Week 3

  The first light of day in Apsu’s Respite filtered through the warped window glass of The Disenchanted Cauldron, tracing half-moons on the bottles and jars behind the counter.

  Calanthe examined the bruise on her chin, then dabbed a salve over the receding mark just below her jawline. She wiped her fingers on a rag and set the tin beside the other day’s experiments: astringent for boils, tincture for sleep (hopefully not addictive), a bottle of cough syrup that had been so effective it put the baker’s child out for nearly six hours. That last thing hadn't been so ideal really.

  Here, in the unheated front room of a three-story shop in the center of Apsu, she’d managed to create order out of chaos. Every bottle lined up, every mortar and pestle accounted for, every sprig of dried herb hanging from the ceiling exactly where she wanted it.

  The bell above the door jangled, and the first patient of the day wedged himself inside. A man with the look of a prize turnip.

  “You’re very early,” said Callie, barely glancing up from her notes.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered. “It’s the itching, miss. Worse than yesterday.”

  She motioned him forward and examined the arm. Angry red rash, weeping at the edges. The kind of thing you got from pulling lake weed in cold water, or maybe from a new soap. She’d seen it a dozen times, and in three different universes.

  She washed her hands and started in. “You didn’t use the salve I gave you?”

  He looked at the floor. “It stings.”

  “It stings because it’s killing the fungus,” she said, “which is preferable to the fungus eating your arm, don’t you think?”

  He looked unconvinced, but she applied the paste anyway, wrapping it with a cloth bandage and sealing the ends with honey, grease, and lint.

  “You’ll live,” she said.

  He slid a coin across the counter and left without another word. The bell jangled behind him.

  [Healer Level 3 | +10 XP]

  Callie sighed. “Gamification is a hell of a drug.”

  The next hour followed the same script. The old miller’s wife, persistent cough. Three children with garden-variety sniffles, their noses already red from the season. A fisherman’s apprentice with a thumb smashed by, allegedly, a “very heavy fish.” She fixed the thumb, and sent him out with a splint.

  After the morning rush, she took a moment to wipe the counter, then ducked behind the curtain to her little workroom. The “back office” was barely two paces square, but it was hers. On the shelf above her cot, she kept a rotating stack of borrowed books from which to take notes: Anatomies of Esharran Reptilia; A Layman’s Guide to Goblinoid Afflictions; Blackblooded Wounds and Their Treatment (Vol. I).

  All the volumes had been hand-copied. She’d traded five free treatments and a month’s worth of “Focus Tea” to the local book seller to borrow them, and she didn’t regret it. She took out a note book, already half-filled with careful script, and jotted down notes from the morning’s cases. The system in this world was crude compared to Earth, but biology was biology. Even the local diseases played by rules.

  She flipped a page, then started in on her study for the day: a chapter on orcish blood, and how it seemed to clot faster, but also increased the risk of “iron fever” in wounds. The locals blamed it all on “iron” but it was more likely standard pig physiology—higher levels of key clotting factors, more reactive platelets, and the evolutionary adaptation of prey animals.

  She read and reread the passage, cross-referencing it with her own notes.

  The bell jangled again.

  She closed the book and returned to the front, rolling up her sleeves. A young woman waited by the counter, arms folded, a woven basket of fresh herbs at her feet.

  “Miss Briar,” said Callie, unable to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  Briar grinned, showing a row of even teeth and a faint green stain at the corner of her mouth. Her hair was, as always, a bit wild, held in check only by a loosely knotted cord.

  “Morning, Doctor,” she said, lifting the basket onto the counter. “Got your yarrow, as promised. Also nettles, horehound, and something I can’t pronounce.”

  Callie bent to examine the basket’s contents. The yarrow was perfect; fragrant and freshly picked, the stalks still cool from the night air. The rest was equally good, though the “something I can’t pronounce” looked suspiciously like the weed that grew wild behind the mill.

  She pulled it free. “This,” she said, “is bitterroot. It’s not good for anything except dye.”

  Briar shrugged. “It dyes tongues, too. Ask Lemmie.”

