Slow Means

First thing, once back in the Lyceum, Martel went to the baths. He needed to get rid of the sewer stench; not only for his own sake, but to disguise where he had been. While scrubbing himself, he heard the distant sound of the first bell ringing. Sleep would have to wait. Trying to get any rest now, he would just end up sleeping through his chores at the second and third bell.

Removing the last traces of the sewers from his body, Martel wished he could do the same with his mind. He had no idea what he had encountered down there. Could something have escaped from the catacombs? That seemed the only explanation. As to its nature, Martel hoped he never had reason to find out. He considered whether he should tell someone, such as Master Fenrick. But besides revealing his own presence in the sewers, which he could not explain, he also had little evidence to offer. He knew nothing other than a vague sensation of deep discomfort. A sign of sinister magic, perhaps, but not anything useful enough for anyone to investigate.

After throwing his old robes to be cleaned, Martel got dressed in a fresh set. Sitting on his bed, he found it hard to get up. All the fear, excitement, and his battle reflexes, which had kept him going through the night, had dissipated once he returned to the Lyceum. Sinking down into hot water in the baths had only exacerbated the effect.

But he could not allow his mind to follow the example of his body. Tonight's troubles were not over. The inquisitors might still be on his trail, or watching him in case he made a mistake, such as leading them to Flora and Marcus. Which was another issue to handle; he had to find a way to get her the help she needed.

But first, he had one shift in the apothecary and one in the workshops to complete, exhausted or not.

***

Sitting alone in a room making ingredients for ink proved a challenge, as very little prevented Martel from falling asleep. More than once, he nodded off, and by the end of his two hours, it could be seen in his small amount of progress. If Master Jerome was disappointed, he kept it to himself and simply treated Martel with his usual, jovial manner.

The apothecary hours proved a little easier to get through. Standing on his feet made it more difficult to fall asleep, as did Nora's presence, reminding him to stay alert; and as she did not actually speak to him much, he did not have to stumble through any conversation either.

When the lunch bell rang, Martel's need to be at the Lyceum came to an end. His time was his own. He wished he could retire to his room for sleep, but Flora needed help. Waiting until he saw Nora in the dining hall, Martel returned to the apothecary. He helped himself to a little blood salve and some fresh bandages, keeping both amounts small; no more than what would be spent on any student in need of wound treatment. Afterwards, he left the castle.

***

Constantly checking over his shoulder, Martel felt a sting of anxiety every time he saw someone wearing blue clothes. Yet his fears seemed to be for naught; either nobody followed him, or they did a better job at being subtle than Martel had ever known any inquisitor to be. Still, he took a long route towards the copper lanes, even using some of the parts that Weasel had shown him last night. Other times, he rounded a corner and remained in the same place for a while, just to watch if anyone followed in his footsteps. With these precautions, it was already late afternoon by the time he reached the copper lanes.

Inside the house, he found a scene similar to last night. Flora lay on the floor, her face looking lifeless, given what little comfort could be found in terms of improvised pillows and blankets. Marcus sat next to her with a cup of water. "Tried to get her to drink. Not much luck."

Martel knelt beside her. She still breathed, at least, but little else looked promising. He removed the shoddy bandage from last night and replaced it. He knew it would not do much good; the point of blood salve was to close a wound, preventing the patient from bleeding out. Flora seemed to already be at that stage. Around them, some of the children watched, but they seemed otherwise indifferent to the spectacle. Presumably, they had experienced similar situations before.

"I spent half the day going around the city, asking for a surgeon who might save her. But the only ones are across town, charging upfront fees I could never pay. Not even sure she would survive us dragging her that far. Assuming the guards would let us." Marcus sounded as despondent as his words suggested.

"You were right yesterday. She needs magical healing," Martel admitted.

"How do we get that? Can you get one from your school?" The warrior looked at him with an expression swinging back and forth between fear and hope.

The acolyte shook his head. "We'd have to bring her to the infirmary. And they'd report something like this to the guards, so the inquisitors would know."

Martel looked again at the earthmage drawing her shallow breaths. He had only known her for a few months; he would not describe her as a friend the way he would Maximilian or Eleanor.

But they were comrades. Brothers-in-arms, so to say. They trusted each other every time they went into a tough situation. The Night Knives had trained him on chain armour and improved his skill with a staff, doing more to ensure his survival in a fight than his own combat teacher back at the Lyceum. They had treated him as a fellow soldier, even if he was not actually a member of their band. Martel had to do the same for her now.

He thought about the time he had contracted consumption. Master Kelsos had healed him in an instant. Such was not available, but the children in Weasel's gang had also been cured through more obtainable means. "We need a healing potion."