I’ve never seen water fall from the sky horizontally before. You’d think that’s impossible, but current conditions prove the contrary. The storm’s pour is traveling parallel to the ground, like a herd of horses on a bolt. Sheets of droplets peel my eyes back, push into my nose, and muffle my ears even as I have the wrap around my face. I do what I can to protect myself, putting both my arms up, but nothing seems to help—
Merc shifts me in behind him, his big body offering a lee. I grab on to his broadsword holster, and hang on, but the deluge seems to be falling up from the ground, too. By the time we’ve crossed the muddy lane where the pair of drunken men fumble-fought, I’m soaked all the way through—and we still have to go down a couple of buildings.
When we finally arrive on the shallow porch of the store with theHERBISTsign, there’s little shelter to be had beneath the overhang. It’s so dark inside that I expect things to be locked up tight, but when Merc tries the door, the entry opens readily, a little bell tinkling.
We bring the storm inside with us, and Merc cuts it off by putting his shoulder into the door, like he’s keeping out a rude guest. For me, the instant I take a proper breath, the smell of prepared roots, leaves, and bark returns me to my home under the stairs and my eyes water in a way that has nothing to do with everything that’s dripping into my face.
“We’re almost closed,” comes a male voice out of the back.
Forcing myself to focus, I feel instantly at ease. It’s a small shop, but there are so many glass jars on the counters and the shelves, I can’t count them. I do recognize some of what’s in the containers, however, even though the signs are in a language I can’t decipher.
A man enters from a door behind the counter by the register of cash. Taking one look at us, he shakes his head. “I said, we’re closed.”
He’s on the young side of maturity, with dark skin, a shaved head, and a set of silver spectacles perched on the end of his long nose. Dressed in the brown felt of a villager, he has a white apron tied around his waist, and the way he’s wringing his hands together makes me think he’s either washed them or compulsively wishes he could.
Merc turns to him with a glower. “No, there was an ‘almost’ in there. And now, we’re inhere, we’re going to buy whatever she needs.”
As the shop owner sizes up Merc, he becomes noticeably more agitated. “What do you want. And do be hurried about it.”
That’s when I hear the muffled sound. It’s somewhere off in the rear of the little building, and when the shopkeeper wrenches around to the noise, I have sudden paranoia he’s holding someone captive.
I step around Merc. “I need to make a poultice ofpurpa,turtine, androships, with a binding of local honey.”
The man rubs a spot over his brow. “I don’t know what you’re referring to—” As the sound repeats, he glances over his shoulder again. “I’m closed—”
“Here. This.” I walk down the aisle, and point to jars on the second shelf. “This. And…”
I continue down the way—
The shopkeeper steps in front of me, those palms of his rubbing together, his eyes darting about. “I’m sorry, I’m closed—”
Merc materializes beside him, and puts his sword hand onto the other man’s shoulder like an anvil. “And I said, you’re going to give her what she needs. You don’t want us in here for much longer, right? Because you’re closed? So how ’bout you set us on our way with what she requires—and lock the door behind us so you don’t get inconvenienced by paying customers again.”
Unspoken is the last part of his message:And if you don’t comply, I will take what I want and ruin the rest.
I want to tell Merc to back off, but I can’t escape the condition of my wound. “I’m very sorry about this, but I’m injured and I desperately need to treat my—”
The sound repeats. Like it’s timed.
Narrowing my eyes, I watch the sweat bead over the shopkeeper’s upper lip. But then he shuffles away and goes to the counter, where there’s a stack of folded bags. His restless hands jerk and tremble as he takes three—and then he has to double back to get a metal scoop because he forgets it.
“Are you staying at the pub then,” he says.
“Aye,” Merc answers.
“Then you get the honey there.”
In the back of my mind, I start to count as the shopkeeper goes to one of the jars I pointed out. As he takes the glass container down, he fumbles it, and I jump forward to help. The weight hits my palms and I duck his eyes just in time, focusing on the white line around his mouth—
The sound comes again as we straighten, and I don’t let go of what connects us. “Take me to your wife.”
The shopkeeper freezes.
Even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I have to help. “Please, I can hear her. I can… help her. Maybe.”
His breathing changes, as if he’s been forcing his composure and it finally breaks. He begins to take short little puffs of pure fear.
“It’s her first.”