  Callie laughed. “How much for the lot?”

  Briar held up her fingers and counted, “Yarrow, two bunches, plus the nettle… I’m thinking two coppers and a jar of that honey salve. My sister’s got a burn.”

  Callie measured her offer, then countered. “One copper, the jar, and two willow branches. You can keep the dye weed.”

  Briar tapped her chin. “Add a poultice for the old man’s knee, and you have a deal.”

  “Done.” Callie reached for her change box and counted out the coins, dropping them into Briar’s palm. “He’s still faking, by the way.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Briar, “as long as the poultice keeps him quiet.”

  They traded the goods, then Briar leaned back against the counter, watching as Callie tied the yarrow into bundles.

  “You look better today,” Briar said. “Not so… well, punched.”

  Callie touched her chin, self-consciously. “It’s a trade secret.”

  Briar’s eyes darted to the back room. “You get many in today?”

  “Same as always. Mostly colds. A few garden injuries. One thumb.”

  “That’s good,” Briar said. “Word’s going around that you’re a miracle worker.”

  Callie raised her eyebrows. “I’ve barely been here two weeks.”

  “People like to exaggerate,” Briar replied. “Better than being ignored, I guess.”

  ***

  They worked side by side for a while, Briar sorting the herbs into neat piles, Callie labeling and storing them in the appropriate jars. Occasionally, Briar offered a snatch of news: a merchant ship moored at the docks last night; a pair of strangers asking around about “healing magic;” a rumor that the Duke was hosting a tournament in a month.

  Callie filed these tidbits away, curious but not remotely invested. After a while, she asked, “What brings you to town this early, anyway?”

  Briar looked away, tracing the edge of the counter with her finger. “Couldn’t sleep. The forest is loud this time of year. Also…” She hesitated, then blurted, “The others are saying there’s a goblin nest up by the North Bluffs. They want you to join a party and take care of any wounds.”

  Callie set down her mortar. “I’m not an adventurer,” she said.

  “I know, but they don't,” said Briar, “You’re the only one here with real training. And most of the others are scared of goblin rot.”

  “What you actually mean is that I'm the cheapest one around here with 'real' training. You ever seen goblin rot?”

  Briar shook her head. “Only heard about it. Supposed to make your skin go black and fall off.”

  “Exaggeration,” Callie said. “It’s just a virulent necrosis. If treated early, survival’s good. But you have to catch it before the second stage.”

  “Will you go?”

  Callie hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”

  The bell above the door jangled again. This time it was a pair of apprentices from the docks, one clutching a bleeding hand, the other looking sheepish.

  “Looks like break’s over,” said Callie. She reached for a roll of bandages and gestured Briar to bring the willow sticks. As she set to work, she glanced over at her assistant, who was already prepping the next batch of salve.

  It was almost enough to make her forget about the bruise.

  ***

  When the last patient of the day had left and the counter was wiped clean, Callie closed the ledger and leaned against the wall, exhausted but satisfied. The apothecary was quiet, the air heavy with the smell of honey and green things.

  Briar lingered at the door, basket empty, face bright in the sunset.

  “See you tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Unless the world ends,” Callie said.

  Briar grinned. “If it does, I’ll bring a cure for it.”

  They stood in the doorway for a moment, then Briar turned and walked away, whistling a song that sounded suspiciously like a sea shanty.

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  Callie watched until she disappeared down the lane, then went back inside and climbed the steps up to her small room which doubled as a storage area. She straightened the jars, checked the lock on the safe, and paused a moment in front of the modest altar to Abyssa in the corner.

  She wasn’t religious, not really. But in this world, it paid to hedge your bets.

  She lit a single incense stick, watched the smoke curl, and said, “Thanks for not killing me off... yet.”

  There was no reply, which was probably for the best.

  She shut the shop, washed her hands, and prepared for another day of not dying.

  ***

  The next day, the shop had just opened when Theron strolled in with the air of a man auditioning for a heroic ballad. He wore a battered leather jerkin, an easy half-grin, and held a brown paper package under his arm.

