Chapter 10 Practical medicine

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The morning was ... well, not so good, to be honest. She's had better, much better, easier, calmer mornings. On the other hand, it had been harder. At the very beginning of her current "career," Elena-Lunna got on a large-scale and scandalous case of "breeder," which began just with her very first "patient," the one who was suffering from a burn. The woman felt sorry for the poor man until she learned what "breeder" means in criminal jargon. And behind a rather innocuous word with a distinct livestock root hid a simple and uncomplicated crime. To catch a weak witch (it's dangerous to mess with a real magician. Guild can punish), take her to the middle of nowhere, chain her up in a basement, and force her to give birth nonstop, hoping that some baby would show some kind of gift. Sometimes, it did happen.

From time to time, Elena thought how lucky she had been to have this burn one. Realizing that behind the guise of the suffering poor man, there was a scoundrel of inordinate hideousness was useful and gave her the strength to endure the hardest days of entering a new profession. Of course, it was impossible to love the craft of a prison healer, but it was quite possible to get used to it. She must say, on the whole, the work was not so exhausting. The underground prison was kept in good order, and the prisoners were not starved and other unauthorized suffering. Overall, Elena didn't see anything new compared to the Pharmacy in the Wastelands. Except for more specific injuries involving fractures, dislocations, and burns. The science of proper joint repositioning made her sweat, but the woman had mastered that as well.

By the way, today there were two "jointers" who knocked out their finger bones. It was a mundane matter - two cellmates, a potter and a roofer, had fought, continuing some kind of inter-workshop squabble. It is not easy to kill a man with bare hands and, for some reason, the opponents had not managed to acquire prison tools, so the matter ended in a fight, funny and ridiculous in the performance of the prisoners, whose strength was not increased by the meager ration of lean porridge.

It's a paradox. The more skillful the executioner was, the less work there was for the healer. The professional subjected the victim to elaborate suffering and spectacular maiming but never killed and always left room for what could be called "rehabilitation procedures." Master Kwokk often bandaged the interrogated and gave them infusions, making paternal suggestions along the way, which was no more effective than torture. The problem from the point of view of practical medicine was the apprentices, of whom there were nine, according to the number of courts at which the apprentices were to administer justice in the future. And here is one of the said adolescents, light on his heels...

"Lunna?"

"Dind? Good afternoon," Elena said, trying to be as detached as possible.

Apprentice Dind, though a year older, had changed little in appearance. He was stuck on the borderline between boy and man, taking the best of both, at least in appearance. His hair had grown thicker and darker, and his eyes had taken on a beautiful inky sheen. This look was irresistible to girls, and besides, the future executioner was an enviable party. On the one hand, to be the wife of an executioner is not so much pleasure. On the other hand, a piece of bread is guaranteed until the end of days, as well as a dowry for daughters, as well as a son's share. In the present time, when poor harvest follows poor harvest, and the price of bread rises almost every day, not to the picky selection of grooms.

In general, the young man could stack girls in his bed like a farmer's harvest. But for some reason, he was in no hurry, and there were rumors that his heart had already been given to another, and to whom - it was unknown. Elena had strong suspicions that she because, at every meeting, Dind turned into a slurred donkey who blushed painfully and could not connect a couple of words. And since she didn't care for the intra-corporate sexual squabbles, Elena kept her prospective fiancé as far away as possible, but correctly. And now, having politely said hello and exchanged a couple of phrases, she walked on without looking back, feeling the sad look of a big, handsome, kind guy who honestly earned his bread by torturing and killing people.

The wide corridors smelled of wax torches and cheap lamp oil. The few guards gave the healer indifferent glances at best, like a common element of the prison landscape. The anatomy room was located in the part of the palace closer to the surface, so it took a lot of effort to get up from the basement. On the way, Eelena met a maid with a bucket and Master Kwokk, who was in a hurry as usual and shook his head in annoyance at her greeting.

The normality, the ordinariness of it all had surprised and amazed Elena immensely at first. But now it only resonated with a persistent feeling of slight bewilderment. How could it be possible? How could people who chose such a craft be so ... ordinary? But they could be. And they were.

Another passage, wiped by the feet of many generations... The torch had almost died out here. They hadn't bothered to replace it in time, so we had to tread carefully. And it was necessary not to drop the bag with tools.

