Five hectic days passed since Dimitry learned that modified preservia enchantments disintegrating rod-shaped, gram-positive bacterial DNA cured the plague. The first beneficiary, Raina, visited the hospital’s cellar that night, bringing Leona and the test blanket along. With their help, Dimitry produced two sets of dark pink glowing bedclothes to treat himself, Clewin, and Claricia.
Results weren’t immediate.
Although the enchantment needed less than half a night to take effect, complete symptom resolution was a much longer process. Fatigue, muscle weakness, and nausea were the first to go. In the following days, skin would gradually regain its normal color while nosebleeds decreased in frequency.
Patients who developed black blisters, however, weren’t as fortunate. A third would die despite treatment with preservia. Among them were the elderly, children, and those who lived on Malten’s streets—victims of brutal weather and prolonged starvation.
Dimitry couldn’t do much to help them. Although disheartening, he tried to take solace in increased survival rates. Before the cure’s advent, anyone with blisters—a stage the plague used to reach in eighty percent of infected patients—was destined to end up in a mass grave.
Not anymore.
Most people were free to leave the hospital to recover after a nap on enchanted bedclothes. On an evidence-based hunch that the bacteria-causing plague died during that time, Dimitry implemented a rotation-based system for all but the critically ill and the rich, ‘premium’ customers. Each glowing mattress treated approximately eight patients per day. He discharged and admitted most patients in massive waves.
Unfortunately, a lack of equipment limited the number of people the hospital could treat at once, with enchantment production being the bottleneck. The first morning, Leona and Raina produced only six sets of bedclothes to avoid overload. However, by the second day, enchantresses under orders from the head of the Sorceress Guild began to visit the cellar.
The hospital now had seventy-four plague-curing mattresses.
When Dimitry wasn’t bouncing back and forth between them, performing debridement on terminal-stage plague patients, he was testing new versions of preservia, channeling additional enchantments, or taking short naps. The workload was intense, but his experience in a trauma center had prepared him for it. He was happy to do it. For the first time in months, Dimitry was saving lives instead of taking them. A development he welcomed with open arms.
It was the only thing keeping his burning eyes open, desperate in their efforts to maintain focus while Dimitry scooped out pus and liquefied necrotic soup from a wound embedded in the side of a patient’s foot. Every time he retracted the surgical spoon, he would wipe its gunk against a nearby towel until only a thin layer of bacterial biofilm remained on his fleshy canvas.
Dimitry slathered honey—the only antimicrobial he could get—onto the wound’s raw surface and pressed the back of his sleeve into his eyelids to momentarily relieve their underlying dryness. “You’re all done, Mr. Roicht. When the nurse comes around, she’ll wrap your wound. Do you have any questions?”
“Will there be any more surgeries?” the elderly man asked.
“No, that’s all for today. Don’t take off the bandage and don’t poke around. It’ll just make it worse. Come back sometime tomorrow, and we’ll change it for you.”
“I am in your debt, Jade Surgeon.”
Dimitry forced a smile. “Think nothing of it.”
Not only was his care substandard in part due to a lack of gauze, gloves, and saline water, Mr. Roicht was a refugee. The plague threatened his life no longer, but without food or a home, chances are that the elderly man would die from exposure to the elements. It was only a matter of time.
With an elongating line outside and patients packing the hospital’s interior, there was nowhere to shelter people from the cold. Dimitry swallowed his inadequacy. His time was better spent treating the next patient.
“Dimitry!” a nurse said, nearly tripping over the edge of a mattress as she dashed over. “There’s another customer who says they want to pay!”
“Bring them in.”
“But there are other people who’ve been waiting all—”
He rolled his stiff and tight neck, then looked the nurse squarely in the eye. “I know it feels wrong, but we can’t keep the hospital running without their support. Allow the paying customers in. If anyone complains, let Angelika and the watchmen take care of them.”
“O-okay.” The nurse turned away, the spring in her step gone as she trudged towards the entrance.
Dimitry shared her concerns. He wanted to treat everyone fairly, but he couldn’t. Tools, ale, employees, and enchantments were pricey investments. The only support he received was paying nobles, enchantresses from the Sorceresses Guild, and the watchmen sent by the queen to arrest thugs and end disputes over positions in a growing line.
When the nurse returned, she trailed behind a portly, middle-aged man and a fit one approximately twenty years old. Both men wore steel armor, each component glowing a different color. Hospital staff and patients alike showered the younger man with attention and compliments.
“It’s Valter!”
“Our savior is here!”
“He’s so handsome…”
The portly man, however, didn’t appear to be the target of any praise. “Hey, you!” He pointed at Dimitry with a metal-clad finger. “You the one in charge here?”
