"No signs of plague yet."

Giradin breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his arms. Mu, clad in his plague doctor uniform, handed Giradin his clothes and let him dress in the tent, then gave him a vial of the medicine he'd brewed. Giradin popped the cork and swallowed the revolting contents.

"Has anyone shown any symptoms yet?" Giradin asked.

"There are a few," said Mu. "But those who've cooperated have been locked up in the jail for now, and they've shown no signs of worsening. I hope that means the medicine's working."

"How much longer will this experiment go on?" Giradin asked.

The moor stared back at Giradin through his dark lenses, his face hidden beneath that steel beak. "I don't know. And I'm afraid I have to ask you to move along. I have more patients to treat."

Giradin slipped his clothes on, starting with his long coat, and left the tent. Once outside again, he glanced back at the two long lines of patients making their way to the two tents where they would be inspected, scrubbed down, and given Mu's experimental drug. In the line he spotted Fulk, his face and right hand still wrapped in bandages.

Giradin left the city square and started on his way back to the inn. The people of Elekvaz sneered and spat at him when he drew near, so he re-routed himself toward the back alleys. Fearing they might follow him, he drew his seax and held it firmly at his side.

A few steps into the alley, he glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could. No one followed him.

The following sigh of relief was cut short with a yelp from Giradin's throat as a black figure fell from one of the rooftops and crashed onto the ground in front of him. "Oh, God!" he shouted and jumped back.

There lay on the hard, stone street a man in a black cloak, his eyes torn out and his neck and arms broken, having clearly been twisted and popped into directions they should not have faced. The dead man's tongue lolled out of his mouth and blood leaked from within.

"Law men!" Giradin shouted, turning away from the body in black. "Oh, God! Law men! There's a dead body here!" He glanced up at the roof from which the body fell, spotting a wisp of smoke from the thatch for just a moment before it faded into the air.

The sound of boots on the cobblestone streets.

Giradin turned to see two militiamen approach with their wooden batons in hand. "What happened?" the taller of the two barked while the other rushed over to check the dead body.

While one of the militiamen bent down and held his hand over the dead man's mouth to check for breath, Giradin told the other, "He fell from the roof like that... I don't know how or why... I think someone else was up there. I saw smoke."

"He's dead," said the kneeling militiaman.

Giradin rolled his eyes. "Such insight! Thank you for your wisdom."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Watch it!" the taller militiaman said as he pressed the tip of his baton under Giradin's chin. "You were here when he was found. How do we know you're not the killer?"

Giradin pushed the baton away from his face and glared at the militiaman. "Wouldn't the killer have fled rather than calling for the law?"

The taller militiaman sneered. "Could be a trick. Drop your weapon."

Giradin glanced down at the seax in his hand, then returned his gaze to the guard. "Wait... you're arresting me?"

"We just want to question you," said the militiaman, "But if you don't do as we say we'll get rough. Now, drop the weapon before I bash your damn face in!"

For a fleeting moment, Giradin considered fighting both of these men and showing them what was what. He was an innocent man, and didn't deserve any of this rubbish.

But the last thing he wanted was to start more violence in the city, so he sheathed his seax, untied it from his belt, and lowered it to the ground by the leather strap.

The taller militiaman gestured to the other. "Bring the manacles."

The shorter of the two walked around to Giradin's front, took both his arms, and clasped his wrists in manacles. Giradin ground his teeth in rage at the injustice of it all, but he kept quiet. Even as the shorter militiaman picked up his seax, Giradin said nothing.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Giradin recognized the voice as Shlomo's. His friend stood outside the alley with his gloved hand resting on the pommel of his short-sword.

The taller militiaman used his dirty fingers to brush back his mustache hairs from his lip and said, "Don't you have patients to attend to, Jew?" The last word was an accusation, not merely an address.

Shlomo's head twitched, as if he was surprised at the militiaman's pointed insult. "The others can handle this. I heard my friend screaming about a dead body and though that, as a doctor, it was my responsibility to come see. Now you're arresting my friend?"

"He was the only one near the body when it was found," said the militiaman, his grip on the baton tightening.

Shlomo shrugged. "That makes him a witness, doesn't it? I've generally found that witnesses are far more helpful when you're kind to them."

"I've found that patients do better when you visit them in bed," said the militiaman.

"It's a poor doctor who lays with his patients," said Shlomo with a chuckle.

"You damn well know what I mean!" the militiaman snapped. "You do your job, and let me do mine!"

Shlomo's fingers wrapped around the handle of his short-sword. "Your job wouldn't entail torturing the suspect until he confesses to crimes he did not commit, would it?" He took a step closer and the militiamen both took two steps back from him. "Because, here's what you need to know about my job. I get to decide what does and does not look like a sign of plague. I get to decide when a patient, or even a city, is beyond hope." Shlomo's blade sang as he slowly withdrew it from its sheath. "And both of you men seem rather pale to me."

The militiamen exchanged glances with one another, asking silent questions as they tried to decide how to respond to Shlomo's veiled threats.

"We..." the shorter militiaman began, "We still need... to take him in for questioning... even as a witness..."

"Then you can do so without the manacles," said Shlomo.

"I suppose we could..." said the taller militiaman. The shorter of the two unlocked the steel on Giradin's wrists and removed the manacles.

"And," Shlomo continued, "Since he's a witness, that means that whoever did this will want to silence him. Probably best if your only witness can defend himself, don't you think?"

The militiamen met Shlomo's inquiry with silent stares and faces trying in vain to hide their fright.

"You know..." Shlomo said, "A common symptom of a great many diseases is impaired judgment..."

The taller militiaman grunted in disgust and turned to Giradin. "Pick up your weapon."

Giradin didn't hesitate to snatch up his seax and tie it to his belt again.

Shlomo nodded to the militiamen. "Now, while it seems this man did not die of natural causes, his death may still have something to do with the plague. You fellows wouldn't mind at all if I was part of Giradin's questioning, would you?"

Another brief silence, followed by, "We welcome your help. Thank you."