“Hugh, no,” I said.
Hugh stared at me as I leaned forward to call my magic forth. Pulling off my left glove, I winced a little as the cold began to nip at my pale fingers. Ignoring the chill, I leaned forward and extended the power of my spirit.
My aura was the purest of all the mages in the White Tower. It was why I had been sent to King Landis. They had wanted to curry favor with the new king, hardly knowing that the new king of Sumarene was no brute. And thus was I sent, only to find my time spent with making potions and poultices for the court. Now, for the first time ever, I knew that I could truly make a difference. The gentle wave of spirit magic pulsed from my fingers, entering the kit’s back and easing his lungs a little.
Hurriedly, I shoved my glove back on and stared down at the tom, who gazed up at me in shock. He had called out for help though he had expected nothing. I forced a small smile, meeting his dark green eyes that were now empty of rage. A Munni, I guessed from his coloring. I could send Corrin or one of his kinfolk with the potion. It would be better delivered that way.
“That will not be enough,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Where is your home that I may send an elixir by nightfall?”
“E-eleven Derry Lane, m’lord.”
“And your name?”
“Ian, m’lord. Ian and Tomlyn Nott.”
“Good, Ian. I shall send an elixir after my errands are done. The lad must take a sip every three turns of the glass, you understand?”
“Yes, m’lord. And many thanks, m’lord,” said the tom hurriedly with a short bow.
“And in turn, perhaps you could help us,” Hugh said casually. “Have there been any hedge witches, hedge mages, or the like peddling potions of late in Lower Rime?”
“Aye, and I spent two silvers on ’em. Bunch of quacks, I say. Not like the White Tower mages, not at all.”
“Where might they be?” asked Hugh. “Last I browsed down here, they tended to group by the White Oak Square. Does that still hold true?”
“And it does, good Ser.”
“Many thanks,” Hugh said with a sharp nod.
He led me away, but I couldn’t help looking back to see the tom move down a narrow street, hopefully back to his home.
“It’s a good thing you did, Alan,” Hugh said after a moment. “But you must be careful. You’re Landis’s High Mage, not the mage of the people, you understand?”
“Are you going to stop me?”
Hugh hesitated and then grunted. “No. The poor thing sounded… Just send one of the lads out. We oughtn’t to judge, but maybe tell them to ensure the kit actually gets the medicine.”
I stared at Hugh in shock as I realized what he was saying.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen it,” Hugh finally admitted. “Parents using their kittens for charity and then selling the proceeds of whatever was given out of the goodness of the cityfolk’s heart.”
“I don’t think I see much of the cityfolk’s good hearts out here,” I muttered.
“It’s been a long process,” Hugh said. “Landis knows, but it will take a while to fix. Things can’t change overnight… but I suppose it’s a shock.”
“Well, I was thinking Corrin or one of the other Munni guards. To make sure it’s delivered safely… and administered to the boy.”
“Good thinking. Now, let’s see…”
With that, Hugh escorted me to a large square that he called the White Oak Square. Here, we moved from stall to stall, talking about recently arrived potion makers and peddlers. We interviewed two sullen hedge mages who stared at me as though I had grown two heads and a hedge witch who pinched my cheeks and declared me as cute as a button. None of them seemed fearful of our approach and sold us pinches of their shadowmoss eagerly. The older hedge mage also shared rumors with Hugh about various meeting places on the fringe of the shantytown.
As promised, further down the sloping hills of the Lower Rime, Hugh and I managed to locate another alchemist—an ancient, white-haired molly, a Crone, no less, who stared at us with blue eyes so pale, they looked like tinted ice. At the sight of me, her thick white eyebrows rose, and she hawked and spat in my general direction, but offered a wobbly nod all the same.Her look was that of annoyance and curiosity and some kind of respect.
“Ah, a White Tower fuddy-duddy, is what I’d say,” she drawled. “Come in, come in. I bet a Southerner such as yourself would rather a warm hearth.”
“Indeed,” I said, dismounting without asking Hugh’s permission. The promise of warmth was too good to pass up. At this rate, I’d never feel my toes again. “Hugh,” I added with my best attempt at a fond look sent his way, “be a dear and tie up my horse.”
“Sure,” he sighed.
