wholesome.
Dysan headed there now, trotting down streets that grew more familiar daily, choosing a route that took him through as many darkened alleys as main thoroughfares. He changed his manner from habit as he entered each one: winding congenially through the regular masses or slouching through the puddled shadows of the alleys. Feigning focus allowed him to appear deaf to the conversations, though he heard, and inadvertently memorized, every one. It allowed him to dodge the small talk that usually defied him and the cutpurses seeking larger and easier prey. He stopped only once, to partially fill his new-bought bottle from a washerwoman’s tub.
At length, Dysan reached the home and shop of Sanctuary’s healer, every bit as new as his own, yet not quite finished. The Sisters of Sabellia had prepaid for the stonemasons and builders with a large amount of money that came from their temple in Ranke. Pel, on the other hand, had had little coinage, forced to barter his trade for the work and materials to rebuild a crumbling temple bit by bit. Like Dysan, Pel had suffered Sanctuary’s dark and icy winter without adequate protection, but Dysan believed he had a lot more experience. Now, they both had four solid walls and a roof that shed the rain, though Pel’s was not yet completed.
Well-hidden in a dense patch of greenery that had sprang up amid the wreckage of Ils’s temple, Dysan watched people come and go from Pel’s apothecary. Some approached boldly, others limped or came steadied by friends or family, and one woman sneaked to the door beneath the cover of a dark hood, mincing every step as if stalking the building. Pel took them all inside in turn, nodding his head and shaking his long, white-veined hair. Some left empty-handed, others with a hidden bulge at their waists or clutched tightly beneath their cloaks. A few openly carried bottles that looked much like the one Bezul had sold to Dysan. Fewer still threw guilty or nervous glances around the neighboring wreckage before slinking, red-faced, from the apothecary. No one visited after nightfall, but Dysan continued to watch until Pel extinguished the last candle, leaving his newly built home as dark and hulking as the ruins all around it. Only then, Dysan realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast.
Swiftly, he headed home. His mothers rarely questioned his comings and goings anymore, but they would force food upon him. He did not intend to protest.
D ysan resumed his vigil just before sunup the following day, pressed deeply into a tiny crevice of a mostly toppled wall that had once served the followers of Vashanka. His handlers had taught him how to twist, stretch, and bundle his undersized body into holes more fit for rats than men. He found the tight quarters secure and surprisingly comfortable. Though he had tried to sneak out without awakening his mothers, SaMavis had beaten him to the larder and forced a midday meal upon him. It now lay, still wrapped in a tattered rag, near the shambles of an altar. Smashed artifacts studded the mushy ground, long ago looted of anything valuable. Nervous excitement kept Dysan’s stomach in knots, and he regretted the few bites of breakfast he had managed to swallow.
Wedged into his hiding place, Dysan watched the comings and goings of Pel Garwood’s patients through the morning, seeing patterns where none had previously existed. He noticed many of the same people who had left with nothing the day before now held bottles in their hands or concealed in folds or sashes, their purses flatter. The elderly widow Sharheya, who owned the northside lumberyard, arrived with her son-in-law, the surly sawyer Carzen. Pel opened his door and waved them inside; but, unlike the others, Carzen did not comply. The three exchanged words, not wholly civil by their expressions and gestures. Then, Pel shut his door and led the other man around his shop and home, indicating a large area of his roof completely devoid of planking.
Dysan headed there now, trotting down streets that grew more familiar daily, choosing a route that took him through as many darkened alleys as main thoroughfares. He changed his manner from habit as he entered each one: winding congenially through the regular masses or slouching through the puddled shadows of the alleys. Feigning focus allowed him to appear deaf to the conversations, though he heard, and inadvertently memorized, every one. It allowed him to dodge the small talk that usually defied him and the cutpurses seeking larger and easier prey. He stopped only once, to partially fill his new-bought bottle from a washerwoman’s tub.
At length, Dysan reached the home and shop of Sanctuary’s healer, every bit as new as his own, yet not quite finished. The Sisters of Sabellia had prepaid for the stonemasons and builders with a large amount of money that came from their temple in Ranke. Pel, on the other hand, had had little coinage, forced to barter his trade for the work and materials to rebuild a crumbling temple bit by bit. Like Dysan, Pel had suffered Sanctuary’s dark and icy winter without adequate protection, but Dysan believed he had a lot more experience. Now, they both had four solid walls and a roof that shed the rain, though Pel’s was not yet completed.
Well-hidden in a dense patch of greenery that had sprang up amid the wreckage of Ils’s temple, Dysan watched people come and go from Pel’s apothecary. Some approached boldly, others limped or came steadied by friends or family, and one woman sneaked to the door beneath the cover of a dark hood, mincing every step as if stalking the building. Pel took them all inside in turn, nodding his head and shaking his long, white-veined hair. Some left empty-handed, others with a hidden bulge at their waists or clutched tightly beneath their cloaks. A few openly carried bottles that looked much like the one Bezul had sold to Dysan. Fewer still threw guilty or nervous glances around the neighboring wreckage before slinking, red-faced, from the apothecary. No one visited after nightfall, but Dysan continued to watch until Pel extinguished the last candle, leaving his newly built home as dark and hulking as the ruins all around it. Only then, Dysan realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast.
Swiftly, he headed home. His mothers rarely questioned his comings and goings anymore, but they would force food upon him. He did not intend to protest.
D ysan resumed his vigil just before sunup the following day, pressed deeply into a tiny crevice of a mostly toppled wall that had once served the followers of Vashanka. His handlers had taught him how to twist, stretch, and bundle his undersized body into holes more fit for rats than men. He found the tight quarters secure and surprisingly comfortable. Though he had tried to sneak out without awakening his mothers, SaMavis had beaten him to the larder and forced a midday meal upon him. It now lay, still wrapped in a tattered rag, near the shambles of an altar. Smashed artifacts studded the mushy ground, long ago looted of anything valuable. Nervous excitement kept Dysan’s stomach in knots, and he regretted the few bites of breakfast he had managed to swallow.
Wedged into his hiding place, Dysan watched the comings and goings of Pel Garwood’s patients through the morning, seeing patterns where none had previously existed. He noticed many of the same people who had left with nothing the day before now held bottles in their hands or concealed in folds or sashes, their purses flatter. The elderly widow Sharheya, who owned the northside lumberyard, arrived with her son-in-law, the surly sawyer Carzen. Pel opened his door and waved them inside; but, unlike the others, Carzen did not comply. The three exchanged words, not wholly civil by their expressions and gestures. Then, Pel shut his door and led the other man around his shop and home, indicating a large area of his roof completely devoid of planking.
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