Emmy

  They crossed the flat compound, dodging small clumps of other processed Metakalans, until they reached a low wooden structure. It had a wide door on which the heart-in-eye symbol was drawn in red paint.

  The scribe pushed the door and held it open for Emmy. The small gesture struck her as strangely respectful, a feeling she had rarely felt before.

  Inside were row upon row of beds. Emmy brought a hand up to her nostrils and mouth. There was a sickness here and she knew the smell well. Those in the beds were ill, not injured. The air was filled with the sound of their moans. Emmy glanced around and dropped her hand, puzzled. There were scant few folk in black tunics to tend the sick. Emmy could only see two, both female.

  As they entered, one of the female healers glanced up at them, away from the female she tended. Her green armor and pinkish skin painted her as Belfoni, not Althemerian, and her chest was emblazoned with the red heart-in-eye. However, she was no ordinary healer. Her authority spoke through the bars at her neck—like Commander Pama’s, but wooden rather than silver.

  The scribe ushered Emmy towards her and Emmy’s throat grew tight.

  ‘I have something for you, medicine-rel,’ he said. ‘This is Emmy. She…says she’s an apothecary, so I’ve brought her, as you asked.’

  The Belfoni healer rose from her place at the sick Althemerian’s bedside. She was a striking creature. Tall, unusually a similar height to Emmy, she wore many bracelets on her arms—again more on the right than the left. She had an easy smile.

  ‘Thank you, Nila,’ she said, walking towards them and wiping her hands on a scrap of cloth. ‘We need more tsimi, and an apothecary is a good place to start,’

  Tsimi? Emmy’s eyes narrowed at the word. She had never heard it before.

  ‘I must return to my post,’ Nila said.

  There was something in the way his eyes darted from the Belfoni healer to the rows of the sick that Emmy had seen before. It was the same look that neighbors cast at houses struck by pestilence.

  ‘Of course, Nila,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘Thank you.’

  The scribe gave a shallow bow, then turned tail and left as quickly as he could.

  The medicine-rel planted a hand on Emmy’s shoulder and Emmy glanced up. The healer’s grip was firm but, strangely, there was a flash of coldness at her touch. For a moment, Emmy’s mind jumped back to the boat.

  ‘How did you escape the attack?’ the medicine-rel asked.

  Emmy pulled away from the healer’s touch, her brow furrowing.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I was taken prisoner, just like all the other Metakalans.’

  The Belfoni’s face was impassive.

  ‘Not that attack,’ she continued. ‘The attack on the Uloni.’

  Uloni? Emmy had never heard that word before. She shook her head, gritting her teeth in sudden fear. What did this mean?

  The medicine-rel tilted her head to the side. Her eyes were green and piercing.

  ‘You don’t remember, do you?’ she asked.

  Fear rising, Emmy balled her claws into fists.

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what “Uloni” is.’

  Something passed across the healer’s face at that.

  ‘No matter,’ she said, but her tone belied the words. It sounded like it did matter. ‘Forgive me.’

  Emmy wanted to reach out, to ask, what do you mean? What does Uloni mean? But fear kept her hands and tongue in check. She didn’t know this female. She could be cruel, or perhaps just mad. Emmy gritted her teeth so hard now her jaw ached.

  The medicine-rel turned and gestured to the beds that surrounded them, the subject of an attack and Uloni now firmly closed.

  ‘We do not have enough skilled healers to tend the sick,’ she said. ‘We have been struck by shengi for the third time in three months. Your job will be to help me.’

  ‘Shengi?’ Emmy asked.

  Her brow furrowed. This creature spoke with many words she didn’t know.

  The medicine-rel waved a hand and seemed to prod the back of her mind for the correct word.

  ‘The Althemerians call it Lurking Death.’

  Emmy went very still and pressed her lips into a thin line.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  The Lurking Death. A sickness marked by vomiting, fever, shaking fits, and, if untreated, a slow and painful death. There was no true treatment but those who received care were less likely to perish.

  ‘It is not an easy thing to deal with,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘All we can do is give what aid we can and hope the ill recover. We have lost countless lives since shengi struck, partly because we have so few tsimi to attend them. That is why I need you.’

  Emmy ventured a nod, but her attention was on the folk stretched out on the beds.

  The sick were from all parts, likely others whom the Althemerians decided they owed a life-debt. There were Selamans, Linvarrans, and Belfoni, all suffering from the Lurking Death in the same way. There were a handful of Metakalans as well, sick and exhausted from their long journey on the slaver’s boat. Death is color-blind, Emmy thought. It takes us all the same.

