“Damn it, Rianos! Stop that crap and just get the damn arrow out of me!”

The light-haired southerner with the slave’s brand on his cheek shook his enormous pincers at the mercenary.

“Stop moving, Artanna.”

“The arrowhead is smooth—it could have been worse.”

“It would have been better if you hadn’t jumped in there,” Baby Shrain said in her ear. “Took an arrow, and for an enemy, no less. Use your head!”

Artanna grimaced in pain.

“Piraf is no enemy. And believe me, we’ll be talking about what happened. In the meantime, my dears, shut up and just…get…that…thing…out of me!”

Shrain and Vezzam had asked to visit her in the infirmary for some reason even though Reanos was perfectly capable of getting by on his own. Anyway, the Hundred leader understood why her Second and Third were worried, and their awkward concern was touching. But she still would have preferred being alone with the healer—she didn’t like showing weakness. Artanna also knew Shrain would read her the riot act, while Vezzam would sit there dramatic and silent as though his world was falling apart, his hopes and dreams coming crashing down all around him. That was the face he’d been born with.

“As long as you’re here, give me a hand,” the healer said. “Vezzam, hold here. Baby, open that vial. And you’d better not even think about moving.

The last phrase was thrown at Artanna and accompanied by a stern look.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to, not with Baby holding me like that,” muttered Artanna.

The healer carefully took hold of the broken arrow shaft with his pincers and gave it a swift yank. The smooth arrowhead, without enough time to break off, came out along with the shaft.

“Arzimat’s hole!” Artanna yelped.

Rianos glanced at his charge reproachfully. The mercenary woman switched to cursing in Vagran and focused on evening out her breath.

“Let’s get this over with, boys. I still have to go smooth things out with Guiro and the viceroy.”

“You’re definitely not leaving the infirmary today,” the healer said. “That’s out of the question.”

“I have to.”

“If you want, I can talk with Guiro.” Shrain scratched his shaved dome thoughtfully and stuck an enormous paw in his belt. “I’m not doing any good here.”

“You weren’t there with Vazash, and Guiro is going to ask how it happened. And Vezzam isn’t the easiest person to talk to.” The Hundred leader smiled guiltily when she caught his severe look. “Sorry…”

“You’re not wrong. Talking is your thing, Commander. He’s your beau, anyway.”

“Easy there, my friend. The beau might not appreciate that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Be that as it may, we can’t abuse his position.”

“We’re putting it off till tomorrow. Doctor’s orders.” Rianos dipped a bandage in the goo from the jar Shrain had opened and pressed it against the wound.

Artanna hissed.

“Curses, that burns! Shit!”

While Vezzam and Shrain were talking about something, Rianos grabbed the chance to lean over to the Hundred leader.

“It would be easier if I could use my…other abilities on you. Our people do good work with wounds using spells.”

“You’re the former slave of an Ennian healer, not an Ennian healer yourself. Don’t you think there might be something you didn’t learn before you ran away?”

Rianos sighed deeply, rolled his eyes, and tightened the bandage around the wound. Artanna howled again as she latched her fists onto the headboard.

“Admit it—you get off on this,” she wheezed when she caught her breath.

“Not at all. Although, the fact that I’m probably the only one allowed to cause you pain with impunity does sometimes put a smile on my face. It’s nice to be special.”

Artanna turned her head to watch the healer’s sure movements—nothing superfluous, not a single second wasted. Regardless of the locals’ distaste for Ennians, Rianos had somehow managed to quickly endear himself to the troops. It could have turned south quickly, however, if the clerics had found out that he used spells in addition to usual herbs and poultices, which was why Artanna was the only one who knew his secret.

Another flash of pain pulled the Hundred leader away from her contemplation.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Everything still works on everyone else, just not you.” The healer wouldn’t let the topic go as he continued to tighten the bandage. “And I wish I knew why not.”

“It’s fine, you’re doing okay as it is. Just get it over with—it still feels the same.”

Rianos started preparing the wrap. Shrain got up and headed toward the door.

“Chow time’s coming up. I’ll go make sure everything’s ready.”

“Thanks, Baby.”

“Want me to bring you some?”

“That would be great, just top it off with some sweet wine.”

Vezzam waited for Baby to leave and then grabbed a mop and started cleaning.

“What’s that for?” Artanna and Rianos asked in unison.

“So there’s less work for the mender. He did enough work saving your butt in every sense of the word.”

Artanna didn’t have anything to say.

It was chilly in the infirmary’s large and once well-lit hall. The small, cloudy windowpanes let in nothing but the nighttime darkness. Vizzam mopped away the remains of the dirt tracked in from the street, caked as it was with blood across the uneven floor. The mop dipped into the bucket, the rags were squeezed, and it was swept on its way once more. Bucket. Squeeze. Floor. Bucket. Squeeze. Floor. The sound started getting on Artanna’s nerves even more than the pain in her backside.

“We’re in deep shit, Rianos.”

“Vezzam’s taking care of that,” the healer replied without pulling himself away from his work.

“Cracking jokes now, are we? The fairs are just a couple months away, and I barely have anything to pay our people with. The Brotherhood is stirring up trouble—no good there. And Guiro…”

“You’ll think of something, Commander. You always think of something.”

