Chapter 34

A Field That Has Rested

> In Respitals, multiple Listeners are deployed to expedite the process of Resonance healing. While a single Speaker may identify a patient's frequency alone given time, the combined efforts of several Listeners allow for a more efficient and accurate attunement. This division of labor reduces errors and hastens recovery times, underscoring the superiority of group treatment over individual application. Further, Respitals have now shown to be one of the single greatest advantages, both militarily and civilly, the Empire possesses.

>

> — Herald Julia Scipio

Godfrey awoke, surprised by how deeply he had slept. He hadn’t even felt Scarlet slip away during the night. Stretching boldly, like a cat on warm paving stones, he sat up and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. His mouth felt dry, almost parched, so his gaze drifted to the small shelf by his bedside, where a cup of water waited.

He smiled at Scarlet’s act of kindness and quickly downed the water. Feeling a bit more refreshed, he quietly rose, careful not to disturb the stillness of the brothel. He snuck to the back door in smallclothes, lifting the latch with practiced ease, and peeked out into the backyard. It was empty, and the first fingers of dawn were touching the clouds far above the bowl in which he sat.

Godfrey made quick work of his bath, the cold water from the well invigorating him as it splashed against his skin. He worked in silence, mindful of the early hour and the quiet hum of the morning. He imagined he could see the citizens of the Upper City from this vantage, milling like ants in their marble and stone fortresses.

Once finished, he shook off the droplets and hurried back inside, where he dressed swiftly, his movements fluid and efficient. After pulling on his clothes, he collected his armor in an awkward stack, the various pieces clinking together as he carefully balanced them in his arms. With a quiet sigh, he made his way to the kitchen, hoping one of the girls might help him don the cumbersome gear.

As he entered, the sound of hushed voices greeted him. Myrha, Acantha, and Scarlet stood together, heads bowed in quiet conversation while absently munching on crusts of bread. They were busy preparing ingredients for the day's stew, their hands moving with practiced ease. The soft murmurs stopped as they noticed him standing there, arms full of clanking steel, looking just a bit sheepish.

"Uh, could one of you help me with this?" Godfrey asked, his voice slightly muffled behind the stack of armor. "Really, I just need someone to fasten the pauldrons and plates. I can handle the rest."

"Nonsense," Scarlet said, standing up from her spot without hesitation. "Just stand there, I'll help you."

Acantha grinned wickedly from across the table, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Will you sing to me, too, Godfrey?" she teased, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm.

Scarlet shot her a warning glance but couldn’t suppress the slight curve of amusement at the corners of her mouth.

As Godfrey braced himself for the familiar surge of panic, it never arrived. He stood there, perplexed. He hadn't consciously recognized the link between his fear and his singing before, but now, that awareness seemed to dull the edge of his anxiety, keeping it from tearing at the fragile threads of his composure.

Scarlet noticed his expression and misread it, her eyes narrowing as she shot a second, venomous glare at Acantha. The girl quickly raised her hands in mock surrender, her grin fading. "Don’t worry about her, Godfrey," Scarlet muttered as she moved behind him, adjusting his armor. "Your voice is beautiful."

Myrha, who had been quietly observing, chimed in cheerfully. "Oh! Godfrey, you should sing on the stage!"

Godfrey chuckled, his nervousness easing as Scarlet fastened the interlocking plates at his shoulders. "I'm probably the last thing your patrons want to see or hear," he said with a wry smile.

The girls laughed, their voices light and carefree, as Godfrey left the kitchen a short time later, fully armed and armored. His black oiled cloak drifted behind him, catching the slight morning breeze that whispered around the inside of Godfrey’s hood as he made his way swiftly out the door and into the Lower City.

Today marked the last day of rest before the grueling training began in earnest for the new Squires and Scribes, but rest was the last thing on Godfrey's mind. He felt invigorated, a restless energy pulsing through him. He decided to use that drive productively, meticulously mapping out the area surrounding Antonia’s, as well as the streets along his usual path to the Institute and back. He paid particular attention to spots of concealment or ambush, potential routes to reach the rooftops, or to descend from them, and points of escape.

The colors of the Lower City, once overwhelming and chaotic to his eyes, were different this morning. The vibrant oranges, blues, greens, reds, and blacks of the city’s structures and banners stood in stark contrast to the delicate dusting of snow, which had begun to gather on the rooftops and streets. The snow, pristine in some areas, was already browning and turning black in the well-trodden roads.

The smell of burning coal and fuel susurrated the air as Godfrey prowled the streets, his senses attuned to the steady rhythm of the city waking around him. The sun began its slow march, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered scape as the icicles hanging from eaves and ledges started to drip in steady beats. Common folk, bundled against the cold, emerged to begin their daily chores, their movements filling the streets with a quiet buzz of activity.

As he walked, Godfrey's eyes caught on a nondescript shop, its sign crudely fashioned from rough wooden cutouts. The shape of the sign intrigued him—it looked like a bottle with a wide base, though barely distinguishable from the weathered wood of the storefront itself.

