Cat dirt, thought Tris, using a favorite expression of Sandry’s.
Curious, she sank until she was caught up in her storm’s counterclockwise spin. She let it drag her south and east, saving her own strength for the return trip. At the storm’s southernmost point she yanked free. A fresh storm caught her almost instantly. She let it pull her even farther south and jumped free—straight into a third storm.
When at last she opened her body’s eyes, she found that the sky showed barely pink through a small break in the eastern clouds. A fine drizzle fell on Winding Circle.
Her body had gone stiff in her absence. She lurched and saw there was but an inch between her feet and the edge of the wall. She’d forgotten she stood in a notch, with nothing to keep her from walking into thin air.
A wiry arm circled her waist and yanked her back. Tris and Niko both tumbled to the walkway in an undignified pile.
When she rolled off him, Niko sat up, gasping for air. “Don’t ever do that by yourself!” he scolded when he caught his breath. “You might have been killed!”
“I noticed,” replied Tris, shuddering.
Niko fumbled at his belt, producing a flask. He opened it and put it to her lips. Tris drank obediently, trying not to let the sweet tea leak between her chattering teeth. It was a mixture she didn’t recognize, flavored with dates, citron, and plums.
“That isn’t one of Rosethorn’s,” she gasped when she was done. She didn’t need to see the magic that infused the tea; she felt it in her veins. Her head cleared, and her chilled body warmed quickly.
“Moonstream fixed it,” replied Niko, returning the flask to his belt. “I assume you were gone so long for a reason—have you good news for me?”
Tris lurched to her feet, wringing her very wet skirts. Niko remained on the walkway, staring up at her, eyes bright under his broad-brimmed hat.
Taking a deep breath, Tris said, “I can move this storm, but it won’t mean anything. There are storms behind it for hundreds of miles. They’re dumping rain over the whole east half of the Pebbled Sea. Whatever I send off will be replaced in a day, even less.”
Niko’s heavy brows snapped together in a frown. “Why now, O Gods?” he demanded. “Why give us all this rain now? We don’t need—”
“Hoy!” someone yelled from below, inside Winding Circle. “I was told Niklaren Goldeye is up there!”
“How could anyone know that?” asked Tris as Niko got up.
“While you were—busy,” he said drily, “I had several chats with the guards. They must have told him.” He leaned over the edge of the walkway. “One moment,” he called. Walking briskly to the stair, Tris behind him, he descended.
Their summoner looked happy to wait: he was bracing himself on spread knees as he fought to catch his breath. Tris was interested to see he wore the uniform not of the Duke’s Guard—which looked after the Mire and everything else outside Summersea’s wall—but of the Provost’s Guard, which patrolled inside it.
“They said you was to know right off,” the man wheezed when they reached him. “Someone told our cap’n, and she ordered us to search the house, and we found three of ’em. And then she ordered us, do the flanking houses, and we got three more in one and five in t’other. Cap’n’s turning out all Cobbler’s Lane now. You’re wanted in town.”
Niko held up a hand, his expression bleak. “Three, three, and five what?” he asked, his light voice slightly husky.
The guard took a deep breath, and straightened. “It’s the blue pox, Master Goldeye,” he said, his eyes haunted. “Inside the city wall.”
6
After a long night in which more time was spent caring for the sick than sleeping, Briar, Rosethorn, Henna, and the new healer were treated to gruel, tea, and the prospect of a busy day. No sooner had they finished breakfast than the women were called to a meeting of all the healers in Urda’s House. “Stay put,” Rosethorn murmured to Briar. “There will be a lot of quarreling before anything useful is discussed. Your time is better spent here.”
Briar stayed and watched as those not at the meeting—House workers and members of the Duke’s Guard, all gloved and masked—carried in more patients. By noon every bed was filled. Workers then laid pallets in the broad center aisle. Once those were made up, ten more sick were brought in. A screen was put around the coughing man. He had survived the night, but his breath now bubbled horribly in his throat.
Intimidated by the new adults, not liking the fact that they tended patients without gentleness, Briar stayed beside Flick’s bed. He left only to fetch water, visit the privy, or fill cups from the big pot of broth and the bigger one of willowbark tea set up on the table.
Outside the night’s storm continued: its winds moaned through the cracks in the walls. As workers brought fresh lamps to relieve the gloom, Briar made a happy discovery. The spots on Flick were shrinking and fading. When Rosethorn came back, he dragged her to Flick’s bed. “The pocks are going!” he said gleefully. “She’ll make it!”
Rosethorn took Flick’s pulse, then tried the heat on the girl’s forehead and chest. “Still feverish, though not as much,” she remarked. “We’ll just have to see.” She looked up at Briar, who scowled at her calm way of receiving the best news he’d had in a while. “She may be on the mend. That fever is more dangerous than the spots—I don’t like how it resists the willowbark. In any event, you have to leave her for a while. We have work to do.”