He was ready to drop and staggering like a drunk by the time he got to Aldanto’s door. It was a process that was not aided by the fact that he had had to walk a few miles through the winding dark alleys, because he didn’t have a single lira for the canal traghetto. He’d had to go the long way over bridges walking, then wet footed along the tile rail to the water-door, before actually reaching it. But there was no other choice for him to make; he was not up to an argument with the guard on the gated street doorway. The stair seemed to go on forever, and the door looked like the portal to Heaven when he finally reached it. He leaned wearily against the lintel and let his fist fall on it.
The door opened the barest crack. “Who’s out there?” said a muffled voice.
” ‘S me, Maria, Marco. Lemme in before I fall down.”
The door opened so quickly he almost did fall in. “Ye get th’ stuff?”
“Uh huh. How is he?”
“Sleepin’. Don’t seem no worse, but I had to pour a helluva lotta brandy in him t’ get ‘im t’ sleep. Got him upstairs.”
Marco slogged the few steps into the sitting room, let his pack fall to the floor, peeled his cloak over his head and dropped it beside the pack. “Where’s Benito?”
“Sleeping too, upstairs. I figured if I needed him I could wake him up. And it’s not a bad idea having him bedded down across the door up there, no? The least, somebody forces it, he c’n scream his lungs out. May kill a boarding party by scarin’ ’em to death!”
Marco made his way lead-footed to Aldanto’s bedside—you don’t try to walk silently around an ex-assassin!—and stood in the dark listening to the sound of his breathing. A little wheezy, a little hot, but not bad. He’d gotten back well in time. There would be no need for a “real” doctor.
Satisfied, he dragged himself back out. “Boil me some water, would you, Maria? I got to get this stuff measured right—”
As she trotted back to the kitchen, he sat down on the soft warm carpet beside the pack and began taking out parcels of herbs wrapped in rags, identifying them by smell, eye, and sometimes taste. Sophia had literally given him her entire stock. The artemisia could be tricky to use—too much and you got even more horrible side effects.
“Maria,” he called softly, “think you can find me a couple of big jars or bowls or something? I need something to put this stuff in besides a rag.”
“Lemme look.” She clattered down the stairs and returned a moment later. “These do?” She brought him a pair of canisters, the kind spices came in, with vermin-proof lids.
“Perfect.”
Sophia had gone by “handful” measurement—but it was a very precise handful. Although it was a little awkward to work one-handed, Marco weighed the herbs in his palm, adding or subtracting a few leaves at a time until he was satisfied; then, carefully crushed what he’d selected into the tin, trying to get it as fine as possible.
He crushed the resulting canisterful yet again, until he had a mixture as fine as possible, then crushed a second bunch of artemisia into the second canister.
“Maria, that water ready?”
“Aye.” She must have seen how tired he was, and brought the pan of hot water and spoon and cup to him. “Show me—”
“I intend to—you’re going to have to do this from now on. Look, exactly two flat spoonfuls of this for every cup of water—you can put it in the cup or the pan, don’t matter which.” He measured two spoonfuls into the cup and poured the still-bubbling water on it. “Right, so I’m taking another flat spoonful of this stuff from the other canister and adding it. You want to keep him alive, you do the same. Now you let it steep for as long as it takes to count to a hundred.”
He concentrated on the dull throbbing of his hand while the mixture seeped. He noticed with a tired little chuckle Maria’s lips moving silently as she marked the time. She could count if not read. He resolved, quietly, to teach her at least to cipher her own name. His own good fortune demanded that he pass it on.