Putting aside the moral aspect of the job, being a prison healer was a lucrative occupation. It paid well in itself and provided an income. The prisoners' relatives paid for their treatment, and the prisoners were often ill. Here, Elena again had a hard time because there was a big moral dilemma. To treat for nothing? It's expensive and even ruinous because, according to long-standing traditions, the healer bought all the necessary ingredients at his own expense. By the way, the same rule was valid in many other professions. For example, servants in taverns and other restaurants also paid for the order first and then squeezed its cost out of the client [1]. To take money? But how much, given that Elena could not haggle organically and could not learn it till now?

In general, as one of the Coen brothers' characters succinctly put it, "everything is complicated." Here's the right hallway. Wow, security? Who's that for, I wonder? Elena strode past the armed men with a businesslike and independent look, catching the usual glances of interest, surprise, and quick calculation of the odds - what if they hit on an independent and unmarried woman?

Everything was ready in the hall, the patient was on the table, the water was stocked, the basins were available, and they just needed to be set up. It smelled as usual, that is, unpleasant but tolerable. A weak magical amulet correctly muffled the stubborn odor of dead meat, protecting the dress of the spectators. But no ... something else ... Elena's nostrils caught a faint but exquisite scent of perfume. The source was found immediately. On the only chair sat a young woman, obviously high-born, about the same age as Elena or slightly older. The chair, in turn, rested on a stone slab so that even sitting down, the viewer could look down at the anatomical table from above.

The girl was, to put it bluntly, spectacular in every way. She was dressed to perfection, so much so Elena, who was not usually so self-conscious about her dress, gritted her teeth. "Merciful" earned enough to give clothes to laundresses but not enough to get rid of the traditional "wash or rinse" dilemma, given the cost of Figueredo's training. [2].

And the clothes weren't the kind the daughters of the Bonoms wore. A black jacket and black stocking pants with red inserts outlined an athletic figure that was a little less than firm. On her shoulders hung a short cream-colored cape, barely elbow-length, with a palm-high collar. The cloak was fastened with a shiny hook, and a gold chain with double links that looked like figure eights were slipped on top of it with the same magnificent carelessness, like cheap beads.

The most remarkable of all were the boots, nothing like they wore in Milvesse. With lapels, in the color of the cloak, without stilettos - they had not yet been thought of here - but with high shanks, which in the unfolded state reached, perhaps, to the middle of the thighs. The shanks were cut in front of the full length, all the way to the foot, and tightened with silver-plated lacing. The wide belt and boots were connected over the stockings by spiral straps with decorative rivets. The oval belt buckle shone with polish and a gold-wired coat of arms that Elena had definitely seen before.

There was no hat, no hairnet, not even a barrette on her head, just a long, shiny hairpin fastening a black strand behind her ear, a contemptuous concession to the rules of behavior that discouraged hairlessness, leaving it to prostitutes. It was a miracle the accessory had held at all, considering the aristocrat's hair was cut almost as short as Elena's, above her shoulders.

It all looked beautiful, very bright, but at the same time deliberately modest, considering that in the local society, a person was defined first of all by his appearance, so bright, parrot-like colors and the most unimaginable combinations of colors ruled the ball. The chair had no backrest, so the spectator gracefully leaned on the high armrest, curved in the form of a lyre, put her foot on her leg, and propped her graceful, chiseled chin with her left hand. On top of the glossy leather shone three rings with multicolored stones, worn directly on the glove. But the right hand, interestingly enough, had not a single piece of jewelry on it. She had seen this sort of thing many times before on the streets of the City. Professional fighters, guards, as well as many knights from the real, fighting ones, did so. And highlanders, who did not wear rings on principle.

She wonders if the Gothic woman is cosplaying as a swordsman or actually knows how to fight.

Of course, the aristocrat didn't say a word, and she didn't show a single gesture that she paid the slightest attention to the servants. Elena, in her turn, behaved similarly, acting as if she were alone in the anatomy room. There was a fair amount of hooliganism in that. As a representative of a lower class and not even a member of the workshop, the healer was supposed to greet the superior, show proper deference, and use appropriate treatment. But the cold arrogance of the onlooker suddenly struck a nerve with the Mercyful One. In addition, her shoulder, bruised by the Draftsman the day before, was hurting badly, and Elena's mood was completely ruined.