  She scanned the beds, looking at each Metakalan face. She recognized them but she couldn’t see the one face she wanted. Her chest grew tight and she balled her claws into fists. Never mind the talk of Uloni, whatever that was. There was a more important matter to attend to. Where was Zecha? Why wasn’t he here?

  ‘My friend,’ Emmy said, ‘he was injured on the boat and taken away on a cart by a healer. I need to find him. I need to know if he’s alright.’

  Raising a hand, the medicine-rel smiled.

  ‘If he was ill or injured, he is in this camp,’ she said. ‘All shipbait comes here.’

  ‘Shipbait?’ Emmy asked.

  ‘Those brought here from other lands,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘The Althemerians take many folk from the seas. Their ships prowl the waters, attacking their enemies. Anyone they save, they bring back to their lands. Hutukeshu is the largest of the encampments, where those who owe life debts are taken.’ She folded her arms. Her short sleeve pulled upward, revealing the edge of something strange on her upper arm. ‘You will be treated well enough here,’ the medicine-rel continued. ‘The Althemerians are not cruel but they enforce their laws strictly. You will not be beaten but you will also not be allowed to leave.’

  Emmy’s mouth was once more dry. The air felt close and the stench of illness hung over her like a dark cloud. She couldn’t move, feeling more like a statue than a living thing.

  ‘Emmy,’ the medicine-rel said.

  She placed a hand on Emmy’s shoulder again. There was another flash of cold. Emmy snapped from her trance. The Belfoni healer smiled, though it was a smile of sympathy.

  ‘I know how you are feeling,’ she said. ‘I know what it’s like to be taken by the Althemerians.’

  She pulled up the short sleeve of her tunic, revealing a wiry forearm. Part of her green armor was scarred with two entwined serpents and a number beneath. Emmy winced, and her breathing grew shallow.

  It was a brand.

  ‘They mark your flesh,’ she said, pointing at the scar. ‘The serpents, to show who owns you. The date below shows when you were taken. That’s how they know how long you’ve served them and when they can let you go.’ The healer let her sleeve fall and looked at Emmy in half-apology. ‘I’m afraid I will have to take you to be branded as well.’

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  Emmy blanched, her hand leaping to her arm. The imaginary brand burned under her fingertips. Armored skin was tough, but intense heat could penetrate it easily.

  ‘I am sorry,’ the medicine-rel said. ‘I don’t agree with the practice but the Althemerians say it must be so.’

  Emmy let her hand drop again and both her arms hung uselessly at her sides. She didn’t know what do to or what to say. Her mind reeled and her thoughts kept returning to her friends. Zecha was somewhere, his condition unknown. Would he live or would he die? Would Charo’s words of warning be as true for life with the Althemerians as with the Masvams?

  ‘Maybe…Maybe Zecha’s better off dead.’

  Emmy swallowed and shook her head, the movement slight. It wasn’t just Zecha she was parted from. It was Charo too. Her fate was entirely unknown. Was she taken as a maid for some wealthy Althemerian? Or was she taken into the army? Emmy suppressed a shudder. She wished for the former, for then Charo would be safe—or at least, safer. How the Althemerians treated their servants, Emmy didn’t know. But if Charo was taken as a soldier, there was a chance they might see each other again in the camp. The sharp tang of that selfish thought burned her. If Charo was taken as a soldier, there was more than a chance she would be killed.

  The medicine-rel’s voice pulled Emmy from her thoughts.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘You need to wash, and then we must get to work. Medicine-yarim!’

  At her call, one of two other black-tunics scurried towards them. The Linvarran female clasped her hands behind her back and nodded attentively. However, when she took in Emmy’s appearance for the first time, her face crumpled with disgust. The female healer didn’t need to say anything, for Emmy knew her thoughts. She had seen that look on so many faces, so many times.

  Moon Rogue!

  The medicine-rel clicked her talons to get her subordinate’s attention again.

  ‘Fetch warm water, a cloth, and a clean uniform,’ she said. ‘Finally, we have another tsimi.’

  The medicine-yarim nodded but her attention flew from the medicine-rel and back to Emmy. She scowled, her dark eyes narrow.

  ‘Yes, Medicine-Rel,’ she said.

  She disappeared for a moment, returning with clothing slung over her arm and an ewer of water with a rag draped on its rim. Emmy accepted the items with a grateful nod, but the healer didn’t nod back. She stepped away, still scowling.

  ‘Back to work, Medicine-Yarim,’ the medicine-rel said.

  Emmy blinked at that. Medicine-Yarim, Medicine-Rel…

  Realization dawned.