Curiosity tugged at him. With his "patrol" complete, he approached and opened what he assumed was the shop door.

The moment Godfrey stepped inside, the musty scent of herbs and oils filled his nostrils. The shop was dimly lit, the only illumination provided by small lanterns hanging from the low wooden beams. Shelves lined every wall, packed with glass jars and vials of various shapes and sizes, each labeled in a script that was unfamiliar to him. The bottles were filled with all manner of strange contents—dried leaves, powders, thick syrups, and even odd preserved creatures suspended in liquid. It felt cramped, the space barely large enough for a few customers at a time, with a worn wooden counter at the far end cluttered with scales, pestles, and other apothecary tools.

The Somaran man behind the counter looked up briefly from behind dark-tinted spectacles, his expression weary but sharp. His white linen shirt was stretched over an athletic frame, his brown skin smooth on his bald head. There were burn marks all up and down his forearms, streaks of pink scar tissue. A sign above the counter, written in the same unfamiliar script, proclaimed the shop’s name: Zayd al-Juhara. Physician.

Godfrey could sense that this man wasn’t some ordinary apothecary. The way he moved, the subtle decorations in the shop—like the faint etchings on the glass vials—hinted at more than just herbal remedies.

“Greetings,” the man said, his voice smooth and measured; his Somaran accent was thick, but his Imperial was flawless. “Welcome to my shop. How can I be of service?”

Godfrey glanced around the shop, his curiosity piqued by the odd assortment of jars and vials. “Are you some sort of healer? Poisoner?” he asked, uncertain.

Zayd al-Juhara barely suppressed a sigh, his expression turning to one of thinly veiled impatience. “Yes, because those are the only two professions someone surrounded by herbs and elixirs could possibly have,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m a physician, though I suppose that is a matter of debate among the officials of this city.”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Godfrey raised an eyebrow. “Your being a physician is a matter of debate?”

Zayd sighed again, this time more dramatically. “No, whether or not being a physician is a profession worthy of an Upper City license, or if it’s simply dark magics from the deep desert, is what is up for debate. They dangle my license above me, hoping I’ll jump with coin in hand to grease their palms, as it were.” He leaned back against the counter, his contempt for the local bureaucracy barely concealed.

Godfrey’s patience began to wear thin as he listened to Zayd’s tirade. “Oh, so the people of the Lower City aren’t worthy of your grand works, sir?” he retorted, his tone sharp.

Zayd straightened, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before his usual sarcasm returned. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” he replied dryly. “The people of the Lower City are just as worthy of my brilliance as anyone else. But even I, a humble physician, can appreciate a proper workspace, and perhaps not being mistaken for a back-alley charlatan every other day.” He waved a hand dismissively, his eyes narrowing slightly. “But please, feel free to lecture me further on the virtues of suffering.”

Godfrey glanced around the shop, taking in the dim lighting, cluttered shelves, and general air of disarray. “Well, do you imagine there’s anything you could be doing to improve your image here?” he asked, his tone pointed.

Zayd raised an eyebrow and glanced around the shop with a sarcastic smirk. “Oh, I suppose I could hang a few more charms or sweep the floor more often. Perhaps that would convince the city’s dignitaries of my worth.” He shook his head with a sigh. “This isn’t about how the shop looks. The officials have made up their minds. They care more for the weight of coin in their hands than for the work I do, no matter how good or necessary.”

Godfrey crossed his arms, glancing at the door. “Your sign is barely recognizable. I only walked in out of sheer curiosity, which can’t be good for business.”

Zayd’s eyebrows shot up in indignation. “What is wrong with my sign? I made it myself!” He straightened, as though daring Godfrey to criticize his craftsmanship further, his pride clearly wounded.

“That does make sense,” Godfrey said wryly, earning a scoff of exasperation from Zayd.

“Is there anything you actually need, or did you simply come to insult my workmanship further?” Zayd snapped, crossing his arms impatiently.

Godfrey paused, his expression shifting. “Do you know of any treatments for spoiled flesh? Festering, infection… whatever the term may be.”

Zayd’s sarcastic edge faded, replaced by a genuine furrow of concentration. “Ah, now we come to it,” he muttered, moving toward one of the cluttered shelves. “Infection—that is the term accepted at the Madrassa of Al-Kharet, at least when translated into your tongue.” His hands moved deftly through the jars as he continued, his tone slipping into that of a man who cherished his craft. “It has long been known in the East that certain molds can produce poultices capable of fighting infection. Your Respitals have removed your need for research into the subject. I have some prepared, and I can craft more if needed.”

There was no mistaking the quiet pride in his voice, the deep satisfaction of sharing knowledge long learned.

Godfrey shook his head slightly. "No need. Tell me, what are some of the known uses of heartroot?" He vaguely recalled Hawker mentioning something about its medicinal properties, but the details escaped him.

