Firebrand

Chapter 80: A Man of Means

A Man of Means

When Solday came around, it meant a fiveday had passed since the riots. News arrived that the tenth legion defending the Savena delta, the famed Legio Astra, had held back the Khivans; it helped to calm the mood in the ensuing days, though brawls still broke out, and few people left or entered the Khivan enclave.

Arriving in the workshops, Martel found Master Jerome acting more subdued than his usual jovial self. He did not make jests, and he gave Martel the easy task of scraping ink from parchment, even if not much had accumulated; although working at a leisurely pace, Martel would still be finished before the bell rang. He got the feeling that the artificer felt guilty about sending Martel into town last Solday, even if he could not possibly have known what would happen. Regardless, the novice saw no reason to complain about his light labour and set to work.

~

In the apothecary, in between doing his actual task, Martel checked on the progress of his skin salve. He had left it overnight to thicken and become viscous, as it should be. With satisfaction, he found that it had progressed nicely and should be finished when he needed it.

As for when that would be, Martel had to postpone his next plans. He only had afternoons free on Soldays and Mandays, so if he wanted to make some coin, for instance to mail a letter to his mother or pay the herbalist, today was the best day for it. Hence, once finished at the apothecary and with lunch out of the way, he trotted all the way back across the castle to the workshops and approached the artificer.

"Martel? Something the matter?"

The novice cleared his throat. "Any tasks I can do?"

Master Jerome, for the first time that Martel had noticed, looked apprehensive. "Well, nothing outside the castle, that's for sure." He scratched his head. "Did you ever work making ink?"

"Yes, master."

"Do you remember the process?"

"I do. Not much different from the apothecary."

"Right, I guess it's a kind of alchemy too. Alright, I got a silver piece for you if you work the ink for one bell."

"Great, thank you." Martel gave him a smile, mostly to try and reassure the big man; not being entirely sincere, it ended up feeling hollow rather than cheerful on his face.

"Go and set up. I'll come by in a little while and check that you got everything."

~

After one bell, Master Jerome let Martel continue for another, until he could leave the workshop with two silvers in hand. Leaving the money in his room and taking his newly made salve with him instead, Martel went into Morcaster.

As he approached the market district, he felt his heart rate slowly increase. He had never felt at ease among the crowds in the capital; compared to his home, it just felt like too many people in the same place. Plenty of the angry people last fiveday had been veterans also, judging by their scars and old injuries; remembering the Broken Blades, their presence only made Martel more nervous. Despite adding an hour of travel time, the novice decided to circumvent the bustling market district, and he headed west. This also took him past the herbalist's stall. After clearing his small debt, Martel continued on his way, turning straight south to reach the slums.

~

Approaching the unassuming, derelict house, Martel felt a sudden spike of panic. He immediately chastised himself for having this reaction. It had been months since the Broken Blades had captured him. He stood in broad daylight with no dangers around. He knew rationally that he had nothing to fear if he stepped inside that building. Its only occupants were his friends, a group of orphan children who posed no threat to him.

Taking a deep breath, Martel crossed the street. A new front door had been added, which he opened to step across the threshold. Immediately a heavy rock fell from above to strike him on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

"It's Martel!"

"Oh hey, it's the wizard!"

"Martel is here!"

A chorus of excited children's voices rose up as they gathered around two stared down at the fallen novice, groaning against the floor.

"You should never go in the front door, that's where the trap is. Always go through the backdoor," a girl pointed out with an impossibly sensible tone of voice.

"Yeah, thanks," Martel grumbled, getting back on his feet. "I made this for you." He pulled out the jar of skin salve. "Guess I'll be the first one to need it." He carefully tried to move his shoulder and immediately winced.

"Is that the magic fat?" asked Mouse.

"It's not animal fat, and strictly speaking, not magic either, but yes, it's the same stuff as last time." Martel looked around. The place looked the same as before. A table and shoddy chairs, a cooking fire in the middle of the room with a rusted pot on top, and the stairs leading up. He placed the balm on the table and took his robe off. Dipping his fingers into the ointment, he carefully smeared it on to his damaged skin underneath his shirt. "Alright, who else?"

Quite a lot, as it turned out. Martel knew how the children made their living, even if he did not ask questions. Running through the streets, often chased by angry vendors or people suddenly a purse lighter, provided plenty of opportunities to amass bruises, scraped knees, and the like.

"Will it help with this?" A small girl called Sparrow held out her arm, which had a long gash. At least Martel assumed so underneath the dried blood that lay in cakes on her skin. She looked no older than six, though malnutrition made the children appear younger than they often were, as Nora had once explained to him.

"I'm sorry, child. You need blood salve and a bandage, and I have neither."

"What are you doing here?" Weasel, the small leader of his equally small compatriots, appeared down the stairs.

"I brought this, that's all." Martel knew that the hard-boiled boy held little trust for others, but even he could not complain that Martel came bearing gifts.

"Does it work against coughs? Sometimes it hurts to breathe," another boy explained, pushing through the others to stand in front of the young mage.

"Sorry, it only helps with the skin. Nothing underneath it."

"Looks like you're done here," Weasel declared. "Nothing more you can do."

"Are you eager to get rid of me? I'm just here to help."

"You've done so. This ain't a place for you." A few of the children made complaining sounds, and Weasel sent them a harsh look. "We don't need you."

"I'm offering knowledge of healing you can't get elsewhere, certainly not for free," Martel protested.

"Yeah, you feel sorry for us, so you come around once every other month with a trinket or two to ease your conscience. And then you go home to your bed and three meals between sunup and sundown. But for me, this is every day," Weasel retorted. He looked at the gathered children, all of them severely underfed, dressed in rags. "I'm responsible for getting them food, clothes for when it gets cold, and get them out of the guards' hands when they chase us." He turned his eyes back on Martel. "But you don't want to hear that. You just want our gratitude, and you'll throw us a bone every now and then to get it."

Martel stood, trying to wrap his head around how a ten-year-old had just brutally eviscerated him with words. Even worse, it reminded him of Master Farhad giving a similar litany, pointing out what Khivans struggled with every day. Just by having a bed in a dry room, clothes for winter, enough food to eat every day, and the ability to walk down the street unaccosted, Martel was a rich man. Not only that, he was born with a gift and would learn skills and a trade to make him welcome anywhere in the Empire.

Martel looked at Sparrow with her injured arm. None of the children's filthy rags would do as bandages. Feeling almost too embarrassed to even look at Weasel, Martel removed his shirt and ripped the sleeve into strips. He would just have to pay to have the sleeve replaced by the quartermaster when he could afford it. He had another shirt to wear until then. Several of the urchins gave audible gasps at seeing the destruction of a perfectly good piece of clothing.

"Let's get your wound washed," the novice told Sparrow, "and then we'll bind it. And you, Squirrel, you had a cough. Anyone else feeling sick?"

Quite a lot of them did, and he made a mental note of each.

~

Martel's visit ended up taking far longer than intended, and Weasel remained a scowling presence throughout, but he did not interfere. When the young mage had done what he could, given his lack of supplies, he left, through the backdoor. Wearing his robe directly against his skin, the wool itched, especially against his battered shoulder, but Martel tried not to feel annoyed by it. He had more clothes in his drawer, not to mention a comfortable bed in his own room, which made him more fortunate than many in Morcaster.

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