Dressed in the dark blue, crystal-spangled gown she’d worn the night they’d entertained Laneus and Malthus, she lay perfectly still, eyes open and staring unseeing at the silken canopy above.
“Maker’s Mercy, no!” Alec sank down on the edge of the bed beside her and touched her hand. It was warm but limp as he took it in his.
Seregil went to comfort Eirual. “When did this happen?”
“A few hours ago.” Eirual leaned on his shoulder and a tear slid down her cheek. “She was singing in the salon. One of her favorites was here for the evening after a long time away. She was so happy! She was beginning a new song when suddenly she just-wilted, like a flower in the hot sun! I thought at first that she’d fainted and struck her head, but she’s been like this ever since! We managed to get her up
here without anyone noticing her true condition. Is this the sickness from the Lower City?”
“It looks like it.”
“But she hasn’t been down there, has she?”
“Of course not,” Eirual replied, wiping away more tears. “And there’s been no one of that sort here, either, I can assure you!”
“Have there been any newcomers?” asked Seregil. “Anyone out of the ordinary?”
Eirual sank her head into one hand. “Newcomers? Of course, there are always new patrons. Lord Tryis, Duke Moren’s boy Kallen, young Lord Alerin, several well-to-do merchants from Mycena. I can’t recall the names. They were in a week or so ago. And that handsome actor of yours, Master Atre, comes to flirt with her now and then.”
“He does seem to turn up everywhere,” said Seregil. “Who else? Dressmakers? Perfume sellers? Anyone of that sort?”
“Well, there’s a new butcher’s boy, but my girls have no contact with him. Arlana did go to a new dressmaker, but the woman didn’t come here, and Myrhichia hasn’t been to her shop. Those are the only new people I can think of.”
“Who is in and out of here regularly, besides your customers?”
“Patrons,” Eirual corrected distractedly. “Let me see. The butcher’s boy, the dairyman, the man who delivers the firewood-”
“Someone who has access to the girls,” Seregil prompted gently.
“The hairdressers, the cosmetics merchant, jewelers, of course, perfumers, seamstresses, cloth merchants, wine and sweetmeat dealers-” She threw up her hands. “I don’t even know! The girls all have tradesmen they favor, and most of them come and go as they like. It’s never been a problem.”
“So someone could conceivably have come in without you knowing about them?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Who has Myrhichia seen in the past week or so?” asked Alec. “We can at least narrow it down that way.”
Eirual turned to Hyli, who’d been weeping quietly in the corner by the door. “You spend the most time with her, besides me.”
The courtesan took the handkerchief from her face. “Mistress Kela came to measure her for some new nightdresses. Master Horrin sold her some rouge.” She paused to wipe her nose. “Master Kharom delivered some jewels she’d ordered from him.”
“Has she been out of the house much lately?” asked Seregil.
“To the Three Dragons with Duke Oreus one night, and the theater, and with you, of course. She went to the new play at the Crane a few nights ago, and to the Tirari last night with Duke Carnis.”
“That just leaves her regular patrons. How many does she have?”
“At the moment?” Eirual counted silently on her fingers. “Five regulars, and the occasional extra.”
Alec swallowed hard. He knew what Myrhichia was, of course, and what her trade entailed, but he didn’t spend time thinking about the details. She was his friend.
“Somewhere among all those is the one who carries this disease, or works the magic, whichever it is,” Seregil told her.
Eirual looked to Hyli. “You can go, love. If anyone questions you, tell them that she’s indisposed.”
When the girl was gone, Eirual turned to Seregil. “Will you speak to Brother Valerius for me? He doesn’t approve of me, I know, but I want the best for her.”
“I’m sure I can convince him,” Seregil assured her, patting her hand.
More tears came as Eirual looked down at Myrhichia. “I love all my girls, but she’s like a daughter to me.”
“I’ll go, Seregil. You stay with Eirual.” Alec took the older woman’s hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Alec found Valerius in his library, poring over a large book by the window.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” the man asked, looking up with amused annoyance.
“It’s Myrhichia. She has the sleeping death,” Alec told him, throat tight as he finally said the words aloud.
Any levity fled the drysian’s face. “Maker’s Mercy!” He rose and fetched his herb bag from a cabinet and his staff from its place by the door. Striding from the room, he bellowed, “Zala, my horse!”
At the brothel Valerius had Eirual and Hyli remove Myrhichia’s clothing and unpin her hair; then he inspected her closely. Alec stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on the carpet. He’d seen Myrhichia naked, of course, but only that one night, and now it felt strange and uncomfortable.
“No fever,” the healer muttered to himself. “No lesions. No bruising. No obvious punctures. No aroma of poisons. No discoloration of the tongue or lips… or the nails. Nothing unusual there…”
Alec heard the rustle of bedclothes as Valerius drew them up to her chin.
The drysian stood a moment in thought, scratching absently under his beard. “I need a cup of hot water.”
Alec went out and found Hyli hovering outside the door. He sent her for the water, then stepped back in and went to the bedside again. Seregil’s eyes met his; they both knew what Myrhichia’s chances were, but Eirual was watching the drysian with desperate, hope-filled eyes as he went about sorting things from his bag.
A serving boy appeared balancing a jug of hot water and a delicate tea bowl on a tray. Valerius filled the bowl, added something from a clay bottle that stained the water green against the pale glaze of the cup, then a pinch of white powder that turned it blue.
“Hold her head up for me, Alec,” Valerius said.
Her hair was warm and silky against Alec’s palm, and he had to swallow again as memories burned behind his eyelids.
“What are those?” asked Eirual.
“Zengati salts.” Valerius carefully spooned some of the liquid between the sleeping woman’s lips, then stood back, watching her closely. But Myrhichia did not stir, her face peaceful, breast gently rising and falling. She might have been truly asleep, if not for those empty grey eyes.
“Well?” Eirual demanded softly.
Ignoring her, Valerius pulled a small, three-legged clay bowl from his bag and filled it with bits from what looked like a twist of dry grass. To this he added several strands of Myrhichia’s hair and a crumb of dry mucus from the corner of her eye, then put a candle to it to start it smoldering. He held this over Myrhichia and blew the sweet smoke into her face, then set the bowl on the small table beside the bed and took up his staff, chanting softly under his breath.
And it went on like that as the stars faded outside and the first pale glow of false dawn showed beneath the velvet curtains.
Valerius finally sank into a chair beside the bed and sighed. “I’m sorry, Eirual.”
“Try something else!” she begged.
“I shall have to consult the texts.”
“You mean there’s nothing more you can do now?”
“I will send my best priests to pray for her in the meantime.”
Tears filled her dark eyes. “Pray? What good will that do?”