Zayd paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Heartroot is a colloquial term in Brella, but the tuber grows in other lands as well,” he began, his tone shifting to that of an educator. “If ground and steeped, it can be brewed into a tea that reduces pain and fever, and it has mild properties as a sleep aid. However, prolonged use comes with its risks, and it must be prepared with care—incorrectly handled, it can turn poisonous.”

Godfrey blinked, momentarily taken aback by the depth of Zayd's knowledge.

Godfrey asked a few more pointed questions about plants he could easily identify. Zayd answered each one with growing enthusiasm, listing off the various uses and dangers of each herb, his fervor increasing with every new subject. His voice gained energy as he spoke, clearly invigorated by the opportunity to share his vast knowledge.

Eventually, they found themselves seated on two chairs, hastily cleared of stacked books and jars, continuing their exchange. Zayd barely paused for breath as he finished yet another tirade about the medicinal properties of a particular plant, his eyes gleaming with passion.

Godfrey leaned in, his interest piqued. “You really know your craft, don’t you?” he said, impressed by the sheer breadth of Zayd’s knowledge.

Zayd’s expression shifted, a flicker of pride crossing his face as he shrugged, almost sheepishly. “I don’t often get to discuss these subjects with interested persons,” he admitted, his tone softening.

Godfrey smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Would you be willing to teach me? Some of what you know about medicine?”

A wave of academic relief washed over Zayd’s face, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yes, please,” he said, the eagerness in his voice unmistakable.

XXX

With the bargain struck, Godfrey set out in search of a carpenter. Zayd hadn't even asked, but Godfrey could not, in good conscience, allow that terrible sign to continue its existence if he could help it.

It didn’t take long for him to find a carpenter’s warehouse. Outside, a stout man was, ironically, affixing a sign onto the front of his store, the sharp clang of metal striking wood as a hammer drove nails deep into a fresh board. The sign, simple but sturdy, announced that the warehouse now took custom orders for furniture.

Godfrey approached the man, greeting him and explaining the predicament with Zayd’s shop sign. The man paused, giving Godfrey a once-over, his eyes lingering on the uniform of the Institute. Without hesitation, the carpenter offered to make the sign free of charge.

Godfrey waved the offer away. “No, I can’t allow that. Name your price, and I’ll return with the coin,” he insisted, his tone firm yet respectful.

The carpenter lowered his hammer, wiping his hands on his apron as he gave Godfrey an appraising look. “No need for coin, then” he said, his tone thoughtful. “But you’ll owe me a favor, lad,” he added, a glint of mischief in his eye.

Godfrey narrowed his gaze slightly, but the man’s grin was disarming. “A favor, then,” Godfrey agreed, extending his hand to seal the deal. The carpenter shook it firmly, his grip solid and unwavering.

XXX

Godfrey returned to the brothel as the last light of day faded, the sky painted in hues of deep blue and purple. His sabatons and greaves were slick with slush, and his standard-issue boots had soaked through almost immediately, leaving his feet cold and uncomfortable. He made a mental note to speak with the Quartermaster about the sorry state of his footwear.

As he crossed the backyard, the soft sound of lute music filtered through the air, mixing with the warm glow of the lanterns strung about. Here and there, patrons were seated at tables with their chosen companions for the evening, murmured conversations weaving with the music.

His gaze caught on Scarlet, sitting with a young noble. She glanced up and met his eyes. He didn’t know how to feel about that, not really. Too complicated, so he shoved it down. He found himself staring for a moment longer than he intended, and with a shake of his head, he pulled himself from his thoughts and entered through the back wing, mindful of his gear clanking as he moved, careful not to disturb the quiet intimacy of the place.

Godfrey entered the kitchen to find Antonia at the hearth, stirring the large pot of stew that simmered over the fire. She was ladling out portions into bowls, her movements practiced and efficient.

“You know,” Godfrey remarked, leaning against the doorway, “I would think a brothel trying to be upscale would offer a more varied menu.”

Antonia chuckled, not missing a beat as she dished out the next portion. “Ah, but men don’t usually care much for what’s on their plate when it’s served across from a buxom young lady.” She shot him a knowing smile over her shoulder. “It’s not the stew they’re here for, love.”

“Well, I’m here for the stew,” Godfrey said with a smirk. “Is the balcony table taken tonight?”

Antonia ladled a bowl full of stew and handed it to him along with a slice of bread. “No, nobody paid for it. Brutus is at home, so you’re what we’ve got.”

Godfrey nodded as he took a seat. “Understood. I’ll keep an eye out.”

As he quietly ate, savoring the warmth of the stew, Antonia’s eyes lingered on him. After a pause, she spoke. “You know, Godfrey, Scarlet is a working girl. If you can’t support her, you can’t judge her for what she does.”

Godfrey froze, suddenly uncomfortable. He looked around before responding, exasperated. “I didn’t even mention that, Antonia.”

She returned to stirring the pot, her tone casual but pointed. “I know how you country men are, is all I’m saying.”

Godfrey shook his head, trying to push down the swirl of complicated emotions he was battling inside. He had no response, so he focused on finishing the last of his meal in silence.