, then add it to the elixir.”
“Crush?”
“Crush, pulverize, grind up.” The doctor waved his hand. “For that component, technique is largely irrelevant.” He placed the mortar on the table. “Once you down the mixture, you’ll be completely cured in twenty-four hours’ time.”
“I changed my mind. I’ll just wait and see what happens.”
“Mr. Petin. Do you not understand the gravity of your condition? Waiting is simply not an option.”
Natto sat very still for a long time. Without the pearl, he had nothing. But even he had to admit that nothing was better than dead. With a deep, painful sigh he reached into his coat pocket and—
His pocket was empty. He tried the other one. Empty as well. With a great, gulping sob he laid his head on the table.
“Now, now, lad,” Ian said, patting his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as that. If you need a pearl to save your life, well, I couldn’t look myself in the eye if I just stood by.”
Natto raised his head.
“It’s been in my family for—for a while now. I was saving it for my Sponda as a wedding present, but—” he smiled. “I think she’ll understand.” From the pocket of his trousers he pulled out a small black leather box and handed it to the doctor. “Will this do?”
Natto gasped as the man opened the box and rolled the gooseberry-sized pearl out onto his hand. “Perfectly,” he said. He dropped it into the mortar with a delicate plink and before Natto could say a word, crushed it into powder with a few deft motions.
“No. No. No.” Natto moaned, but it was too late.
The doctor opened the amber bottle and tipped in the powder. The mixture fizzed and bubbled over the glass lip before settling. “There you are,” he said. “Drink up.”
Natto drank. The vile, acrid liquid burned his throat and when he belched, a few seconds later, it stank of fish and turpentine.
“Have some ale,” Ian said. “To wash the taste out. And don’t you worry about the pearl. It was a family treasure, but I can add it to the rest you owe me.” He patted Natto on the shoulder. “Rendering is a fine profession. You’ll work your tab off in no time at all.”
WHEN THE SOPORIFIC that Anna had added to the elixir had taken effect, and the man who called himself Petin lay snoring and drooling on the table, the others retired to the kitchen.
“I thought that went well,” Ian said. “I picked his pocket clean as a whistle. He never felt a thing. ’Course he was a bit distracted.” He cut himself a slice of Pond. “What was the black stuff?”
“Silver nitrate. Sponda wiped it on his tankard.” Anna peeled off her beard, and began to remove the bits of spirit gum beneath. “It’s one of my brother Roger’s favorite pranks. Invisible until light hits it, then the stain lasts a good long while.” She set the metal canister on the table. “I’ll leave it with you, in case he needs another dose.”
“Does it make the blue, too?”
“No, that’s methylene. That you dissolve in his ale.” She gave him the jar.
Ian looked at the chemicals, then sighed. “I can’t believe you’ll be gone in an hour,” he said to Sponda.
“We have to take the horses before he wakes up.”
“I know, but I’ll miss you, girl. Every day.”
“Me too, Da.” She gave him a long hug. “But I’m not leaving you all alone. Now you’ll have an assistant to keep you company.”
“What do they say about small favors?” He kissed her cheek. “How long will you be in the capital, do you think?”
“Weeks,” Sponda said. “Maybe months. We’ll have to see what happens.”
“This stuff of yours, you really think it might win the prize?”
“It has every chance,” Anna said. “Even you couldn’t tell the difference in the Pond tonight.”
“That wasn’t butter?”
“It was not,” she smiled.
“I’ll be swoggled. That was really your—” he stopped. “What are you going to call it?”
Anna patted her journal. “I’ve thought of dozens of possible names. The one I like best is a variation on the Latin word for ‘pearl.’”
“Because of the way the suet fat looks when it melts?”
“Exactly. So I’m calling it margarone.”
“That’s a pretty fancy word for fake butter,” he said.
Sponda laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”
SHAGGY DOG BRIDGE:
A BLACK COMPANY STORY
GLEN COOK
TO PARAPHRASE A bit player named Rusty, “Shit happens. Sometimes no matter how much you dog-gnaw the bone you don’t get it to make no sense, ‘specially the who done what why.”
So it was with the shaggy dog bridge.
THE GREENS AND grays around and below me had become perilously hypnotic. Then a buccaneer deer fly snagged a big-ass bite just west of my Adam’s apple.
I let go the rope to take a swipe. Naturally, I missed the agile little buzzard.
Better lucky than smart, sometimes. My lifeline caught me. I stood on my head on a hundred feet of air while the guys up top lowered away. The dickheads on the stone shelf below grinned but tucked the needle in the trick bag for later.
I lack the born-again haughteur of a cat. No way could I manage a pretense of deliberate intent.
“Hold still.” One-Eye smeared something stinky on the bug bite. “That will kill any eggs.”
“Admirable caution,” I grumbled. We had yet to see the botfly horror in these parts, but the people hunting us would deploy them gleefully if they had some and could get them to bite Black Company guys exclusively.
Eight men crowded the ledge. More would follow me down. At the narrow end Rusty told Robin, “I ain’t carrying that dumbass crab catcher out’n here, he gets hisself hurt.”
Rusty was a FNG, with us only six months. He had no hope of becoming a Fucking Old Guy. He was an asshole and a bully. His type never prospers with us.
First aid complete, One-Eye faced the view.
“Sure is something. So much green.” The Rip. To the left it was a thousand feet more to the bottom. To the right, cliff collapses had choked the canyon partially, so long ago that heavy forest cloaked the fill.
One-Eye gave his filthy black hat a quarter turn, ‘To confuse the enemy,’ and said, “Something ain’t right, Croaker. I smell something gone off.”
His wizard’s sniffer was why Elmo had brought him along.