  ‘Your name is Rel,’ she said. ‘The scribe, he didn’t call you medicine-rel. He said Medicine-Rel.’

  Rel tilted her head to the side.

  ‘Was that not clear?’ she asked. ‘Your language is like the Althemerian tongue. I thought it was the same, in fact.’ She chuckled. ‘Medicine is what all healers are called—tsimi in my language. You will be Medicine-Emmy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emmy said, feeling foolish.

  Rel placed a hand on the small of Emmy’s back and urged her towards a set of screens, canvas stretched over wooden frames.

  ‘You will fall into the way of things, Medicine-Emmy,’ she said. ‘Now, wash and change and then you can get to work.’

  Safely tucked behind the screens, away from prying eyes, Emmy did as she was told.

  Her tattered garments fell on the ground in a pool. Emmy was glad to shed them for more than just their filth. The mella was a reminder of the happiness of Middlemerish, when she had friends at her side and was free from Krodge’s heavy yoke for one blissful day. Emmy stopped. Her hands trembled. A twinge of guilt pulled at her as the Masvam sailor’s words returned.

  Finished her off, I did.

  Trying not to think about that, or Zecha or Charo or Uloni, Emmy scrubbed herself with the cloth and lukewarm water. Why should she feel sorrow for someone who made her life a misery? Krodge wasn’t worth grieving for. Neither was Bose. She was free from them for good.

  Emmy stilled her hands. It would be a decate before she was truly free. Unless she died, of course. She snorted. Some freedom.

  As clean as she could get, Emmy pulled on the uniform. The black tunic was too large and was made of soft leather that didn’t pinch and constrict. The red heart-in-eye settled on her chest. She traced the outline with her talons. She was Medicine-Emmy now, an Althemerian healer. How swiftly life changes, she thought.

  Wringing out the cloth, she gathered her belongings and slipped out from behind the screen. Rel was attending a patient again, as was Yarim and the other healer Emmy had not yet met. Emmy went to Rel’s side.

  Watching the Belfoni healer work was like watching herself. Her hands moved the way Emmy’s would. The pouches at her belt were full of the same ingredients Emmy used—bindlewart, juice of the arra fruit, a cornucopia of herbs. Rel moved with compassion, pressing a comforting hand to the forehead of the ill or gently grasping their hands. Her rank may have been higher than the other healers but she did the same work in the same way. Everything was painted with warmth and kindness.

  Rel rose from her patient and beckoned for Emmy to follow. They crossed the room, winding through rows of the sick.

  ‘You look the part now,’ Rel said, ‘but can you act it, too? How much does this apothecary know about healing?’

  ‘I know enough,’ Emmy said, tugging on the hem of her tunic. ‘I’ve dealt with the Lurking Death before.’

  ‘Oh?’ Rel asked. ‘What is the best treatment?’

  Emmy licked her lips and shook her head. It was a silly question.

  ‘There is no treatment,’ she said. ‘All we can do is make the ill comfortable and try to ease their symptoms. But there is nothing I know of that will extract the poison.’

  ‘It is no poison,’ Rel said, ‘but you are right. And that is what makes it so deadly. The sickness jumps from body to body and we cannot stop it.’

  She reached for her belt, laden with bags of ingredients, and unbuckled it. She held it out to Emmy, who accepted it with reluctant claws.

  ‘Use your knowledge and we will see what we can do,’ Rel said. ‘It may be that the Metakalans know more than the Althemerians when it comes to illness.’

  ‘Yes, Medicine-Rel,’ Emmy said, buckling the belt around her waist.

  ‘If you need anything else, ask myself or Yarim—whom you met—or Asri, the male healer.’ For a moment, her eyes grew dark. ‘Work well, Medicine-Emmy,’ she said. ‘The Althemerians are not in the habit of feeding useless shipbait. If you do not perform your function, you will not retain it.’

  Emmy’s whole body tightened. Her tongue grew bold.

  ‘What will happen then?’ she asked.

  ‘You will have a life of hard labor building the queen’s roads or toiling in the fields,’ Rel said. Her face darkened. ‘That is, if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky you’ll be sent to the military, whether you can fight or not.’ Rel placed a hand on Emmy’s shoulder once more. Again, there was a flash of cold. ‘Work well, Medicine-Emmy,’ she said. ‘We need good tsimi.’

  With that she turned, wound her way back through the rows of beds, and disappeared into a side room, behind a canvas curtain.