“Can I be of service?”
“Here.” He retrieved a full and bumpy leather sack from under his breastplate. “There’s fifty in there. I want the best, and I mean the very best treatment you got. I want you to make Valter better quick!”
“Father! Why do you seek to waste my time here?” Valter pulled a handkerchief from the crevice beneath a lustrous pauldron and dragged it past a burn scar on his cheek, soaking the blood leaking from his purple nose. “My men are out there defending the city walls from heathens on their own!”
“How are you supposed to lead an army when you can barely stand?”
“But father, I—”
The portly man pressed his payment into Dimitry’s hand. “If you can fix this moron before he runs out and gets himself killed, every coin is yours.”
Dimitry peeked inside the sack to discover a small fortune of gold marks. Enough for four more blankets and a day’s worth of supplies. “Very well.” He beckoned the two armored men forward. “Please, mind your step.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Their metal boots clanged against the hospital’s stone floor as they followed Dimitry to a partitioned corner of the hospital.
“How long will it take?” the portly man blathered. “Unlike these refugees, we can’t waste away our busy lives in this filthy place.”
Dimitry ignored the snob’s self-indulgent remarks in favor of remembering the time of day. Four bed rotations passed since he last went outside, meaning that it was midnight. “Valter will have to stay here for a short while, but we’ll discharge him before morning.”
“That’s it?”
“He won’t be perfectly healthy right away,” Dimitry said, stopping in front of the curtain separating the ‘premium’ section of the hospital from the rest, “but his condition will continue to improve over the next couple of days.”
“This better work, Jade Surgeon.”
“It will. I used it on myself, and I’m alive to tell the tale.” Dimitry turned his attention to Valter.
The young warrior wore a breastplate with a golden glow belonging to a reflectia enchantment. Based on information Dimitry gathered from the handful of soldiers and guards he treated, it was one of the most potent and common enchantments on the battlefield due to its ability to reflect magic targeted at the wearer.
That included preservia.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take off your armor for the treatment to work. Do you need assistance?”
“Do not trouble yourself with me.” Valter removed his gauntlets and dropped them onto a table with a loud thunk. “I appreciate the offer, however.”
“Richter?” a voice called from behind the curtain. It belonged to another one of the hospital’s ‘premium’ customers.
The portly man guffawed in a manner both friendly and patronizing. “Moritz, is that you, you lazy prick?” He pulled back the curtain.
“Why are you here?” A short yet muscular man laying on a dark pink glowing mattress asked. “Shouldn’t you be back at your estate, wooing sheep while your son does all the hard work?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t because a certain stonemason guild master can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to fix Malten’s walls.” Richter brandished a giant smile. “Do you want me to do your job for you too?”
“It hasn’t even been a week since the night of repentance. Quality work takes time. Has becoming a marquis made you forget what it means to do hard labor?” Moritz gave Richter a shit-eating grin. “Does someone wipe that fat face for you now, too?”
“Please,” Valter whispered. “There are people here.”
“Hard labor? All you do is slap rocks with a hammer while I’m out patrolling the fields making sure a heathen doesn’t take a giant crap on the grain you’ll be eating for dinner.”
“You’re not doing that. Your men are.” Moritz chuckled, then lay silent for a moment. His elated facial expression clouded over. “Speaking of which, is it just me or have bread prices gone up lately?”
“It’s not just you.” Richter crossed his arms over his chest. “Every month we lose another fucking village, and my serfs are fleeing south. The fact that it’s winter isn’t helping either.”
“Ah, shit.”
Although Dimitry didn’t intend to eavesdrop on their conversation, it was hard not to when they yelled loud enough to wake up every patient in the hospital. Their conversation troubled him. Would food become a problem?
No.
It already was.
Refugees starved on the streets with the situation deteriorating rapidly. Worse still, despite Dimitry’s wealth of modern knowledge, he couldn’t help. He remembered reading something about inefficient farming techniques in medieval times but had long since forgotten the details.
Dimitry did, however, know a thing or two about genetic recombination and cross-breeding. A time-consuming endeavor.
Or was it?
He had access to accelall and enchantment channeling. With the help of a person knowledgeable about this world’s crops like Richter, could he start an agricultural revolution? Unfortunately not. He had a hospital to run.
“Mr. Dimitry!” Lili’s voice cut through ambient chatter. “Someone wants to see you!”
“Tell them to wait like everyone else, or until traffic dies down.”
“They said they want to make you rich.”
----------------------------------------
Illuminated by a moon peeking out from behind distant clouds, small snowflakes twisted and danced in spiral patterns. They landed on the stone and iron roofs of Malten’s buildings, forming a thin layer of green that covered the entire city.
