This is witched weather; the power is everywhere, wild, undisciplined. How could that Lyosten mage have let himself get so out of control? But that was just a passing thought, unimportant. The important thing was the cold, the aching weariness. She was so cold now that she had gone beyond feeling it—
“Martis—”
She was drifting, drifting away, being carried off to somewhere where there was sun and warmth. In fact, she was actually beginning to feel warm, not cold. She felt Lyran shake her shoulder, and didn’t care. All she wanted to do was sleep. She’d never realized how soft mud could be.
“Martis!” It was the sharp-edged fear in his voice as much as the stinging slap he gave her that woke her. She got her eyes open with difficulty.
“What?” she asked stupidly, unable to think.
“Beloved, thena, you are afire with fever,” he said, pulling her into his arms and chafing her limbs to get the blood flowing. “I cannot heal disease, only wounds. Fight this—you must fight this, or you will surely die!”
“Ah—” she groaned, and tried to pummel the fog that clouded her mind away. But it was a battle doomed to be lost; she felt the fog take her, and drifted away again.
Lyran half-carried, half-dragged the mage up the last few feet of the road to the gates of Lyosten. The horses were gone, and the mule, and with them everything except what they had carried on their persons that had not been ripped away by the flood-waters. His two swords were gone; he had only his knife, his clothing, and the money belt beneath his tunic. Martis had only her robes; no implements of magic or healing, no cloak to keep her warm—
At least she had not succumbed to shock or the cold-death; she was intermittently conscious, if not coherent. But she was ill—very ill, and like to become worse.
The last few furlongs of road had been a waking nightmare; the rain stopped as if it had been shut off, but the breeze that had sprung up had chilled them even as it had dried their clothing. Once past the thin screen of trees lining the river, there had been nothing to buffer it. It hadn’t helped that Lyran could see the bulk of Lyosten looming in the distance, dark grey against a lighter grey sky. He’d forced himself and Martis into motion, but more often than not he was supporting her; sheer exhaustion made them stagger along the muddy road like a pair of drunks, getting mired to the knees in the process. It was nearly sunset when they reached the gates of the city.
He left Martis leaning against the wood of the wall and went to pound on the closed gates themselves, while she slid slowly down to crouch in a miserable huddle, fruitlessly seeking shelter from the wind.
A man-sized door opened in the greater gate, and a surly, bearded fighter blocked it.
“What’s the ruckus?” he growled.
Lyran drew himself up and tried not to shiver. “This one is guard to Martis, Master Sorceress and envoy of the Mages’ Guild,” he replied, his voice hoarse, his throat rasping. “There has been an accident—”
“Sure, tell me another one,” the guard jeered, looking from Lyran, to the bedraggled huddle that was Martis, and back again. He started to close the portal. “You think I’ve never heard that one before? Go around to th’ Beggar’s Gate.”
“Wait!” Lyran blocked the door with his foot, but before he could get another word out, the guard unexpectedly lashed out with the butt of his pike, catching him with a painful blow to the stomach. It knocked the wind out of him and caused him to land on his rump in the mud of the road. The door in the gate slammed shut.
Lyran lowered Martis down onto the pallet, and knelt beside her. He covered her with every scrap of ragged blanket or quilt that he could find. She was half out of her mind with fever now, and coughing almost constantly. The cheap lamp of rock-oil gave off almost as much smoke as light, which probably didn’t help the coughing any.
“Martis?” he whispered, hoping against hope for a sane response.
This time he finally got one. Her eyes opened, and there was sense in them. “Lyr—” she went into a coughing fit. He helped her to sit up, and held a mug of water to her mouth. She drank, her hand pressed against his, and the hand was so hot it frightened him. “Thena,” he said urgently, “You are ill, very ill. I cannot heal sickness, only hurts. Tell me what I must do.”
“Take me—to the Citymaster—” He shook his head. “I tried; they will not let me near. I cannot prove that I am what I say—”
“Gods. And I can’t—magic to prove it.”
“You haven’t even been answering me.” He put the cup on the floor and wedged himself in behind her, supporting her. She closed her eyes as if even the dim light of the lamp hurt them. Her skin was hot and dry, and tight-feeling, as he stroked her forehead. “The storm—witched.”
“You said as much in raving, so I guessed it better to avoid looking for the city wizard. Tell me what I must do!”
“Is there—money—?”
“A little. A very little.”
“Get—trevaine-root. Make tea.”
He started. “And poison you? Gods and demons—!”
“Not poison.” She coughed again.“It’ll put me—where I can trance. Heal myself. Only way.”
“But—”
“Only way I know,” she repeated, and closed her eyes. Within moments the slackness of her muscles told him she’d drifted off into delirium again.
He lowered her back down to the pallet, and levered himself to his feet. The bed and the lamp were all the furnishings this hole of a room had; Martis had bigger closets back at High Ridings. And he’d been lucky to find the room in the first place. The old woman who rented it to him had been the first person he’d accosted that had “felt” honest.
He blew out the lamp and made his way down to the street. Getting directions from his hostess, he headed for the marketplace. The ragged and threadbare folk who jostled him roused his anxiety to a fever-pitch. He sensed that many of them would willingly knife him from behind for little or no reason. He withdrew into himself, shivering mentally, and put on an icy shell of outward calm.
The streets were crowded; Lyran moved carefully within the flow of traffic, being cautious to draw no attention to himself. He was wearing a threadbare tunic and breeches nearly identical to a dozen others around him; his own mage-hireling silk was currently adorning Martis’ limbs beneath her mage-robes. The silk was one more layer of covering against the chill—and he didn’t like the notion of appearing in even stained mage-hireling red in public; not around here. He closed his mind to the babble and his nose to the stench of unwashed bodies, uncleaned privies, and garbage that thickened the air about him. But these people worried him; he had only his knife for defense. What if some of this street-scum should learn about Martis, and decide she was worth killing and robbing? If he had his swords, or even just a single sword of the right reach and weight, he could hold off an army—but he didn’t, nor could he afford one. The only blades he’d seen yet within his scanty resources were not much better than cheap metal clubs.
Finally he reached the marketplace. Trevaine-root was easy enough to find, being a common rat-poison. He chose a stall whose owner “felt” reasonably honest and whose wares looked properly preserved, and began haggling.
A few moments later he slid his hand inside his tunic to extract the single coin he required from the heart-breakingly light money-belt, separating it from the others by feel. The herbalist handed over the scrap of root bound up in a bit of old paper without a second glance; Lyran hadn’t bought enough to seem suspicious. But then, it didn’t take much to make a single cup of strong tea.