  “Morning, Doctor,” he said, setting the package on the counter. “Got a new shipment of potion bases from the guild quarter. Figured I’d bring them by myself.”

  “Trying to impress me, or just bored?” Callie asked.

  He leaned over the counter. “Why not both?” He watched her, his gaze flickering between the bruise on her chin and the movement of her hands as she sorted some stray herbs. “How’s the jaw?”

  “Healing,” Callie said. “Still not recommended as a problem-solving technique.”

  Theron grinned. “If you ever need backup... ”

  “I can handle myself,” she said. “But thank you.”

  He nodded, accepting the rebuff without offense. “You’re popular in town, you know. I heard three different rumors about you yesterday.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, that you’re a wandering master healer in disguise. Two, that you used to be a spy for the Duke. Three, that you punched out Tel with a single blow and took over his gang.”

  Callie blinked. “All completely false, for the record.”

  He shrugged. “Rumors are half the fun.”

  She finished counting some willow sticks and set them in a jar, then wiped her hands on her apron. “So what brings you here, Theron? Guild business, or just the rumors?”

  He seemed to consider. “Both, actually. You’ve done a lot for the dockside people.”

  Theron drummed his fingers on the counter. “Well, I was thinking. If you ever wanted to put your talents to better use, there’s always a place for you in the field. Dungeon expeditions are recruiting heavily. Pay’s better, too.”

  She made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t have the build for monster-slaying.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You get to stay in the back, wear the white robes, shout ‘Don’t die’ a lot. Classic support role.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’ll consider it, but I like my current posting.”

  “Just don’t wait too long,” Theron said, winking. “Level 15 is when you get your first magic. The system here ramps up after that.”

  She filed this away. “And you’re what level?”

  He puffed up a little. “Nineteen. Should break twenty after my next run.”

  She was about to ask what happened at Level 20, but decided against it. Probably nothing at all, just a round number. “So that’s the pitch? Join the guild, earn a few medals, and retire to a lakeside cottage?”

  Theron’s grin softened. “No one retires. That’s a myth. But you could get out of this town, see some real magic. Adventure.”

  Callie looked around her shop, at the sunlight on the jars and the orderly stacks of herbs and bandages. “I don’t need adventure.”

  He tilted his head. “Not even a little?”

  She laughed. “Maybe just a little. On weekends.”

  He let the conversation drop, and for a while, they worked in parallel: Callie restocking jars, Theron unpacking the delivery and scribbling notes on a battered clipboard.

  As he finished, he said, “Actually, I do have a favor to ask.”

  She set down her pen, wary. “What’s that?”

  “Dinner. At the Cervalan Arms. Tomorrow night.”

  She blinked. “Is this a guild recruitment tactic?”

  He put a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “No, strictly personal. I leave for the Petalorian Archive the day after. Would like a civilized meal before then. You’d be doing me a kindness.”

  She considered, thinking through all the possible landmines. “Why me?”

  He shrugged, suddenly more earnest. “You’re the only person in town who makes me nervous. Also, you’re funny. And I respect funny.”

  Her face went hot. She didn’t know how to process that—the compliment, or the fact that it was her first legitimate date proposal since waking up in this body.

  “Is that a yes?” Theron asked, the grin returning.

  She surprised herself. “Yes. Sure.”

  “Good.” He gathered his papers, slid the empty package off the counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven bells. Wear something that can survive spilled soup.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No promises.”

  He walked out, whistling.

  She stood behind the counter a long time, hands idle, letting the strange new feeling settle. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it felt almost… nice.

  The the bell rang again, signaling another string of patients. She busied herself with them and didn’t look up at the door for the rest of the day.

  ***

  The Cervalan Arms was half full already when Callie arrived. The warmth hit her first: the stew-thick air, rich with spices and roasted meat, the muddled hum of two dozen conversations at once. Somewhere near the back, a trio of musicians played a tune which sounded almost indistinguishable from an Earth ditty.

  Theron sat at a table near the hearth, boots up on the empty seat beside him, nursing a mug of cider. He stood when he saw her, a detail Callie noticed but didn’t know how to process. For a guy who’d faced down dungeon slimes, he looked suddenly nervous.

