the sun. One eye was clouded with a cataract, the other was a radiant blue, as clear as the day she was born. She assessed his elbow with a single glance and named her price: one silver piece.
It was cheap; and it was Sassel’s last silver piece. Pavek squatted down to put it in her bowl, inadvertently giving her a close look at his face.
With a hiss and a scowl, she put her hand over the bowl before he could dunk the coin and rose to her feet with commendable agility for one so ancient. She rolled up her mat and led Pavek around a corner.
No word was said until they entered a cramped lean-to behind an active forge. The air shimmered with the heat. Pavek was grateful when she pointed to a tripod stool.
“You are the one they call Pavek the Murderer? The one for whom they’re offering ten gold coins?” she demanded, looking down on him with her good eye.
He could imagine how far ten gold coins could go in this benighted quarter of Urik, but he, himself, had gone too far for lies. “I’m no murderer,” he answered, not denying his name and morbidly eager to know how she’d recognized him.
“You are a marked man with powerful enemies, Pavek. Very powerful enemies. They have visited every healer in the city. Even me. Even poor Josa who worships what’s been lost. They told Josa to watch for a man with gouges on his cheek. They promised Josa she would share your fate if she made you whole again.”
Pavek had a raw instinct for enemies, a rudimentary mind-bending talent that the old and undoubtedly crazy healer did not arouse. Though the instinct had failed him before, most notably with Dovanne, he trusted it with the dwarven crone. “I have enemies because I saw things done in the templarate that our king would not tolerate. I saw Laq—”
The healer cut Pavek off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever you saw, whatever you think—it is of no concern to Josa. I will not turn you over to your enemies. No healer will. Think what you will of that, Pavek the Murderer: Wonder why, and be grateful. But I dare not make you whole.”
“I’m not asking you to treat what Ela—”
Josa silenced him again, this time with a whiff of spellcasting. “It is of no concern to me. It can be of no concern. Your enemy who marked your face marked you well. I cannot heal a mere part of you. He will sense any spellcraft wrought on you within the city walls. He will sense Josa.”
Pavek could name no spell that produced the effect Josa described, but he did not disbelieve her on that account. The archives existed because magic was an evolving art. Escrissar, a mind-bender as well as a master of necromancy, might have spelled something new. Or that halfling alchemist might have coated his master’s fashionable talons with yet another nefarious solution.
“Outside the city walls then? I’ve got to find a healer. Does your order practice outside the walls? Is there someone you can recommend in the villages?”
“There is Josa, and Josa only.” The crone seized Pavek’s right hand and held it palm upright. “You will not leave the city,” she said with deliberate air of prophecy. “You have been marked, like Josa. You will stand alone against your enemies.” She twisted his wrist expertly, propelling the much larger man toward the gap in the wall that served as a door.
“I need help,” Pavek protested, petulant and desperate.
“Buy Ral’s Breath; your enemies have not visited the apothecaries. Make a paste of it and smear it over the wound.”
The mere thought made Pavek cringe. “Ral’s Breath is useless,” he sputtered, but her spellcraft still hung in the air and though he thought of Laq, the word did not find its way to his lips.
“Take your coin to Nekkinrod the apothecary. His stock is old; it will serve. Ask the smith, he’ll point the way. Tell him Josa is wise.”
Josa released Pavek’s hand, and he stumbled back into the light. The smith, another dwarf, looked daggers at him when he asked the way to Nekkinrod’s, but his tongue loosened when he added Josa’s name and wisdom. Pavek followed a centuries-old dirt path through the core of the elven market, where no templar went alone, until he came face-to-face with an apothecaries’s paste-board. Nekkinrod was at least as old as Josa and wreathed in the fumes of cheap rice wine.