Chapter 40
Iscope the apothecary with a tight warning curdle in my belly. There’s a lone stick of cinnamon at the bottom of the nearest barrel, and a single sprig of solispine hanging from a net.
The only thing that fills anything in here is the lingering scent of seized herbs.
I face the dispenser for an answer.
She sighs. “You’ve not seen this in other towns?”
“Seen what, exactly?”
“The forest is filled with a poisonous miasma. Most of the rare herbs we make a living on are gathered from the caves in there. Since we can’t get the goods, the kingdom has a shortage.
We have less valuable crops we grow in the meadow but they’re needed for taxes now.
” She gestures to the store. “As you can see, it leaves little to none for our townspeople.”
I recall the inn we stayed in a day out of the capital; the locals there had been vocal about the lack of help from the royal city. “This has been going on since the earthshakes?”
“Every month. You saw the troop in the square? They’re here to collect again.”
“You’re right to keep the people here hopeful.”
“Not sure how much longer I can. We don’t get vitalians here anymore.
A few of us have been south and know crude medicine, but the only other healers we see are the troop vitalians that come with the redcloaks.
You, being here, at a time like this . .
. Fate has you here to help us, and if you’re here to help, you need to know the truth. My name’s Olyn.”
I pause, and look at her. Her big eyes hold mine so tight a lump forms in my throat. “Cael. Take me to these crops.”
She leads me through the square. Once, it felt bustling; now, I notice the difference—many move with bowed heads, hurrying past or buying only essentials. Stalls are barely glanced at, even with their slashed prices.
Only one seems to have a decent line . . . I peek towards the table and halt. Seated there—hunched over, hood drawn over his eyes—is Quin. He’s rolling dice and speaking to a couple seated across from him.
What in all the kingdoms . . .
“Are you coming?” Olyn asks, and I snap my gaze forward once more.
We carry on to the east, where streets turn to tree-lined roads, and from there we follow the canal in the shadow of the town wall, to fields of herbs drying on woven mats in the sun.
We tuck ourselves behind a tree and observe the scene. Labourers filling sacks; redcloaks snatching them up to load onto their carts.
When the carts are full, the redcloak captain eyes what remains and tells the farmers they’ll be back tomorrow for the rest.
The men look back at the captain with despair in their eyes. One presses shaking hands together. “My mother and daughter are sick. There are more ill every day . . .” He bows his head. “Have mercy.”
“These are the quota for the capital.” The captain waves a hand toward the tree-covered mountains. “You have an entire forest. I’m stationing men here to make sure nothing gets taken.”
When the farmers try pressing their case with the two redcloaks left behind, swords are unsheathed. One of them laughs coldly about needing practice with a blade.
I stiffen, gripping the trunk of the tree so tightly bits of bark weasel their way into the parts of my hands my gloves leave uncovered. Olyn swears under her breath and shifts beside me. I don’t see her move. But almost instantly, the redcloaks flinch and lower their swords.
As the farmers scurry away, I turn to look at her. There’s a leather strip unfurled in her hand, thin needles lined up neatly along it. And four are missing.
She walks calmly over to the still-frozen men and retrieves two—one from the back of the neck and another from the shoulder—of each, sliding them back into their places as she returns. Not long after, the soldiers stir, rubbing at their sore spots and complaining of wasps.
We retreat silently into the trees, Olyn gripping her needle case tightly.
“The people here need those herbs,” she hisses.
I snap my gaze to hers.
She holds up the needles. “I’m the best this side of the mountains. I won’t let myself get caught.” Her pleading eyes bore into mine. “If you had those herbs, could you help the sick here?”
“Of course,” I say, squeezing my fists as we pass back through the gate into the town.
“But regardless how skilled you are with needles, they’re redcloaks.
I can’t let you do it alone. And we need a better plan than ‘take the herbs.’ Even if we can do that without getting caught, they’ll be gone when the rest of the troop returns to collect—”
I turn to look at Olyn, to face this problem together, but all I see of her is a retreating back as a frantic-looking older woman pulls her away. She frowns at the news being delivered, and then returns hastily to tell me to meet her in an hour at the dispensary.
I watch her leave. Perplexed, I swivel on my heel toward Quin’s still-thriving stall and wait in line.
I frown over how we could possibly steal those herbs without the consequences landing on us, or the already beleaguered residents of this place, while the line shuffles forward by slow degrees.
