David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

The apothecary stood for a moment surveying the scores of earthenware jars upon his shelves. Each jar was marked with a symbol, or a series of letters. The first he chose bore the legend DHS in black. Uncorking the jar he scooped out a portion of the contents, then, with his left hand, opened a small bag of muslin, into which he tipped the powder.

‘What is that?’ asked Kaelin Ring. Ramus jerked. He had not heard the young man leave his seat and move once more to the counter. It unnerved him a little. Had it been anyone else he would have asked them, politely, to return to their seat. But this boy was the nephew of Maev Ring, and therefore to be treated with a little more respect.

‘It is the leaf of the dwarf honey suckle,’ said Ramus. ‘I shall give you four half-ounce bags. The powders must be boiled with sugar to make a jelly. It will help dispel the fever. For the festering wound I shall make up a potion with honey wort and saffron. Your aunt will know what to do with it. You may expect some immoderate movements of the bowels in the early stages of their recovery. To alleviate this I recommend myrtle berry extract. This is, however, expensive. It is six daens a bottle and you will need two bottles.’

‘A whole chailling?’ said Kaelin Ring, astonished.

‘Aye, Master Ring. The myrtle tree does not grow in the highlands. Indeed no-one has successfully grown it on this side of the sea. The extract needs to be shipped from Goriasa, and then brought overland. It is, however, as effective as it is costly.’

‘I’ll take the one bottle,’ said Kaelin. ‘But I’ll have to owe you.’

‘Not a problem, Master Ring. I trust you implicitly.’ Ramus carefully gathered all the herbs and powders, then took up a swan feather quill and dipped it into a small pot of ink. In immaculate copperplate script he wrote out details of the purchase, and the sums required, sanded the finished receipt, and, when he was sure the ink had dried, folded the paper and handed it to Kaelin. The young man pocketed it, then heaved a large canvas shoulder bag to the worktop. It was already half full. Ramus opened the flap at the top and packed his powders and potions among the contents. The bottle of myrtle extract he placed within a wooden box half filled with straw. ‘Be careful with this, Master Ring.’

‘I will, sir.’

A commotion began outside and they could hear voices being raised. The outside door was thrust open and a young man pushed inside. He was red-faced, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘There’s been an attempt on the Moidart’s life,’ he said. ‘Assassins broke into his home last night. There are soldiers all over Eldacre, and there have been many arrests.’

‘Was the Moidart injured?’ enquired Ramus.

‘No-one is saying, sir.’

‘Thank you, Master Lane. Most kind of you to let me know.’ The young man nodded excitedly and moved back to the street and entered the bakery next door. His voice could just be heard through the thick walls, but only the occasional word sounded clearly. ‘Moidart . . . assassins . . . arrests . . .’

‘We live in perilous times, Master Ring,’ said Ramus with a sigh. Kaelin Ring lifted the canvas bag to his shoulder, offered a short bow to the apothecary and walked out to the cobbled street.

Ramus could see people gathering in the street, and wandered back into his store room, sitting himself down in an old wicker chair. Leaning back against the embroidered cushions he closed his eyes. So much violence in the world, he thought sadly.

On the table beside his chair was a package of herbs and ointments he had prepared for the Moidart only this morning, soothing balms for the old burns on the skin of the lord’s arms and neck. These had come from yet another act of violence, when assassins had set fire to the old Winter House. Eleven people had died in the blaze – all of them servants. Before that, some fourteen years ago, there had been the murder attempt that had seen the Moidart’s wife strangled, and the Moidart himself stabbed in the groin while trying to save her. He had almost died from that wound. It had been the Moidart’s good fortune that Ramus had been summoned. There was much internal bleeding, but the apothecary had managed to stem the flow, and halt the onset of infection. Even so it was a full four months before the wounded man recovered sufficient strength to walk unaided. Years later the angry scar was still occasionally leaking pus, and causing the Moidart bouts of fever.