  “Glad you came,” he said, pulling out her chair.

  She sat. “You said to bring a bib. Am I in danger?”

  “Only from the cook’s portion sizes,” he said, signaling for the waiter. “I hope you like stew.”

  The waiter brought two bowls of beef and barley and a loaf of dense, crusty bread.

  They ate in silence for a minute, Callie grateful for the focus on food. Then Theron said, “You know, I asked around at the guild. No one’s ever seen a new healer level up as fast as you did. What’s your secret?”

  She shrugged. “I treat a lot of garden-variety injuries. Maybe the system’s calibrated for more dramatic cases, but I like to think slow and steady works.”

  Theron tilted his head. “You don’t want to go adventuring, do you?”

  She met his eyes, surprised by the honesty in his tone. “Not really.”

  He nodded, then tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it in his stew. “I get that. Sometimes, I think about quitting. But the field’s addictive, you know? The rush. The feeling like you’re… important.”

  Callie smirked. “There are easier ways to feel important. Less risk of being eaten.”

  He laughed again, louder this time, and for a few minutes the conversation flowed: the monsters they’d heard about but never seen, the ridiculous rumors the townsfolk spread, the inexplicable weather patterns over Lake Apsu.

  The main course was winding down when Callie caught movement at the corner of her eye. A woman—tall, angular, her hair platinum and braided tight—approached their table.

  “Theron,” she said, her voice pitched just above the music. “You didn’t say you were bringing a date.”

  Theron frowned, then recovered. “Thistledown, meet Calanthe. Calanthe, this is Thistledown. Best mage in the guild, worst sense of humor in the province.”

  Thistledown didn’t offer a hand. She eyed Callie up and down, her gaze sharp as a scalpel. “A healer,” she said. “That’s new.”

  Callie wiped her mouth with the napkin, then met Thistledown’s gaze head-on. “I’m not in the guild. Just here for the stew.”

  Thistledown smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Pity. You could do better.”

  She leaned in, elbows on the table. “So, Callie, what’s your story? You show up, heal a bunch of stragglers, and now you’re keeping our top man from the field.”

  “I didn’t realize stew was such a time commitment,” Callie replied.

  Thistledown’s eyes glittered. “No, but you’re… interesting.” She reached out and, with the speed of a pickpocket, twirled a lock of Callie’s hair between her fingers, then brought it to her nose and inhaled.

  Theron nearly spat his cider. “Thistle, don’t be weird.”

  She ignored him, eyes on Callie. “Top note of Belus,” she said, voice dropping. “Like a god’s shadow, but lighter. And bottom note of something foul and unspeakable.”

  Callie felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She tried to play it cool. “Never heard of him.”

  “Never heard of the King of the Gods?” Thistledown released the hair, leaned back. “You’re full of lies, but I like that.” She slapped Theron on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his chair. “Try not to die in the Archive, okay? Would hate to break in a new leader.”

  She glided off, joining a group of adventurers by the bar.

  Theron looked mortified. “Sorry about her. Thistle’s… intense.”

  Callie shook her head, unsure if she wanted to laugh or crawl under the table. “Is that normal around here?”

  “Pretty much,” Theron said, sheepish. “But for what it’s worth, I think she was jealous.”

  Callie sipped her water, rolling the word “Belus” over in her mind. “Should we leave?” she asked.

  Theron stood, offering his arm. “Let’s.”

  They exited into the cool air, the tavern’s din fading behind them. Callie felt a little unsteady—partly from the wine, partly from the strange undercurrent to the evening.

  They didn’t go home right away. Theron, ever the tour guide, insisted on showing Callie the night market: two winding streets flanked by makeshift stalls, half the town out and about, most with nowhere else to be. The air pulsed with the jangle of coins, the urgent barking of merchants, the spiced-sweet aroma of candied nuts.

  Theron led Callie through the crush, stopping now and then to point out a new stall or a particularly aggressive vendor. One table displayed a forest of deity idols, some familiar, most bizarre. There was a little clay Belus—young and heroic—painted with the sort of care only an obsessive grandmother could muster; a squat ceramic demon with a slot for offerings in its back; a cluster of miniature moons on wires, said to bring good luck in fertility and gambling.

