“The Veins,” he said quietly, returning his gaze to the mug, now turning restlessly between his hands. “Nona, let me see the letter.”
Any hope that it might be something completely different died the moment Nona placed the sealed parchment in his hands. A great blob of sky-blue wax sealed the flap, and impressed into the wax was the royal insignia of Escator, the legendary Manteceros. He hesitated, then broke the seal with his thumbnail and opened the letter.
“Physician Baxtor,” Joseph read, and his voice was emotionless although the lines deepened about his eyes, “you are hereby summoned to your yearly service in the Veins. You shall arrive two weeks after the receipt of this summons and remain for three weeks. This duty will discharge your debt to the royal treasury.”
Instead of paying taxes, all physicians in Escator spent three weeks of the year treating both guards and prisoners of the Veins, the mines where gloam—the tarry black rock used as fuel—was mined.
All physicians would rather have paid tax.
“There’s more,” Joseph added, his forehead creasing. “You are also summoned to attend King Cavor at his court in Ruen. You may attend the king on your journey to the Veins. Be there.”
He smiled wryly. “Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. So, Cavor has need of me again.”
Nona sat down at the table. Eight years ago Cavor had also required Joseph to attend his royal person on his way to the Veins; her husband’s skill with the Touch was widely known and appreciated. “It is a pity you can’t discharge your duty to the royal treasury by your assistance to the royal person, Joseph.”
Joseph put the summons down on the table and smoothed it out. “To be frank, Nona, I’d rather use my skills on the prisoners of the Veins than Cavor. They need me more than he. Still,” he lifted his eyes and stared at Garth, “no doubt the boy will enjoy the spectacle of court.”
Garth sat back, both excited and nervous. It was a measure of his father’s trust that he would allow him to accompany him to the Veins, and a measure of his father’s pride that he would allow him by his side to court. He would see the king!
“Joseph!” Nona cried, distressed. “Let him wait another year or two, please!”
TWO
THE COURT AT RUEN
In the end Nona capitulated, although she was still unhappy about the idea, and Garth embarked with his father one balmy spring day on their journey first to Ruen and then to the Veins. They had spent a rushed two days preparing for their journey, making enough powders and preparations for their regular patients, and arranging for one of Narbon’s other physicians, Merton Fillis, to attend any who needed urgent attention. Garth tried to keep his excitement from flowering across his face as he kissed Nona goodbye. He knew his mother’s worries—indeed, he shared many of them—but nothing could keep his spirits from soaring on this fine day with such an adventure beckoning.
Nona patted her son on the cheek. “Be good, and mind your father,” she said. “And come home safe.”
“I will, mother.” Garth gave her one more quick hug, then climbed onto the rangy brown gelding his father had purchased for the trip. Not only was he going to court, but now he even had his own horse!
Apparently expressionless, Joseph tipped his head at his wife—only she could read the emotion in his eyes—then swung his horse’s head into the street. “Come on, Garth. Ten hours of solid riding will wipe that grin from your face.”
But Joseph underestimated his son. Ten hours of riding a day for the eight days it took them to reach Ruen dampened none of his excitement. This was the first time he had been beyond Narbon, and Garth was determined to enjoy every moment of it and store each memory away for a lifetime.
From their home they rode through the bustling main streets of Narbon, Garth given the duty of leading the packhorse. The streets were alive with traders and their customers, for Narbon was the main entry port into Escator for the exotic goods—and occasionally even more exotic news—which Corolean transport ships brought from the mysterious lands far to the west. From Escator a goodly portion of the goods were then transported to the nine inland kingdoms to the east; Narbon grew rich as the waist in the hourglass of east-west trade.
Once they had reached the town’s outskirts, Joseph led them onto the main road north and Garth turned curious eyes towards the extensive marshlands that extended along the coastline. Few lived in the marshes, for they were warm and humid, almost perpetually enclosed in mists, and the thousands of different species of biting insects were enough to keep most people at bay.
“Look,” Joseph pointed, and Garth saw a rudimentary hut leaning against a low marsh tree some one hundred paces off the main road. A woman and a girl were washing clothes in a great tub by the front door, and they paused and briefly stared at the distant riders.
Joseph tipped his hat politely and, following his lead, Garth nodded. “Why would anyone want to live there?” he asked his father, pulling his light cloak a little closer at the thought of swarms of insects descending on him.
Joseph stared at the woman and girl for a moment longer, then turned his gaze back to the road. “They like the life, I suppose. The tides swamp through the marsh twice a day and bring fish and eels, and they are constantly surrounded by the cries of the seabirds. They claim,” he hesitated, “that it is a pleasant and rewarding life.”
“But the marsh!” Garth muttered. At school he had heard countless tales of the thieving lifestyle of the marsh people.
“They are harmless enough,” Joseph said, and now there was a slight edge to his voice.
Garth stared at his father. “Do you know them?”
His father shrugged a little. “Sometimes I am called to attend one or two of the marsh people, although normally they look after their own ills well enough. Sometimes that woman,” he glanced back at the hut again, “asks for herbal powder that she can’t obtain in the marsh. Sometimes she even asks for advice.”
Garth’s hazel eyes widened, and he too glanced over his shoulder; both woman and girl had disappeared inside their hovel. “You know her?”
“Her name is Venetia,” Joseph said shortly, and Garth could get no more out of him on the matter.
From Narbon they travelled the Ruen road north for eight days, sometimes sleeping in the open on the mild nights, sometimes staying at one of the inns along the road. The road was well travelled and well protected by the Escator militia, and the Baxtors encountered none of the bandits that occasionally troubled some of the minor roads of the realm. To both sides of the road the fields stretched green and fertile under the spring sun and Garth found his lessons continued even on horseback, for Joseph spent much of each day’s ride pointing out the various plants in fields and ditches, explaining their medicinal value and, sometimes, their poisonous properties. If he spied a particularly unusual plant, Joseph would stop and insist they both get down from their horses so that Garth could lay his hands on the plant.
“Sometimes you can sense the poison within a plant that causes ill health or death in men and women, Garth,” Joseph explained late one afternoon as his son squatted down by a Whitespoon fern, his fingers lightly touching its pale-tipped leaves. “Tell me, what do you feel?”
Garth frowned in concentration, his brown curls flopping over his forehead, and ran his fingers lightly over the plant. Heavy pressure often destroyed the Touch; delicacy encouraged it. He shivered, then pulled his fingers away.
“Decay,” he said slowly. “Blackness…black flesh.” He took a deep breath. “Death.”
“Yes,” Joseph said, and stood up. Garth followed his example, grateful to put some distance between himself and the Whitespoon fern. “If ingested, this fern will cause gradual death. It will stop circulation to the extremities first, and the feet and hands will decay. Then, as the rot spreads, the body slowly dies.”
“Is there anything to counter its effects?”
Joseph shook his head, his eyes still on the plant. “No. If you touch anyone who has been poisoned you will feel much as you did just then.” He raised his eyes to his son’s. “Soothe, that’s all you can do. And counsel the patient to make his or her last testament if they haven’t already done so.”
Garth shivered again and turned back to his horse. Harder even than feeling malignancies through his fingers was coming to terms with the knowledge that there would always be some things he just couldn’t fix.
They reached Ruen on the afternoon of the eighth day from Narbon. Garth was astounded by the city. He had thought Narbon a bustling and important town, but compared to Ruen it seemed as insignificant as a marsh hovel.