Putting the tools out of her work bag, the woman quickly assessed the material she had to work with. It wasn't that she liked autopsies, but rather, it was the least unpleasant part of her job. The dead didn't moan, cry, or urinate as they were being treated, nor did they smell the horror of a living body that had experienced unimaginable pain and was about to experience it again. They did not beg to send a message behind bars, nor did they try to rape a woman who was within reach.

This dead guy was pretty clean - male, relatively young, body not emaciated. Faint shackle marks, worn for a short time. A few distinctive scars that Lunna had already learned well - blade marks. A soldier, possibly a bandit or an assassin. As a medic, Elena noted that the man had died recently, a couple of hours ago at most. The body hadn't cooled down at all. As a student of a fencer, she estimated the efficiency of the murder, just one blow exactly in the neck. The point reached the spine. In addition, the dead man's skull was crushed by a heavy blade, but judging by the direction of the blow, it was struck from top to bottom, on the back of the head, that is, most likely, already killing him. Another Brether who had taken the moonlit road last night? A victim of assassins? On the other hand, they didn't take the usual dead to prison. What difference does it make, really? A corpse is a corpse.

Stolen novel; please report.

Finally, the instruments were laid out in the correct order.

"Master Lunna is ready to show you her art!" proclaimed the jailer.

And then Elena remembered several things at once, four to be exact.

First, she had forgotten about Fatty Gu, even though he was puffing and panting behind her back like a wok under a tight lid on low heat. Then, she never took off her cap. The plain leather cap she had ordered a month ago. Despite the carefully drawn-out image and even the tiny clay model, the work was slow and difficult to do. The cost of non-standard work in shop production. But the cap turned out to look great, almost like DiCaprio in "Gangs of New York." And very comfortable. The soft leather pancake was so comfortable on the head that Elena forgot about it. Now, that's a serious oversight. It was possible to refrain from unnecessary words in the presence of a noble person, as if not wanting to offend her. But to stay in the headdress. One could be blamed for such a thing.

The third memory was the coat of arms gilded on the visitor's belt. Elena had seen it a year ago, when she had met the brunette with the destrier, accompanied by an armed retinue. Wow, how they got back together again! And finally, at last, the medic finally realized what the marvelous cloak was made of, whose fabric looked like silk, even though there were no mulberries or silkworms in Ecumene.

Elena kept her composure, or at least she hoped she did. With due deference, however, without fussy haste, she took off her cap and made a half bow. The brunette looked at the woman healer with a look that Grandfather called "like a sheep at a new gate" without even trying to hide her amazement. Elena felt the heat sweep over her torso, her face as if doused in a hot bath. Helpless confusion spilled through her veins, turning her arms into awkward appendages. Now, the black goat in the cannibal's cloak would want to punish the lowborn wench, and she would be in her right. What to do?

A moment later, Elena realized that the visitor was simply surprised by a woman in a strictly male occupation. And after the confusion came anger, more at herself. How, how could she have been so oblivious and careless?!

"Does Lady want an explanation of the autopsy?" Elena asked, checking that the leather roll under the dead man's shoulder blades was in place to flex the torso and chest.

Her voice trailed off a little, but barely, so it could be mistaken for natural hoarseness. The brunette hesitated, slowly moving the fingers of her right - ringless - hand. The movements were unpleasantly reminiscent of something out of a Soviet sci-fi classic, either screwing in or ripping off the invisible. Elena, meanwhile, took off her caftan and vest. She rolled up the sleeves of her linen shirt to her shoulders and put on an apron on a rope loop. She took the first knife and froze, half-turned to her customer in anticipation.

"No," she said and, pausing again, added abruptly. "I'm in the mood to be a silent observer today."

The voice was soft and pleasant, you could say - staged. Like a good actor's or an understudy's. It was soft as if a miaur that had risen on its hind legs had spoken. And, at the same time, low, quite "adult" - nothing of young girlhood. Most likely, the young aristocrat's speech was crafted by a good rhetorician. It would be even better to understand why this goat had condescended to give a detailed answer to some medicine woman who was gutting dead... It was not good.

The healer nodded silently, opening the still warm skin on the man's chest with quick movements.

