Her presence, alone, began to make sense. What she had to offer him transcended a man's itching for a woman. And she expected him to realize it.
Standing there, just inside his door, Stulwig grew aware that he was trembling. A dream. The dream of a sorceress.
He swallowed. And found his voice. It was located deep in his throat, for when he spoke it was a husky sound: 'What do you want?'
'I need three of your herbs.' She named them: stypia, gernay, dalin.
This was the bargaining moment. And in the world of Sanctuary there were few victims at such a time. From his already long experience, Stulwig made his offer: 'The stypia and the gernay for the dream. For the dalin one hour in my bed tonight for an assignation.'
Silence. The bright eyes seemed to shrink.
'What's this?' asked Stulwig. 'Is it possible that with your see-ress's sight you believe that this time there will be no evasion?'
Twice before, she had made reluctant assignation agreements. On each occasion, a series of happenings brought about a circumstance whereby he needed her assistance. And for that, release from the assignation was her price.
Stulwig's voice softened to a gentler tone: 'Surely, it's time, my beautiful, that you discover how much greater pleasure it is for a woman to have lying on her the weight of a normal man rather than that monstrous mass of blacksmith's muscles, the possessor of which by some mysterious power captured you when you were still too young to know any better. Is it a bargain?'
She hesitated a moment longer. And then, as he had expected after hearing the name of the third drug, she nodded.
A business transaction. And that required the goods to be on hand. Stulwig didn't argue. 'Wait!' he admonished. ^
Himself, he did not wait. Instead, he backed quickly out of the hallway and into the greenhouse. He presumed that, with her seeress's sight, she knew that he knew about the very special person who wanted the dalin. He felt tolerant. That prince - he thought. In spite of all the advice the women receive as to when they are, and are not, capable of accepting the male seed, the youthful governor evidently possesses his concubines so often that they are unable to divert his favours away from the one who - by sorceress's wisdom - is most likely in the time of pregnancy capability.
And so - a miscarriage was needed. A herb to bring it on.
Suppressing excitement, the dream almost forgotten in his state of overstimulation, the healer located all three herbs, in turn. The stypia came from a flowering plant that spread itself over one entire end of his big, bright room. Someone would be using it soon for a persistent headache. The gernay was a mixture of two roots, a flower, and a leaf, all ground together, to be made into a tea with boiling water, steeped, and drunk throughout the day. It was for constipation.
While he worked swiftly, deftly, putting each separately into a small pouch, Stulwig pictured Illyra leaving her little stall. At the opportune moment she had pushed aside the black curtains that blocked her away from the sight of curious passersby. His mental image was of a one-room dwelling place in a dreary part of the Maze. Coming out of that flimsy shelter at this hour of the morning was not the wisest act even for a seeress. But, of course, she would have some knowing to guide her. So that she could dart from one concealment to another at exactly the right moments, avoiding danger. And then, naturally, once she got to the narrow stairway leading up to his roof abode, there would be only the need to verify that no one was lurking on the staircase itself.
He brought the three bags back to the hallway, and placed two of them into her slender hands. And with that, there it was again, the reason for her visit. The special dream. For him.
He waited, not daring to say anything for, suddenly, there was that tenseness again.
She seemed not to need prompting. She said simply, 'In my dream. Ils came to me in the form of an angry young man and spoke to me about you. His manner was ferocious throughout; and my impression is that he is displeased with you.' She finished, 'In his human form he had jet black hair that came down to his shoulders.'
There was silence. Inside Stulwig, a blankness spread from some inner centre of fear. A numbness seemed to be in all locations.
Finally: 'Us!' he croaked.
The impossible!
There were tales that reported the chief god of old Ilsig occasionally interfering directly in human affairs. But that he had done so in connection with Alten Stulwig brought a sense of imminent disaster.
Illyra seemed to know what he was feeling. 'Something about your father,' she said, softly, 'is the problem.'
Her hand and arm reached out. Gently, she took hold of the third pouch; tugged at it. Stulwig let go. He watched numbly as she turned and went rapidly down the stairway. Moments later there was a flare of light as the bottom door opened and shut. Just before it closed he had a glimpse of the alley that was there, and of her turning to go left.
Us!
All that morning, after the sick people started to arrive, Stulwig tried to put the thought of the god out of his mind. There were several persons who talked excessively about their ailments; and for a change he let them ramble on. The sound of each person's voice, in turn, distracted him for a precious time from his inner feeling of imminent disaster. He was accustomed to pay attention, to compare, and decide. And, somehow, through all the numbness he managed to hold onto that ability.
A persistent stomach ache - 'What have you been eating?' The flower of the agris plant was exchanged for a silver coin.
A pain in the chest. 'How long? Where, exactly?' The root of the dark melles was eaten and swallowed while he watched, in exchange for one small Rankan gold piece.
Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light brown grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: 'Take a spoonful each morning and night.' , -
There were a dozen like that. All were anxious and disturbed. And they took up his time until the morning was almost over. Suddenly, the visitors ceased to come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.
'What could he want of me?'
That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have in this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in relation to him? Or what did he require of him?
It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the madness of merely waiting for further signals. And the more personal thought took form.
'It's up to me. I should ask certain people for advice, or even-' sudden hope 'information.'
Just like that he had something he could do.
At that moment there was one more patient. And then, as the rather stocky woman departed with her little leather bag clutched in one greasy hand, Stulwig hastily put on his street boots. Grabbed his stave. And, moments later, was heading down the stairs two at a time.
Arrived at the bottom; naturally, he paused. And peered forth cautiously. The narrow street, as he now saw it, pointed both left and right. The nearest crossing was an alleyway to the left. And Stulwig presumed, as his gaze flicked back and forth, Illyra, on her leave-taking that morning, had turned up that alley.
-Though it was still not clear why she had gone left when her stall was to the right. Going by the alley was, for her, a long, devious route home...
His own destination, already decided, required Stulwig to pass her stall. And so, his stave at the ready, he walked rightwards. A few dozen steps brought him to a crowded thoroughfare. Again, a pause. And, once more, his gaze flicking back and forth. Not that he felt in danger here, at this hour. What he saw was a typical throng. There were the short people who wore the sheeny satinish cloth of west Caronne. They mingled casually with the taller folk in dark tunics from the far south of the Empire. Equally at ease were red-garbed sailors on shore leave from a Cleean vessel. Here and there a S'danzo woman in her rich attire reminded him of Illyra. There were other races, and other dress, of course. But these were more of a kind. The shabby poor. The thieves. The beggars. All too similar, one to the other, to be readily identified.