The solution doesn’t magically reveal itself though, and at Quin’s “next” I push those thoughts momentarily aside.
I sling myself onto the stool in front of him, and the moment I rest my hands on the table, Quin pauses. He doesn’t lift his head; his hood casts the top half of his face in shadow.
“Work, family, or relationships?” he asks.
Readings, Quin? Really?
He repeats his question.
Fine, I’ll play along. “Relationships.”
“Friends, colleagues, or romantic interests?”
“I can only choose one?”
“As many as you please. A copper coin for each.”
Unbelievable. “Friends.”
He pauses, and I clear my throat, cheeks flushing. I blurt, “What’s next?”
“What would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know what a certain one is thinking!”
He picks up the dice and sets them into my hand. “Roll.”
I pinch them between my fingers as I shake my head, and drop them. Quin peers at the markings, humming. “I see.”
I almost laugh. “I bet you do.”
“A six, positioned north.” I scoff, and he continues, “Your friend is surrounded in golden aura.”
“Yes, yes he is. He’s just bathing in it. Though it’s less gold than . . . the colour of bile.”
He coughs. “He means to help with your current predicament.”
I unwrap the silver ribbon from my wrist and dangle it before him. “Yet he doesn’t want customers to come to me.”
“He doesn’t want anyone to come to you.”
“What about money?”
“What about your safety?”
Through a teeth-gritting smile, I ask, “Any advice on making him less overbearing?”
“He does like a good massage.”
“I’ll get my hands on him, all right.”
Quin coughs again; I wave at the line to back up a bit, and lean over the table, whispering, “What are you doing?”
“Using my vast cultural awareness and knowledge of history to our advantage. The folk along the river Chrysos are deeply superstitious. I borrowed a ginger cat, strategically let it run past some folk . . . and suddenly there’s high demand for fortune reading.”
“You’re scamming your people?”
“For each query, I give good, practical advice.”
“Return their money.”
“Then we’ll have nothing.”
“We’ll have our conscience.”
Quin grumbles, but he stoically obliges me and returns to the townsfolk their hard-earned copper coins. “The means by which I engaged your business is, I admit, creative—” at my look, he amends. “Questionable. However, the advice I gave each of you is honest and helpful.”
They demand more than a refund though. The crowd is restless and angry and . . . I understand them. This is another example of the many injustices they have been suffering. They’re upset and desperate, and they’re craving change. Actions held accountable.
I raise my hands and project my voice. “You’re right. He shall face the consequences.”
Quin lifts his head, enough that I make out his shadowed eyes and the sudden suspicion in them.
“Bend over the table.”
His biting gaze sends a jolt through me, but it’s not enough to overshadow the twisting stomach I have from witnessing the pillaging of these people’s farms. This may seem outrageous to him, but it’s not.
Not to these people. And if Quin took a moment, he’d accept that too.
He was the one who declared, at my local luminarium, that if necessary even the king should be caned before his people.
Some grim-faced farmers grab an arm each and push him over the table. When he’s in position, and none too happy about it, I take his cane, raise it sombrely for the townspeople to see, and bring it down on the king’s rump. Again, and again.
Between thwumping hits, Quin growls at me that he won’t forget this.
I’m not sure I will either.
When I reach the count of ten, I release my grip on the cane and it drops with a clatter to the table. Folk leave, silent but satisfied, while I’m left with a gloriously haughty face eyeing me sharply. I help him up, an arm slung around his waist. “I spelled pain relief at the same time.”
“That is not the point. My people have seen me—”
“—taking responsibility for your actions?”
He absorbs that and my piercing stare. “I expected you to be smirking.”
I wrench my gaze away—
He grabs my chin and his thumb is a ghostly touch over my deepening frown. “What’s wrong?”
I tell him about the confiscation of herbs, and he comes with me to meet with Olyn.
On the way to the dispensary, I ask, “Don’t you have a network? Could it help us?”
“It’s not big enough to have someone in every town. Last time, I made prior arrangements to meet.” He grimaces. “My nearest supporters are in Hinsard.”
So we are on our own, with someone whose magic is blocked.
I herd us into the dispensary, where Olyn is pacing, waiting.
I can’t introduce Quin as himself, our hunted king travelling, so . . . I wince. I really am no better . . .