After the cloak, Elena's attitude toward the customer of the event changed from interested (and a little jealous) to outright hostility, which had to be concealed with a great deal of effort. A wonderfully strong, dense, and light fabric better than silk was made by only one creature in the world - the Gray Shadow, a rare species of giant spider-hunter from the Wastelands. Elena had only seen such a marvel once, and that was from afar, but she had heard quite a bit about them. The creature was deadly, but breeding it was worth it, paying off many times over. The best web was produced by a monster fed on human flesh, ideally alive. Of course, the owners of rare "farms" with spiders swore that they fed the creepy pets only pigs, but ... Therefore, the graceful, but at the same time broad, strong shoulders of the girl beautifully encircled the corpse of some poor guy, in the truest sense. And it's good if it was posthumously processed. Among the capital's criminals, it was considered a good thing to give a particularly guilty person to be "spidered" alive.

The customer watched silently, still rotating the fingers of her left hand in the same measured way. Not a single thought could be read on her pale face, not even the faintest shadow of emotion distorting it. Separating the skin from the ribs, Elena thought and how could she mistake this woman for Shena...? The facial features were completely different, more delicate, and expressive, like a marble mask. The beauty of sculptural perfection. The resemblance to stone was compounded by the very pale lips, which were as if covered in pearl lipstick. And Shena was alive, real.

Was.

Elena gritted her teeth and continued her work; against her custom, she worked the chest forward of the abdomen. The aristocrat's dark eyes glittered coldly in the reflected light of the lamp, and it was unclear where her gaze was directed. The jailer was in palpable and obvious agony, shifting from foot to foot. Here, on the outskirts of the prison, it was silent, with only the faintest rustling of the breeze from the air ducts and the tinkling of instruments. A little later, the tinkling was joined by a soft slapping as the medicine woman began to arrange the body parts in basins.

As usual, the chest was a bit of a pain in the ass. Elena realized that she had to think of a tool, and surely it existed, at least in her home universe. But she didn't have enough imagination, so she had to act roughly, hacking at the sternum with a broad blade that looked like a chisel and a gladius at the same time.

Interesting, thought the medic. Here are the organs in the peritoneum, and the names of some of them can be associated with something familiar, and some - not. Liver, kidneys, that's clear. What's this, like a pouch or a pickle? The local name is bataraidh, but what is it really? Spleen? Gallbladder, pancreas, something else?

The familiar rhythm and practiced sequence of movements were soothing. Elena simply switched off from the world around her. Fortunately, she was not required to work in a highly professional manner. The Ecumene had not yet reached the level of science-based medicine of at least the Renaissance (although it was getting closer, according to subjective feelings). The anatomist was required not to make any gross mistakes and to take a dead person apart more or less promptly.

Fifteenth. It's the fifteenth corpse she's cut up...Lenochka Girl, who even tried not to cut up chicken breasts because ew, sticky and disgusting.

Heck, a year of my life for a simple pair of rubber gloves!

The autopsy took too long. Usually, the spectators tired early and, convinced that the man inside was not much different from a pig, wrapped up the show. The brunette in the cloak watched until the end, silent as a living statue. Only once did she change her pose, mirroring herself. Right hand on the armrest, left hand free. She crossed her legs - just like Sharon Stone, the thin stockings with spectacular boots emphasized the length. It was ... beautiful. Mechanically transferring the intestines into the pelvis, loop by loop, Elena tried to make a quick estimate of how much such an outfit cost and couldn't. There was nothing to compare it with. Such a cloth and quality of work in the shops available to the medic was absent in principle.

That's fine. To each their own.

As if sensing the impending finale, one of the guards waiting outside came in, creaking the door. He was well dressed, even better armed, and had a relatively pleasant face, but his eyes were the opposite. Some people look like overbearing predators, and this one seemed more like an omnivorous rodent. Elena immediately dubbed him a "shrew" and thought that he was someone she would not want to be alone with. She noted with an experienced eye the fresh, badly scuffed purple smudges on the rodent's boots.

"Mistress," He brought his lips to her ear beneath the gleaming hairpin. "It will be dark soon."

He lowered his voice, and Elena, leaning over the corpse, heard only something about the second messenger, the cook's bills, and the fiery feelings of a Gastald eager for acquaintance. Gastalds in the East called the aristocracy of the level of Count-Duke. It was logical to assume that the maiden was not lower. A countess, at the very least. And the shape of the chain links on her neck, plus the absence of pendants, meant that the young woman was also an unofficial heiress.

