The structure was so derelict that not even lovers desperate for privacy would shelter there. The huge stone blocks comprising the walls had been cracked or shifted by gods-fire, earthquake, explosions and berserk men with hammers. As its supports had been attacked the roof decided to add to the debris below by shedding plaster, tiles and finally shards of wood. But Pel had found the place relatively sanitary. Deprived of donations and sacrifices for years, there was no food to attract insects or vermin, other than those attracted to the droppings of the birds that nested in the rotting rafters exposed between broken sections of roof. The weather had peeled the gaudy paint from the walls and made mush out of precious cedarwood and sandalwood incense boxes next to the rectangular stone altar. That was still in one piece, though incised all over its surface with graffiti by youths who dared one another to violate the haunted precinct. The air was cold, but after a lifetime of fire he was grateful for the chill of nature.
Because the chamber was open to the elements most of Pel's books, tools and equipment had to be stored in heavy chests underneath braced tiers of stone, to protect them from falling tiles and rain. The first thing Pel had done, after cleaning the building as best he could, was to bargain with Grabar, the local stonemason, to smooth out the surface of the altar, eight feet long and four feet wide. Ostensibly he needed it as a mixing palette and operating table. Privately Pel intended it to be used for its original purpose as well, though he could not tell the stonecutter that. By order of Irrune law no worship might take place within the walls of the city. Pel was willing to risk refreshing the temple, as part of his personal penance, but in secret. He wasn't stupid, or ready to face the Irrune system of justice. He washed out Siggurn's bottle with cleansing liquid and sand, then chose a medium-sized mortar and pestle. He knew instantly which among the myriad of bottles, boxes, twists of paper and cloth, bundles of twigs, herbs and flowers to choose. A little here, a little there… he didn't need to look up the formula. It had been only a few days since he'd made it. Imagine drinking a week's worth of stimulants in one night! He couldn't stop himself from grinning.
Siggurn propped himself up on half a lintel stone to watch Pel grind herbs to powder. "Did you hear?" he asked. "The Bleeding Hand has returned. They were under the Promise of Heaven." Pel's heart froze within him. He knew that warren well. If they had returned, that would be where they would congregate. Oh, Meshpri, keep me from their path! Siggurn noticed that his hands had stopped. "Oh, there's nothing to worry about now," he assured Pel. "It's old news. I dunno what you hear, up here all by yourself. The Dragon's men swept them all away a couple of weeks back. They say they got them all. Sewed them into bundles then stamped them all to death under horses' hooves." Siggurn stopped to swallow. "I
didn't see it myself, but Dolange's brother serves in the city guard. He said there wasn't one man there who didn't puke his guts out at the sight. You'd have done the same."
"Likely I would," Pel said, at the same time wondering if he would. He'd seen and done worse as a priest of Dyareela. He was grimly thankful. In his newfound faith he couldn't rejoice in the pain and death of others, but it relieved him to know he wouldn't have to face any of his former cohorts.
"You never saw what the Hand wreaked upon this city," Siggurd said frankly. "I lost friends, families, loved ones. I was even sorry to see my enemies go to them. It was a terror you couldn't believe. Your thoughts weren't your own."
"Are they ever?" Pel asked softly. He reached for a beaker of water. No, not the well water collected in the waning moon-that was to reduce swellings and injuries. The other beaker, that one with the long neck, of running spring water gathered up under the waxing moon. That was for growing and increase. He splashed some into the mortar and dribbled a pinch of jewelweed powder into the mix. Not too much.
Siggurn watched him work with interest. "You don't make fun of me for my problem. Why not?"
"Why should I?" Pel asked.
"Well, the other healers won't do a thing for me. The herb woman in Prytanis Street said there's people aplenty with genuine ailments. The last thing she wants to spend her skill concocting for is an erection."
Pel shrugged. "I don't mind what anyone asks for, provided they can pay, and they take responsibility for what they do with it. If it puts your body or your mind at ease, so long as you do no harm to others, I have no reason to refuse. I serve." He glanced up at the ruined ceiling. Siggurn's gaze followed his.
