It was merely a hill.
Swiftly he strode to the top. And woke.
Calvar Syn patted Druss’s back. “Put on your shirt, young man,” he said. “The wounds have finally healed. There is a little pus, but the blood is fresh and the scab contains no corruption. I congratulate you on your strength.”
Druss nodded, but did not reply. Slowly and with care he pulled on his shirt of grey wool, then leaned back exhausted on the bed. Calvar Syn reached out, gently pressing his index finger to the pulse point on the young man’s throat. The beat was erratic and fast, but this was to be expected after such a long infection. “Take a deep breath,” ordered the surgeon and Druss obeyed. “The right lung is still not operating at full efficiency; but it will. I want you to move out into the garden. Enjoy the sunshine and the sea air.”
The surgeon rose and left the room, walking down the long hallways and out into the gardens beyond. He saw the poet, Sieben, sitting beneath a spreading elm and tossing pebbles into a man-made pond. Calvar Syn wandered to the poolside.
“Your friend is improving, but not as swiftly as I had hoped,” he said.
“Did you bleed him?”
“No. There is no longer a fever. He is very silent… withdrawn.”
Sieben nodded. “His wife was taken from him.”
“Very sad, I’m sure. But there are other women in the world,” observed the surgeon.
“Not for him. He loves her, he’s going after her.”
“He’ll waste his life,” said Calvar. “Has he any idea of the size of the Ventrian continent? There are thousands upon thousands of small towns and villages, and more than three hundred major cities. Then there is the war. All shipping has ceased. How will he get there?”
“Of course he understands. But he’s Druss - he’s not like you or me, surgeon.” The poet chuckled and threw another pebble. “He’s an old-fashioned hero. You don’t see many these days. He’ll find a way.”
Calvar cleared his throat. “Hmmm. Well, your old-fashioned hero is currently as strong as a three-day lamb. He is deep in a melancholic state, and until he recovers from it I cannot see him improving. Feed him red meat and dark green vegetables. He needs food for the blood.” He cleared his throat again, and stood silently.
“Was there something else?” asked the poet.
Calvar cursed inwardly. People were always the same. As soon as they were sick, they sent at speed for the doctor. But when it came to the time for settling accounts… No one expected a baker to part with bread without coin. Not so a surgeon. There is the question of my fee,” he said coldly.
“Ah, yes. How much is it?”
“Thirty raq.”
“Shema’s balls! No wonder you surgeons live in palaces.”
Calvar sighed, but kept his temper. “I do not live in a palace; I have a small house to the north. And the reason why surgeons must charge such fees is that a great number of patients renege. Your friend has been ill now for two months. During this time I have made more than thirty visits to this house, and I have had to purchase many expensive herbs. Three times now you have promised to settle the account. On each occasion you ask me how much is it. So you have the money?”
“No,” admitted Sieben.
“How much do you have?”
“Five raq.”
Calvar held out his hand and Sieben handed him the coins. “You have until this time next week to find the rest of the money. After that I shall I inform the Watch. In Mashrapur the law is simple: if you do not honour your debts your property will be sequestered. Since this house does not belong to you and, as far as I know, you have no source of income, you are likely to be imprisoned until sold as a slave. Until next week then.”
Calvar turned away and strode through the garden, his anger mounting.
Another bad debt. One day I really will go to the Watch, he promised himself. He strolled on through the narrow streets, his medicine bag swinging from his narrow shoulders.
“Doctor! Doctor!” came a woman’s voice and he swung to see a young woman running towards him. Sighing he waited. “Could you come with me? It’s my son, he has a fever.” Calvar looked down at the woman. Her dress was of poor quality, and old. She wore no shoes.
“And how will you pay me?” he asked, the question springing from the residue of his anger.
She stood silent for a moment. “You can take everything I have,” she said simply.
He shook his head, his anger finally disappearing. “That will not be necessary,” he told her, with a professional smile.
He arrived home a little after midnight. His servant had left him a cold meal of meat and cheese. Calvar stretched out on a leather-covered couch and sipped a goblet of wine.
Untying his money-pouch, he tipped the contents to the table. Three raq tumbled to the wooden surface. “You will never be rich, Calvar,” he said, with a wry smile.
He had sat with the boy while the mother was out buying food. She had returned with eggs, and meat, and milk, and bread, her face glowing. It was worth two raq just to see her expression, he thought.
Druss made his way slowly out into the garden. The moon was high, the stars bright. He remembered a poem of Sieben’s: Glitter dust in the lair of night. Yes, that’s how the stars looked. He was breathing heavily by the time he reached the circular seat constructed around the bole of the elm. Take a deep breath, the surgeon had ordered. Deep? If felt as if a huge lump of stone had been wedged into his lungs, blocking all air.