  Emmy stared down at her new belt. She plucked at the bags that hung there. When she did her breathing settled and her chest did not feel as tight. But a looming sadness fell upon her, dark as if the sun and the moons had withdrawn their light. This was not the life she had wished for, in secret, on the day of Middlemerish. Her wish hadn’t even been a huge one. She hadn’t wished for wealth, or power, or glory. All she had wished for was a free life with her friends at her side.

  Now she had neither of those things.

  She snorted and crossed to the first pallid face she saw, a Selaman lying prone on her bed.

  Wishing was for fools. She knelt by her first patient’s side and pressed her hand to the Selaman’s forehead. Too hot, typical of the Lurking Death. Emmy opened the bags at her waist, running through the list of Krodge’s palliative potions in her head, checking off what ingredients she had and what she needed.

  The Selaman half-opened her eyes, then turned in her bed. Her head jerked over the side and she vomited onto the rushes on the floor.

  Wishing is for fools, Emmy thought as she brought her hand to the Selaman female’s back, rubbing circles as she voided her stomach. And if these last few days have taught me anything, it’s that the gods aren’t real.

  The Selaman slumped, exhausted, and Emmy gently laid her back onto the bed. She glanced around, saw a cloth and water by the bed, and began to clean her patient’s face.

  ‘There now,’ Emmy said. ‘Rest.’

  She wiped the last of the vomit from the female’s mouth and sat back on her heels. No. The gods definitely weren’t real.

  For the rest of the day Emmy worked her way through the jumble of patients. For hours, she cleaned vomit and wiped sweaty brows. She made what she could, concoctions to bring down fever and soothe upset stomachs. She held bodies as they convulsed, racked by the Death. Her black tunic was so splattered with detritus she dared not look at it. Don’t think about it, she thought. Just do your job.

  Several times, Emmy caught Rel looking at her. She was favored with a smile and a nod, but Emmy didn’t smile back. There wasn’t much to smile about.

  That was until she moved on from one patient to another. It took a moment for her to realize what she saw. The Metakalan colors she recognized straight away. But there was something more.

  Something familiar.

  Her heart stuttered.

  ‘Zecha!’

  There he was, hiding amongst the ill and injured all this time. Emmy grasped one of his hands, pressed the talons of her other hand to his forehead, and laced them around his horn crest.

  ‘Zecha, you’re alive!’ she said.

  He did not respond, lying silent and clammy on the bed. A lump formed in Emmy’s throat. She pulled his blankets down and hitched his shift up, revealing the raw wound in his stomach. It was stitched—not as well as Emmy would have done it—and, while swollen, didn’t appear putrid as she imagined it would.

  A thought invaded her mind and she jerked backwards, releasing him.

  Lay your hands on him. You’ve done it before. Stop the bleeding. Save him.

  The strange voice. She hadn’t thought of those words since the boat.

  She shook herself. It meant nothing. She hadn’t helped to save Zecha’s life. It was whoever the healer was who had cleaned and stitched his wound. Not Emmy, not with some kind of coldness from her fingertips.

  ‘Have you found your friend?’

  Emmy startled at Rel’s voice. She looked up. Rel was smiling softly. She knelt and inspected the patient’s wound.

  ‘Yes,’ Emmy said. ‘This is Zecha.’

  ‘Zecha here has received a terrible wound,’ Rel said. She ghosted her talons over his stitches but didn’t touch them. ‘I am very surprised to see he is alive.’ She glanced side-long at Emmy. ‘Were you with him when it happened?’

  Emmy nodded, the events on the ship playing back in her head.

  ‘I was,’ she said. ‘It was a Masvam. He stabbed Zecha in the stomach as a punishment because Zecha managed to get free.’

  ‘Did you help him?’ Rel asked.

  Frowning, Emmy leaned back. What kind of question was that to ask?

  ‘I tried to,’ she said, her tone tinged with defense. ‘I was locked up. I tried to get free. Eventually I got free and went to him but there was nothing I could do.’

  Except lay her hands on him and feel the cold power. But that wasn’t real, just a figment.

  Rel tugged Zecha’s shift down and pulled the blankets back up to cover him.

  ‘Keep a close watch on him,’ she said. ‘Wounds to the stomach are often deadly. Though it seems young Zecha here has been unusually lucky. Most with a wound like that would already be dead.’

  Emmy nodded. Rel stood and rested her hand on Emmy’s shoulder as she did so. Once more, there was a coldness to her touch.

  Cold power from Emmy’s hands. A coldness to Rel’s touch…

  Emmy shook her head hard. It was nothing. There was nothing happening. Instead of dwelling on it, she placed her hand on Zecha’s chest and whispered.

  ‘Come back to me, Zecha,’ she said. ‘I need you.’

  Her friend didn’t reply.