"Better not talk that way where anyone else can see you," the carter warned.
The apothecary started. It had just seemed natural to want to pray at that moment. He'd forgotten the penalty, just like that. It was a quick way to get a beating, or catch his death of soldiers. "I was just wondering how you wished to pay this time."
Siggurn shook his big head. "Can't afford it twice so soon. All right, I was a frogging idiot. The tavern girls had a good joke on me. How much do you want? I'll raise it somehow, but I haven't got all of it right now."
Pel let one of his salt-and-pepper eyebrows go up. "Will you trade labor for your potion?"
Siggurn's shaggy brows matched his. "Doing what?"
Pel smiled. "Ever put in a roof joist?"
The remote Ilsigi village into which he wandered late at night on the last day he thought he'd live had only about twelve houses made of wattle and daub, set in a long oval about the market place and grazing green. Its wealth was in its goats. Pel didn't know any of that when he arrived there. At the end of his strength, too afraid of what he was fleeing to think about where he was going, he collapsed at the gate of one of the houses.
If the old man who found him wondered about the unconscious heap of black cloak he found at his doorstep, or about the heavy tattoos all over the body within or the red stain that covered the arms from elbow to fingertip, he never asked. That was the first gift Loprin gave Pel. He did not push to hear his visitor's name, tale, nor even his voice. A blessing, Pel always thought, because he could not have spoken. The second gift was a bowl of soup, then a blanket and a place to stay. Pel kept count of the gifts. They were the first he had received from outside the sect of the Chaos Goddess since he was a child. He had to fight his impulse to refuse them, coming as they did from a heathen. He recalled that he, too, was now a heathen.
The old man seemed happy for company. He didn't insist that Pel participate in his prayers or do chores or even talk to him. Food and shelter came with no obligation, something that Pel had never experienced before. Loprin let him sit against the wall with an eye on the door, making sure he was warm enough, dry enough, fed enough, as he went about his daily chores and devotions.
Loprin worshiped Meshpri the Healer. The image on the polished stone altar was that of a slender girl-woman whose mouth was set firm but whose kind, intelligent eyes, older than time, promised mercy. In her lap was a baby toying with a branch of lignum vitae: Meshnom. Loprin prayed especially during difficult cases. He sacrificed medicines, money, tools and offerings from his patients. The ingredients that went into his medicines were simple: herbs, water or liquor, minerals, bark, but it was the timing of the gatherings, the precision of his actions and instructions, and the deep faith he had in his god that made Loprin a successful healer. Pel was partly of Ilsig descent, partly not, the usual mongrel mix of Sanctuary's general population. He wondered if Meshpri or her lover-son Meshnom would listen to the pleas of a former murderer and torturer.
Repose and the lack of obligation allowed Pel to take time to think, and heal on his own. After a few weeks of having the blood taint out of his nostrils, Pel began to do chores for Loprin, rising before the dawn to draw water and light the fire. Because his appearance would have been remarked upon, he wore his enveloping cloak and gloves any time he went outside. During the day he cleaned and swept and cooked their simple meals. At night he followed Loprin's instructions on where to hunt for certain herbs and when to gather water from the streams and wells. After two months he found his voice again. Loprin seemed delighted he had decided to speak. Sensing that Pel didn't want to talk about what had driven him so far into the country, Loprin discussed his craft. He explained the names of all the plants he used: what their purposes were; when in the month, or even the year, one might be used, and how much of a dose to use for what ailments. Pel was interested in it all, but listened most closely to the last. Adherents of Dyareela abhorred the use of poison. Pel might have rejected everything else the Chaos Goddess stood for, but he felt strongly about that. They talked about the foibles of Loprin's patients, the difficulty of some treatments, and how each bore his suffering and recovery. The old man had responsibility for the well-being of every living creature around him, much like a god, but he bore it with humility. Pel respected that. Hearing about the problems of others was healing in itself. Listening to Loprin talk he found he cared about the people as much as his mentor did. He wanted them to live and prosper, with all their faults intact that made them so human. He rediscovered compassion, a sense of humor, and a sense of purpose.