Thirty-Eight
We are pleased to present what may be the first novel treatment resulting from a scheduling error: namely that both authors, invited to consult by the patient’s generalist, happened to arrive at the same time.
Neither was prepared to forgo the time carved out of their busy schedule, so the treatments were delivered simultaneously.
A marked and unheard-of synergistic effect was the result, and the patient required only two more sessions of similar healing in order to achieve a complete remission.
—From the treatment plan “Simultaneous healing of disseminated tumours in the liver and vertebrae” by Healers M. E. Caignel Blavot turned her away with a gesture.
“Yes, all those rules and regulations. I wanted to know more about this scholarship thing of yours, so I got my hands on a copy of the little book they hand out to scholars at the Academie. Fascinating reading.”
Jehan waited for Blavot to whip it out for effect. But the man simply frowned down at his outfit and flicked away a speck of dirt from the knee of his gaudy red chausses. Then said, “If you miss this Grand Exam then you have to repeat the whole year, is that right?”
It was rhetorical. Jehan nodded anyway.
“Good,” said Blavot. “Then that’s what you’ll do.
Perhaps you were too hungover, or simply lost track of time.
” A broad, knowing smile. “I don’t think you will tell anyone how you got here today, or what you were doing.
For the same reason you’ve never told anyone about the helpful work you’ve done for me with fighters like Lenoir here. ”
Lenoir, hearing his name, flexed again. Jehan glared at the superb biceps in question, which he had indeed contributed to, magically speaking.
“You’ll stay here next year. You’ll continue to work for me, at the fights and otherwise. And you’ll spend all that lovely extra time thinking up a way to get out of having to move away.”
“But I can’t—”
“You’re a smart boy, Jehan. Your problem is you think you’re just a little bit smarter than everyone around you. You’ll work something out.”
“You’ve had me for years,” said Jehan, temper fraying past the point of fear. “Why can’t you just blackmail another scholar into doing this for you?”
Blavot’s smile grew a fraction. “Oh, I have my eye on some promising candidates. But you’re trained, Jehan.
You’ve got a real knack for this. And you understand how bodies work in a fight, which means a lot.
No, I think after all the time and effort I’ve put into providing you with all these opportunities to practice your skills, the least you can do is repay me with the use of them.
That’s how the Academie works, isn’t it? Investment. Repayment.”
Despair settled in Jehan’s stomach. Blavot was right, in a twisted fashion.
Jehan was proud of the technique he’d developed and his own knack for innovation, fascinated by the world of quick injury and quick recovery, and had been playing with the idea of taking his research further in future.
And escape aside, Jehan was excited to work in Mostau; being the only healer in a place suited him.
He’d been used to working independently since second year. Thanks, in large part, to Blavot.
Jehan’s foul-tasting mouth was dry as he thought of Estiene. And Clement, and Alys, and Moyna, of course. But Estiene was the one who’d be in danger if they couldn’t expose Brodier today.
“It’s not fair on the rest of my exam group,” he said. No point going into Ysabel and the rest of it. “If I fail, we all fail. If I don’t turn up and don’t explain why, they have to forfeit the case too. It’s professionalism. It’s part of what we’re marked on. I gave them my word I’d be there.”
“Professionalism.” Blavot savoured the word. “Well, you broke your word to me, first. So this can be a lesson. And in the meantime, you can get a start on some more practice.”
He clapped Jehan on the knee and stood up, beckoned to the hovering runner, and strode across the gym before Jehan could think of any more good arguments.
The next few hours were a nightmare. Jehan stayed tethered in that corner of the gym.
He was brought water, and food: even a sweetmouse, unpleasantly peppery with cardamom.
He was ready to not see another bloody sweetmouse again for a year.
And he was kept busy. Blavot sent him a couple of gym patrons who complained of muscle strains, and—under that guise—some of the ring-fighters, to have their usual enhancements.
A small part of Jehan, desperately trying to cling to hope, made him hold back most of his magic.
He’d well and truly missed the group’s planned practice session; spirits only knew what they thought of him.
Flighty, irresponsible Jehan. Estiene probably had his own mental list of Jehan’s faults and was revisiting it with enthusiasm.
The muscle strains didn’t take much magic, and the fighters didn’t notice that Jehan was barely doing anything to them at all.
Even Lenoir took his turn, pulling up a stool, when he noticed Jehan picking with raw fingers at the knotted rope.
Jehan took hold of Lenoir’s wrist and invented a lovely little fantasy wherein he had poor enough morals—and was prepared to expend enough magic—to convince the man’s tendons to snap.
It would be a huge, near-impossible effort.
Tendons did not generally believe that they should be hewn in two.
Still. He imagined the screaming and it cheered him a little.
“What the fuck,” said Lenoir.
Jehan startled guiltily, but Lenoir was looking over Jehan’s shoulder.
He wasn’t the only one staring, or falling quiet. In the midst of Blavot’s gym full of fighters, street thugs, legitimate athletes, and quiet criminal business, two figures were walking toward Jehan’s corner.
One of them was Head Healer Jourdain Marcelle.
The other was a small woman with long, elaborate grey-black braids, wearing a high-necked blue journade in a similar style to Blavot’s, over a long chemise of cream linen and stone-blue chausses.
She had eyes like pieces of sharp glass, and carried herself like a small bird of prey strutting through a field of mice.