Firebrand

Chapter 557: Spiders

Spiders

Martel waited until evening before he dared to begin actually brewing, giving the plants further time to dry. Until then, he did his best to handle all the other steps by instructing the helpers at his disposal that they could churn out prepared reagents for him to use, much like the apothecaries had done so in the warehouse in Morcaster during the pestilence.

A crucial difference was that the men at his disposal had no experience with this work, and Martel found himself in the same situation as when he first began working for Mistress Rana in her workshop, except he played the role of master, and they were the novices. He inspected their cutting, remarked on how they held and used the knife, and reprimanded any who was too quick at the mortar and pestle, leaving chunks of seeds uncrushed.

Martel took one break and went to The Salty Mug to buy a hot meal, eating it voraciously; he did not wish to spare the time to cook himself or run around town or camp looking for food. Once returned to his workshop, he made his final preparations. Cauldron and fireplace stood ready, he had all the necessary ingredients on his table, a handful of bottles for the final product, his notes should he need to consult them, and his Khivan clock to help him keep track of time between each step. It was time to brew.

***

"How is it going?"

Martel glanced over his shoulder, seeing Eleanor in the doorway. "It's progressing. What brings you buy?"

"I brought you supper. Just some bread, butter, and fruit." She unpacked a small bundle in her hands, finding space for it among his equipment and ingredients. "You are alone in here?"

"My Tyrian hands left for that very purpose, to eat," Martel explained. If not for the Khivan clock, he would not otherwise have paid attention to time; the lack of windows kept the place in the same darkness, night or day, only dispelled by the constant glow of a lightstone. "I'm nearly done with this potion, though. Can you hand me that jar? Careful not to open it."

"Why, is the content dangerous?" With measured movements, she picked it up and gave it to him.

"No, but the spider may escape."

"Spider?" she asked with a contorted expression.

"The Tyrians are out catching as many as they can. Lots of them in these old, ruined buildings." Martel opened the jar and shook it. A small, eight-legged creature crawled out, and he swept it down into the cauldron.

"Not sure what is worse," Eleanor remarked, looking a little nauseated, "the sickness or the cure."

"We'll find out soon enough." Martel stirred the ladle around, watching the strange glow of magical effects.

"How odd. It looks like a sunrise caught in a cauldron, only to become distorted and almost sickly in appearance."

"Alchemy isn't pretty," he admitted, "but as long as it's effective. Can you help me pour?" He held out a piece of cloth. "Handles are hot," he warned her.

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"Sure." She took the cloth and wrapped it around the handles to protect her hands. "Pour into what?"

Martel grabbed a bottle, removing the stopper. "Into here. As slowly as you can."

"Martel, it will not fit even closely. I am going to spill it all over your hands."

"Hot water won't exactly hurt me," he told her. "And you only need to pour until the bottle is full. Don't worry about spilling, my hands won't feel it."

"If you are sure"

"Yes. Just remember, slowly. A constant, but gentle waterfall."

Eleanor began to pour, doing her best to control the speed of the liquid. Meanwhile, Martel focused on connecting to the magic, pulling all of it into the flask. "Enough." As she stopped, Martel placed the stopper onto the bottle. It held a concoction that glowed a soft, red colour, while the remaining water in the cauldron had turned a dull brown.

"How strange," Eleanor remarked, gazing at the elixir. "Is that how it is supposed to look?"

Martel had no idea. It had been a long time since he learned this recipe. "Let's hope so. Nothing to do but test it and find out."

***

Entering the infirmary, Martel tried not to focus on the overpowering stench of human offal. "You don't have to be here," he told Eleanor. Certainly he would not be if he could avoid it.

"I would like to be present."

"There won't be much to see. It will take time for the potion to do its work." Unless Martel had made it wrong, and it immediately killed the patient.

"All the same, I should like to be by your side."

The physician spotted them and stepped between cots to approach. "You have returned. I was wondering when that might happen."

Not sure whether that was intended as a slight, Martel overlooked it; more important matters were hand. He held up the flask in his hand. "We need to find a suitable patient. Someone looking so poorly, they probably won't survive on their own. Yet not so close to death's door that even alchemy can't help them."

"So it has its limits," the physician muttered.

Ignoring him, Martel moved deeper into the tent as the narrow passageways allowed. He looked at one patient after the other, wishing he had gone with Mistress Rana on her trips into the copper lanes, working directly with the sick. Finally, he made his choice. A young soldier, probably younger even than Martel, who had feverish eyes and cracked lips. His skin looked like parchment stretched over his skull, and he had clearly lost weight; his frame did not at all look capable of wearing a uniform while carrying weapons and equipment.

In truth, many others in the tenth looked as far gone as he, but something about his face reminded Martel of his little brother, John. Wanting to save him, hoping to restore life to him, Martel opened the bottle in his hand.

A memory surfaced from the Lyceum, specifically the infirmary, when Mistress Rana had tried an experimental elixir on a comatose patient. The boy had immediately puked it all up, and only Master Kelsos's intervention had saved his life. This place had no Master of Healing, only a physician with mundane skills and an apprentice alchemist. Taking a deep breath, Martel pulled the sick soldier to a more upright position and carefully dripped the potion into his mouth.

The patient did not vomit or cough; he did not react at all. Martel let him gently sink back into his bed and stepped away. He looked at the physician. "Send word to me when his condition changes, for better or worse." Nothing further he could do in the infirmary, Martel left for his workshop to resume making elixirs.

***

Martel slept on animal skins in the corner of his workshop, provided by the Tyrians. First bell woke him as always, and he resumed his work. He had finished two more potions yesterday, bottled and ready on his table; he could make maybe ten a day, if he dared to keep two cauldrons brewing at the same time.

It would not be enough, he knew that; there had to be hundreds of patients in the infirmary, and more might get sick. But saving some was better than none.

He had only just gotten started when the animal hide serving as a door was pulled away, allowing Eleanor entry. "He is improving. The soldier you gave the potion." Her smile was more radiant than the lightstone in the room. "The physician is confident that he will live."

Martel exhaled, allowing himself a moment of relief before he resumed his work.