  “Pick one,” Theron said, grinning. “First one’s on me.”

  Callie hesitated, then plucked the Belus figurine but only because it was a complete misrepresentation of her former Boss. “This looks nothing like the real Belus.”

  Theron nodded approvingly. “So you do know who Belus is.”

  They paid, the merchant pressing the idol into Callie’s hand with a theatrical wink. She tucked it into her jacket pocket, feeling its small, not especially reassuring weight against her side.

  ***

  They made it three stalls further before a commotion stopped them cold. A crowd had gathered around a pen at the end of the lane, voices raised in awe or, perhaps, fear.

  Callie pushed to the front, Theron just behind her. Inside the pen, a Cinder-Fury Warg lay on its side, ribs heaving. The beast was larger than any dog she’d ever seen, black and grey fur bristling with cinders, ember-red stripes glowing along its flanks. It would have been terrifying, except it looked half-dead: its hind leg was splinted with rough wood, and one paw was slicked with fresh, bright blood. Across its back, welts showed where someone had lashed it, the wounds already crusting over.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said the merchant, a man with a voice like chewed gravel. He saw Callie’s interest, and his eyes lit up. “Never caught one alive before. They usually burn themselves out when cornered. This one’s worth a fortune, even injured.”

  Theron whistled, low. “Why keep it on display?”

  “Because,” the merchant said, “it’s an event. Also, I’m hoping some guild will buy it for training, or for parts. You’d be surprised what you can do with a real Cinder Heart.”

  Callie crouched, her mind already brimming with calculation.

  “It looks a right mess,” she said, loud enough for all the bystanders to hear. “When it goes into heart failure, you’ll be selling that Cinder Heart as pig swill.”

  “Don’t try to talk down my warg,” the merchant replied, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know that the heart is semi-crystalline, not exactly pig feed.”

  “You know or you’ve seen?” Callie pushed. “Ever hear of Magical Exhaustion or Corruption? When the necrosis sets in, the heart will be worthless.”

  The merchant grumbled to himself. “If you don’t like the warg then leave.”

  The warg watched Callie, wary but unmoving. Its mouth hung half-open, tongue dry, the barest wisp of smoke curling from between its teeth.

  “May I?” she asked.

  The merchant shrugged. “Not my hand on the line.”

  She extended her palm, slowly. “Hey there,” she said, voice pitched soft. “Not gonna hurt you.”

  The warg’s ears flattened, but it didn’t growl. Callie shifted forward, examining the splint. It was amateur work—binding too tight, wood splintered and pressing into the wound. The animal’s skin was hot to the touch, radiating fever. She looked up at the merchant.

  “It’s septic,” she said. “If you don’t treat it, it’ll die by tomorrow.”

  The man scowled. “Not my problem. I sell the parts either way.”

  Callie bit back the urge to throttle him. “So, how much for this sorry excuse for a warg?”

  He grinned. “For you? Half price. Word is, you’re the new healer. Maybe you want to experiment?”

  She straightened, staring him down. “As you said, I’m buying the warg for parts. I’m not paying half price for skin and bones. If I can’t salvage the heart, I’m out of the money. And we both know that transporting a dying fire-beast is dangerous. Most buyers would refuse unless you extracted the parts first. I’m doing you a favor here. I’m the one taking all the risk.”

  He shrugged. “Give me a number then.”

  Callie did the maths in her head—what she had left after buying the shop, the stash remaining from her “severance pay.” It wasn’t going to be enough.

  “4 gold pieces and I’ll throw in a full season of treatments,” she said, “for you and your family. Any injury. Any illness. You’ll never need a doctor again.”

  He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Two seasons.”

  “Done.”

  Two seasons, Callie thought. Another twenty weeks off the beaten track at least. “Real life” would just have to wait a bit longer. She didn’t feel guilty in the least. After all, Belus had never appreciated her efficiency. Now he would get a full measure of her tardiness.