But if he could not mention Maximilian, then he could talk about the Veins—their horror bothered him as much as the man they had trapped.
His eyes still on his hands, slowly Garth found the words to speak. He spoke of his horror at the conditions of the Veins and of the men set to such cruel work within them. He spoke of the dreadful red and orange fungi that crept across their skins, feeding both on the gloam dust and on the darkness and which, if not treated, eventually ate into skin and muscle until infection and death followed. He spoke of the nauseating and ever present gloam dust itself, the tacky, sulphurous dust that infiltrated lungs and throats and eventually caused death by its simple presence—but a death wracked out over years as men hacked and coughed through the Veins until they coughed their very life out.
Joseph sat and listened to it all, then, as Garth stumbled into silence, he leaned over and embraced his son. Garth hugged him back, glad to have finally found the courage to talk to his father about the Veins—even doing this much had relieved some of his pent-up feelings about Maximilian.
“Now you know why your mother was so concerned about your first trip to the Veins,” Joseph eventually murmured, leaning back and smiling for his son. “She had to soothe me through many years of nightmares.”
“How did you learn to cope?”
Joseph used one hand to smooth some of his son’s unruly brown curls back from his forehead, then dropped his hand and patted the boy’s shoulder. “I did what most physicians learn to do, Garth. I forget about the Veins for most of the year. The three weeks that I am forced to work down them are the three weeks of my year that somehow exist outside of normal time.”
Garth nodded. No wonder every physician in Escator was compelled by law to spend three weeks of every year down the Veins—none would ever work down there voluntarily.
“Now,” Joseph patted Garth’s shoulder one last time and stood up. “I’ve been working you too hard, Garth. Take tomorrow off. Run down to the wharves to spy out the ships, or find your friends and play a game of hoopball. Now, I’m sure that I can smell dinner wafting through from the kitchen. Come on, let’s eat.”
Garth stood up, but he caught at his father’s arm as they walked towards the door. “Father, I want to learn all that I can, as fast as I can. Next year I want to be able to do everything possible for those trapped beneath the hanging wall.”
Joseph opened his mouth to say that Garth, as an apprentice, was not compelled to work down the Veins, but he closed it slowly at the expression in his son’s eyes. He nodded, his eyes sober. “You learn almost faster than I can teach you, Garth. At this rate you’ll have finished your apprenticeship two years ahead of schedule.”
“But—”
“And,” Joseph continued more firmly, “you’ll take an extra half day off from the surgery every week, Garth. Look at you! You’re as pale and as drawn as if you’d been condemned to the Veins yourself. There’s a good summer sun out there, and you need to catch more of it. Sometimes I forget that you’re still a boy. Come on now, smile for your mother, and me. And learn to cope with the Veins, or give up the craft of physic.”
Joseph turned for the door, but Garth had one more question. “Father, how long can any man survive down the Veins?”
Joseph paused, his hand on the door, his eyes gentle. “I’ve not known any man survive longer than five years, Garth, and even that is an extraordinary effort. You’ve seen the conditions they work under. If they are not crippled in an accident, then either the gloam dust or the creeping fungus will kill them eventually.”
Garth stared at his father, taking a deep breath. What had kept Maximilian alive for so long? It firmed his resolve to rescue him next spring. If he was still alive.
He forced a smile to his face. “If mother keeps feeding us those raisin buns, father, neither of us will be able to fit down the Veins next year.”
Joseph laughed, and they left the surgery for the peace of the kitchen and Nona’s serene smile.
The next day Garth spent the morning as Joseph had suggested, rounding up seven or eight of his friends for a spirited game of hoopball in the alleyways behind Narbon’s marketplace, then joining them in a race for the wharves to gaze admiringly at the latest Corolean transport ship to dock.
Garth found his preoccupation with Maximilian fading a little under the warmth of the sun and his friends’ companionship. They stood for almost an hour, exclaiming over the brightly hued ship that bobbed gently against the wharf. The Corolean ships were always painted in bright colours, and their crews—all tall fair-haired men with dark eyes and secretive smiles—dressed in equally bright colours; from their belts hung small bronze statuettes of the mysterious deities that they worshipped. One of Garth’s friends had brought a small spyglass, and they passed it around the group, examining the ship in close detail, wondering about the lands so far to the west across the Widowmaker Sea that some said it took six months to sail across.
Eventually Garth turned away. He was tired of trying to guess the unknown, and when his friends pressed him to another game of hoopball, Garth smiled and said he wanted to spend the afternoon alone.
Thoughts of Maximilian returned as he wandered down dim alleyways alone. Find the Manteceros, the prince had said, and Garth grinned wryly to himself. Find the Manteceros indeed. It was a myth, a dream. Maximilian had said so himself.
“Find the dream,” he muttered, and kicked a small stone with his boot, sending it scooting down the packed dirt of an alleyway. Then he laughed, his natural humour reasserting itself. “Find the dream!”
A woman hanging washing on a line suspended across the narrow alley glared at him as her baby cried out in the room behind her, and Garth stepped out, still grinning, in case she decided to throw a washcloth at him for disturbing the peace of her day.
He reached the market then wandered for an hour or more, pausing now and again to chat to one of the stall-holders that he knew, or examine some of the more interesting items for sale. A new style of lampshade, ingeniously wrought from iron filigree, caught his attention for some minutes. His mother would love it, but it was too expensive for Garth’s small allowance, and he regretfully shook his head at the street trader.
“For the young master, only thirty marks,” the man murmured.
Garth grinned. “Bring it down to three marks, and I’ll take it from your care.”
The middle-aged man, tall and spare with thick dark hair, regarded Garth carefully, liking the intelligent cast to his face and his lively, inquisitive eyes. The man’s own eyes narrowed speculatively. Was it time? Was the youth ready?
Well, ready or not, it appeared Fate had already claimed him with her cold fingers.
“Would the young master like to see this tray of medallions?” he said deferentially, and slid the tray from underneath his counter. “Only recently arrived from Ruen itself, and of the finest workmanship.”
Garth, who was beginning to tire of his market wander, cast his eyes briefly over the tray. A minute or two more, he thought, then he would be off. Perhaps he would join his friends for another game of hoopball, after all.
Then he stilled, almost in the act of turning away.
The street trader’s eyes narrowed even further. So…His suspicions darkened into absolute certainty.
Almost of its own volition, Garth’s hand stole towards a small medallion in the top left-hand comer of the tray. It was a small copper disc, plain enough in itself, but in its centre someone had traced an outline in blue enamel.
The canvas awning above their heads flapped in a sudden breeze, and in the resulting flash of light the Manteceros almost appeared to leap out of the medallion. Garth’s hand jerked, and he made a small noise of surprise.
“A trifle, nothing more,” the stall-holder said carefully. “I’m surprised you should find it interesting.” But you have been asking questions about the Manteceros, haven’t you, young master? I have heard you ask some of the older men in this marketplace…and how strange that you should begin to ask only after you had been down the Veins. How very, very odd.
“It’s the Manteceros,” Garth mumbled. His fingers finally touched the surface of the medallion, and they trembled fractionally before he could steady them.
The street trader did not fail to notice. “As I said, a trifle. But if it pleases you, young master, then I am pleased, too.”