The healer finished wrapping her up and sent the bloody rags into the basket with a practiced toss. Artanna wiggled around in the bed, trying to get comfortable.

“I can’t get today’s fight out of my head,” she said thoughtfully. “There’s apparently a split in the Brotherhood, and Tanor can’t keep his people in line. I took that arrow instead of Piraf, but his people were trying to kill him. Why?”

The healer carefully rotated the vials lined up with different colored liquids inside them. They were all labeled in the whimsical Ennian script, his handwriting perfect. Rianos was pedantic about everything he did. Even if the infirmary was ancient and poorly furnished, it was always neat and tidy. Artanna would have been willing to bet that all the healer wanted right then was to finally clean the blood off his favorite gown.

“You’ll spend the night in your bed, not in the infirmary,” Rianos said. “I’ll check you over tomorrow morning and rebandage the wound.”

Artanna nodded and tried to get up. Vezzam jumped over to help, though it still took a couple tries before she was able to hold herself upright.

“Thanks, Ri. You got me out of a pickle again.”

Between them, Vizzam and Rianos helped the woman to the door. The healer’s drawn face, disfigured by the brand on his cheek, was haggard. Pouches drooped below his eyes.

“Try waiting a bit before your next pickle, and maybe even buy a few herbs for balms. I’m all out. These days, everyone in the city seems like they’re getting into more scrapes than usual.”

Artanna frowned, crunching the numbers in her head. She couldn’t turn Rianos down. There was no way she was going to keep him from healing people who couldn’t afford a doctor.

“So, things really are bad,” the Hundred leader smiled sadly. “I’ll find the money for the herbs tomorrow—we’ll all bite the dust without your remedies. How’s Nareza?”

The healer squinted over at the screen behind which the girl was sleeping.

“She lost the baby. Lots of bruises, some broken bones, took a hard hit to her head, and lots of cuts down there, but she’ll live. I’m more concerned about her mental health. She wouldn’t let Tanzir get close, for example, just screaming something about blue eyes as soon as she saw him. It took a while to calm her down.”

Artanna cursed under her breath.

“Sounds like she’s really taking it hard. Matteo, the guy who did that, has blue eyes. Had blue eyes. He won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

“She needs peace and quiet. I’m going to give her some strong sedative broths, and I’ll see what I can do with my hands, as well,” Rianos said with a pointed nod. “I hope that will help.”

“Thanks. As soon as she’s back on her feet, get her out of the city—Givoi doesn’t let you live things like that down. She’s deflowered now, even if it wasn’t her fault. But first I need to figure out what the devil is going on with Tanor’s troops.”

Rianos nodded, closed the door softly behind Artanna to avoid waking Nareza, and leaned back against the damp wood. A gentle whisper came from the corridor.

“I’ll get your herbs, Ri. At least, as long as climbing the stairs doesn’t kill me.”

***

Givoi, for the third day in a row, was at less than its hospitable best, showering visitors, the city people, and animals alike with cold water. But that morning, the first crack appeared in the leaden sky to give hope that there was a warmer spell coming soon. The person in the hood couldn’t have cared less about the weather, though the same couldn’t be said about the aromas floating by. The usual miasmas were carried around several quarters by a westerly wind, and the smell of rotten fish followed the lone traveler from the port itself. Passing the warehouses, he sniffed and sighed in relief. The stink was receding, though the bouquet of aromas was joined by the swill of vomit, the constant companion of cheap taverns. As he got closer to the heart of the city, the traveler started catching other scents. He was almost there. His sense of smell had never deceived him, and the pungent fragrance of Highligland’s herbal tonic, an expensive pleasure enjoyed by aristocrats and mercenaries fresh off payday, made him look up and check out a tavern sign. The Wicked Monk, it read. Pulling his hood down lower, he stepped inside.

His nose was assaulted immediately by the smell of food. The man in the hood looked around—the oaken furniture was sturdy, nothing that would break easily. The people inside were eating from fine clay dishes, something that told him the owner prioritized making a good impression over durability. Anyway, the fact that he sold the famous Highligland drink meant that the owner could stomach a few dozen broken dishes a day.

The traveler noted a small table away from the noisy crowd, which was raucously singing an upbeat tune. The mercenaries made an inharmonious, if fervent choir. Finally, the song wrapped up.

The Vagran stood up against evil at last, taking an arrow right to the ass! Hey!

Not in any mood to outdo the hubbub, the person in the hood gestured a waitress over. The young girl wearing a surprisingly clean apron slipped between tables to appear next to the new arrival.

“Welcome, good sir! What can I get for you?”

“What are they singing about, cutie?” the guest asked quietly in a southern drawl.

“Artanna from the Hundred. They say she caught an arrow in an unmentionable area saving a squad leader from an enemy gang.” The girl laughed melodiously. “Absurd!”

“Artanna from the Hundred… Interesting. Tell me more.”

“I will, sir, I will. Just tell me what you’d like to eat first.”

The traveler looked up, showing the girl nothing but a smile and a row of even, white teeth.

“Call me Jert. And I’d like the juiciest gossip you can feed me, my dear,” he replied as he placed a silver coin in her apron pocket.