I nodded glumly. “That was my thought too.”
“Then again,” Threpe said, “some patrons do work in secret. If they find someone with talent, it’s not unknown for them to nurture them in private, and then . . .” He made a dramatic flourish with one hand. “It’s like a magic trick. You suddenly produce a brilliant musician out of thin air.”
Threpe gave me a fond smile. “I thought that’s what someone had done with you,” he admitted. “You came out of nowhere and got your pipes. I thought someone had been keeping you hidden away until you were ready to make your grand appearance.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.
“It does happen,” Threpe said. “But strange meeting places and the fact that she’s not sure of his name?” He shook his head, frowning. “If nothing else, it’s rather indecorous. Either this fellow is having a bit of fun pretending to be an outlaw, or he’s genuinely dodgy.”
Threpe seemed to think for a moment, tapping his fingers on the bar. “Tell your friend to be careful and keep her wits about her. It’s a terrible thing when a patron takes advantage of a woman. That’s a betrayal. But I’ve known men who did little but pose as patrons to gain a woman’s trust.” He frowned. “That’s worse.”
I was halfway back to the University, with Stonebridge just beginning to loom in the distance, when I began to feel an unpleasant prickling heat run up my arm. At first I thought it was the pain of the twice-stitched cuts on my elbow, as they’d been itching and burning all day.
But instead of fading, the heat continued to spread up my arm and along the left side of my chest. I began to sweat, as if from a sudden fever.
I stripped off my cloak, letting the chill air cool me, and began to unbutton my shirt. The autumn breeze helped, and I fanned myself with my cloak. But the heat grew more intense, painful even, as if I’d spilled boiling water across my chest.
Luckily, this section of road ran parallel to a stream that fed into the nearby Omethi River. Unable to think of a better plan, I kicked off my boots, unshouldered my lute, and jumped into the water.
The chill of the stream made me gasp and sputter, but it cooled my burning skin. I stayed there, trying not to feel like an idiot while a young couple walked past, holding hands and pointedly ignoring me.
The strange heat moved through my body, like there was a fire inside me trying to find a way out. It started along my left side, then wandered down to my legs, then back up to my left arm. When it moved to my head, I ducked underwater.
It stopped after a few minutes, and I climbed out of the stream. Shivering, I wrapped myself in my cloak, glad no one else was on the road. Then, since there was nothing else to do, I shouldered my lute case and began the long walk back to the University dripping wet and terribly afraid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Principles
“I did tell Mola,” I said as I shuffled the cards. “She said it was all in my head and pushed me out the door.”
“Well, I can only guess what that feels like,” Sim said bitterly.
I looked up, surprised by the uncharacteristic sharpness in his voice, but before I could ask what was the matter, Wilem caught my eye and shook his head, warning me away. Knowing Sim’s history, I guessed it was another quick, painful end to another quick, painful relationship.
I kept my mouth shut and dealt another hand of breath. The three of us were killing time, waiting for the room to fill up before I started playing for my typical Felling night crowd at Anker’s.
“What do you think is the matter?” Wilem asked.
I hesitated, worried that if I spoke my fears aloud it might somehow make them true. “I might have exposed myself to something dangerous in the Fishery.”
Wil looked at me. “Such as?”
“Some of the compounds we use,” I said. “They’ll go straight through your skin and kill you in eighteen slow ways.” I thought back to the day my tenten glass had cracked in the Fishery. Of the single drop of transporting agent that had landed on my shirt. It was only a tiny drop, barely larger than the head of a nail. I was so certain it hadn’t touched my skin. “I hope that’s not it. But I don’t know what else it might be.”
“It could be a lingering effect from the plum bob,” Sim said grimly. “Ambrose isn’t much of an alchemist. And from what I understand, one of the main ingredients is lead. If he factored it himself, some latent principles could be affecting your system. Did you eat or drink anything different today?”
I thought about it. “I had a fair bit of metheglin at the Eolian,” I admitted.
“That stuff will make anyone ill,” Wil said darkly.
“I like it,” Sim said. “But it’s practically a nostrum all by itself. There’s a lot of different tincturing going on in there. Nothing alchemical, but you’ve got nutmeg, thyme, clove—all manner of spices. Could be that one of them triggered some of the free principles lurking in your system.”
“Wonderful,” I grumbled. “And how do I go about fixing that, exactly?”
Sim spread his hands helplessly.
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Still, it sounds better than metal poisoning.”
Simmon proceeded to take four tricks in a row with a clever card force, and by the end of the hand he was smiling again. Sim was never really given to extended brooding.
Wil squared his cards away, and I pushed my chair back from the table.
“Play the one about the drunk cow and the butter churn,” Sim said.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Maybe later,” I said as I picked up my increasingly shabby lute case and made my way to the hearth amid the sound of scattered, familiar applause. It took me a long moment to open the case, untwisting the copper wire I was still using in place of a buckle.
For the next two hours I played. I sang: “Copper Bottom Pot,” “Lilac Bough,” and “Aunt Emme’s Tub.” The audience laughed and clapped and cheered. As I fingered my way through the songs, I felt my worries slough away. My music has always been the best remedy for my dark moods. As I sang, even my bruises seemed to pain me less.
Then I felt a chill, as if a strong winter wind was blowing down the chimney behind me. I fought off a shiver and finished the last verse of “Applejack,” which I’d finally played to keep Sim happy. When I struck the last chord, the crowd applauded and conversation slowly welled up to fill the room again.
I looked behind me at the fireplace, but the fire was burning cheerfully with no sign of a draft. I stepped down off the hearth, hoping a little walk would chase my chill away. But as soon as I took a few steps, I realized that wasn’t the case. The cold settled straight into my bones. I turned back to the fireplace, spreading my hands to warm them.
Wil and Sim appeared at my side. “What’s going on?” Sim asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“Something like that,” I said, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Go tell Anker I’m feeling ill and have to cut it short tonight. Then light a candle off this fire and bring it up to my room.” I looked up at their serious faces. “Wil, can you help me get out of here? I don’t want to make a scene.”
Wilem nodded and gave me his arm. I leaned on him and concentrated on keeping my body from shaking as we made our way to the stairs. No one paid us much attention. I probably looked more drunk than anything. My hands were numb and heavy. My lips felt icy cold.
After the first flight of stairs, I couldn’t keep my shaking under control any longer. I could still walk, but the thick muscles in my legs twitched with every step.
Wil stopped. “We should go the Medica.” While he didn’t sound different, his Cealdish accent was thicker, and he was starting to drop words. A sign he was genuinely worried.
I shook my head firmly and leaned forward, knowing he’d have to help me up the stairs or let me fall. Wilem put an arm around me and half-steadied, half-carried me the rest of the way.
Once in my tiny room, I staggered onto the bed. Wil wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.
There were footsteps in the hallway and Sim peered nervously around the door. He held a stub of candle,
