They eat in shifts, sharing the eight bowls with careful precision. Everyone gets exactly the same amount. I make sure Ridge gets his broth, spooning it into him when his hands shake too much. His color's better. The medicine's working.
"This is." Someone stops, swallows. "This is really good."
"It's basic chicken soup." But I'm pleased. "Anyone could make this."
"Teach us?" The request comes from multiple voices.
"Tomorrow. After someone buys proper dishes and we get real supplies in here." I look around the room—guild members sprawled on various surfaces, actually talking to each other instead of brooding in corners. "And vegetables. You're all eating vegetables whether you like it or not."
No one argues. They're too busy having seconds.
Gray Streak helps me clean up. Well, he tries. Washing dishes is apparently not a skill set they've developed either.
"The boss won't like this," he says quietly.
"Won't like what? His people being fed? Housed properly? Not dying of preventable diseases?"
"Won't like civilians in the compound."
"Then he should have thought of that before letting his people live like this." I scrub the pot harder. "There's mold in the bedrooms. That's not dangerous mystique, that's respiratory infections waiting to happen."
He almost smiles. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who'd run. Smart people run from us."
"Smart people also eat vegetables and maintain proper living conditions." I dry my hands on my skirt. "I should go. But I'll be back tomorrow. Someone needs to check on Ridge, and you all need to learn how to dice an onion properly."
"I'll walk you out."
"I can find my way."
"The boss really won't like that."
Fair point. I let him escort me through the maze of corridors. In the courtyard, I turn back to look at the building. Still grim. Still actively unhealthy. But there's light in the kitchen window now. Warm light.
"Get firewood," I tell Gray Streak. "Lots of it. And fix that broken window on the second floor—draft's getting in. Winter's coming and you're all already half-dead from poor nutrition."
"Anything else?" He's definitely almost smiling now.
"Clean blankets. For everyone. Burn the old ones if you have to." I pause. "Actually, definitely burn them. They're beyond saving."
I leave him standing in the courtyard, probably wondering how his life reached the point where a civilian orders him around about laundry. But he'll do it. They all will. Because somewhere under all that practiced intimidation, they want someone to care if they're eating properly.
Tomorrow: vegetables, dishes, and maybe I'll start on the mold situation.
These people need more than soup. They need someone to mother them into basic self-care.
Lucky for them, I've got nothing but time and an aggressive need to fix things.
Even if those things are technically criminals who could murder me.
Details.
Chapter 7
The merchant's blood washes off my hands in pink water. His fourth finger was stubborn—old joints, calcium deposits from decades of gripping his ledger. Next time I'll remember to cut at the knuckle, not through it. Cleaner that way.