Elena sighed and thought once again she had missed the trouble. It was a sign from above, no other way, and next time, she'd have to turn her head faster, see who fate was giving her, and take off her hat in time. Technically, the girl was already a citizen of the city because she had lived, legally renting a house, for nine months and one day, had paid taxes, and, most importantly, she had been accepted into the civil service in the prison and was receiving a salary from the treasury (without this, the waiting time would have immediately increased to three years). Therefore, it is impossible to offend her without a good reason. In practice, Elena regularly corrected the dislocated hands of those behind whom the pure right stood without the support of at least the Crafts Council.

"Get the horses ready, Mourier. The public can't wait. I'll check the cook's bill."

When she answered, the brunette gave Elena a long, unblinking stare, oddly mesmerizing. Not like a reptile's, but rather purely feline, with a distinctive hunter's squint. Then, in turn, she lowered her voice and quietly said something in the ear of the rodent named Murier. The rodent nodded, cast an unpleasant, piercing glance in Elena's direction, and gave her hand to help her down from the stone pedestal.

When the old door of creaky oak, the same age as Cataclysm, slammed behind the guest, Elena sighed with relief, and Gu rushed to piss in one of the basins of dead flesh. It seemed that the poor man was holding back from the last of his strength, not daring either to leave the show or to defecate in front of the highborn lady. However, even with the correction for pity, it looked obscene and disgusting, so Elena was glad. She shouldn't take it out, and the day was finally over. For some reason, the rodent did not hurry after his mistress. Mourier took a couple of steps toward the table, and Elena finally realized who was in front of her.

It was inappropriate for a high-born gentleman to count out any serious money in payment for anything. It made him akin to a negociant or, God forbid, a shopkeeper. No, the right thing to do was to throw his purse at once, showing his broad-mindedness and contempt for the "iron of merchants." Many people did so, often without even knowing how many coins were inside. The more practical ones counted out the necessary sums in advance, spread them out in purses, and sewed or sealed the purses. Such "bank packs" hung on Rodent's belt, which made him look like a trusted man, and in combination with weapons - a bodyguard or chief of security.

As Alice would say, it gets curiouser and curiouser.

Mourier, clearly thinking about something of his own, carefully untied one of the pouches and slammed it onto the edge of the table, narrowly missing the flap of skin that had been turned off the torso. Elena raised an eyebrow and shook her head respectfully. It wasn't the first time she had accepted money for a performance, but it was the first time the audience's gratitude had been expressed in such a meaningful way. Perhaps it was worth the nerves she had burned, and the gorgeous lady was quite nice and warm-hearted. She wishes always like this.

A lady? Or maybe not? Come on, the medic thought, the dark-haired cat didn't look like a virgin at all.

"You'll be there by mid-midnight watch," Mourier informed her weightily, very convincingly. "He'll tell you where," the bodyguard nodded toward Gu, who was still murmuring with a blissful smile. Noticing the bodyguard's gesture, the jailer smiled even happier.

"That's..." The Rodent's face reflected a powerful work of intelligence, like a man of no small mind but forced to quickly solve an unfamiliar task. "There's plenty of time, so wash your hair, go to the baths, and whatever else you're supposed to do. No perfume, they'll sprinkle it where it's needed."

Elena sighed heavily. She felt sad and wistful. Her dreams of a new jacket (or even a coat) for winter were scattered like the shards of an old vase.

"Kind sir, she replied, trying to speak as politely and understandably as possible, choosing a deliberately neutral address." "You've got something wrong. Maidens for fun is the other way around."

Although Elena had learned to swear pretty well, she couldn't say the word "whores". There was something humiliating about it, especially to the speaker.

Gu made a thin, lingering sound, like a puppet being squeezed in a fist, forcing air through the hole. The gurgling stopped, whether the liquid had run out or the spasm had constricted it. Judging by the look on his face, it's more likely the latter. Yes, a girl of years, without a husband and a fiancé, refusing a small-born but nobleman, even when silver was at hand, was not unthinkable, but, to put it bluntly, uncommon.

"Fool," Mourier said with a wry chuckle. "I don't need you." he looked at Elena's male haircut with critical disapproval. "You'll entertain my mistress."

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