Dimitry watched the beautiful sight from the hospital’s second floor. He stood beside a stone arch, enjoying the icy wind brushing against his cheek, which seemed to extract fatigue with every passing flurry.
But he didn’t come here for his own enjoyment.
The cold was an excuse for him to wear his cloak. Precious took residence within its hood, waiting to provide emotion-reading support during his negotiations with a woman who claimed that she could make him wealthy.
“I hope the cold weather won’t be a bother,” Dimitry said. “It’s the only place I know where we won’t be interrupted by patients or nurses.”
“A fine decision if I say so myself. I appreciate you taking time out of your undoubtedly busy schedule for me.” She placed a hand on her chest and bowed with grace. “My name is Sophie Flynn, owner and manager of Malten’s Blue Compass branch. Not only are we one of the most prosperous trading firms in this city, but we also own seven riverboats and three ocean-ready cogs. Our trade reaches as far as the Amalthean Kingdom including—”
Dimitry held out a hand to stop her. “It’s clear that you’re a very important person, but I’m afraid it’s as you say. My time is limited. To cut introductions short, my name is Dimitry, and I’m a surgeon working at this hospital.”
Sophie smiled, coaxing shallow wrinkles from the corners of her lips. “The Fraud, the Jade Surgeon, the Flesh Barber. I was surprised to learn that they’re all one and the same person.”
He furrowed his brow. Although the first two nicknames rang familiar, the third stumped Dimitry. “Flesh Barber?”
“They claim you like to excise organs for your own devious pleasure.”
Considering the constant sharp debridement procedures and the occasional amputation, Dimitry understood why the populace gave him that title. Untreated, rotting tissue worsened. Surgery was a necessary evil for many patients with end-stage plague symptoms.
“But I know it’s not true.” Sophie stepped forward, her smile reaching her cheekbones. “A mere glance into your tired eyes shows that you’re doing your best to save people, aren’t you? That you’re the only one standing between death and life for many helpless, voiceless refugees.”
“She’s trying to butter you up,” Precious whispered.
Dimitry could tell as much. “Can you get to the point?”
“That’s what I like about you, Jade Surgeon. Eager to return to your—”
Perhaps catalyzed by days of insufficient sleep, irritation bubbled within Dimitry. He stopped listening to the overly wordy merchant and headed for the hatch leading downstairs.
“I want to buy some of your enchanted mattresses!”
He stopped. “Only the bedclothes carry enchantments, and they’re not for sale. Every single set saves eight lives a day.”
“Thirty gold marks each.”
Her words tempted Dimitry. That was more than twice what he paid to enchant them. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to turn you down. I still don’t have enough to fill the hospital, so I can’t give any away.”
“Why not?” Sophie asked, pleasant smile making its way back to her face. “I counted how many you had, and I’m ready to offer you in excess of 2200 golds for all of them. If you ever decide to stop playing the hero, it’ll be more than enough to retire for life and live more luxuriously than a baroness.”
“Let me guess. You’ll use them to exploit dying people?”
“What a horrific way to put it. If it makes you feel better, not the ones in this city. I can’t beat someone who’s giving away the cure for free.”
Dimitry sat down on one of the few remaining rooftop crates. “What do you mean?”
“Normally, I wouldn’t share my secrets, but I know that you’re no noble simpleton. Money alone can’t move you, can it?” Sophie’s blue lips shivered. She bundled her fur coat tighter around her slender body. “The plague spread to Ontaria and Feyt not long ago, and you’re the only one with a fix. You’re their last hope.”
“I see.” He looked up at a dark sky from which snowflakes fell and landed on his face. Sophie found his weak spot—guilt. If Dimitry rejected her offer, it would result in preventable deaths. However, he couldn’t give her the enchanted bedclothes he already had.
“If you provide the enchantresses, vol, and ten gold marks per unit, I am willing to channel ten sets of enchantments a day for you. That’s all I can make time for.”
“Sorry, Jade Surgeon, but it’s not worth it for me.”
“She’s lying,” Precious whispered.
“That’s unfortunate.” Dimitry stood up and walked towards the downstairs hatch once more. “I’ll be taking my leave, then.”
“Wait!” Sophie counted her fingers. “It seems my math was off. We have a deal.”
“Come back in the morning with what we’ve agreed on and—”
A wooden creak interrupted their conversation.
Two women in yellow robes opened the hatch and climbed up to the hospital’s roof. Court sorceresses.
One looked at Dimitry with cold-blooded eyes from under her hood. “Are you Dimitry Stukov?”
Why was everyone crawling out of the woodwork to pester him now? Couldn’t they tell that he was busy? “You’ve found me.”
“Her majesty demands your immediate presence. Bring whatever tools you use to cure the plague.”