City of Sinister Angles

...There Won't Be Anything Left

Corliss woke with a start to the stink of fish, the odor acting like some foul smelling salt. She sat up quickly, straining the wound in her belly. Corliss hissed in pain and laid back down.

She was laying in a "bed" that was little more than a heap of soiled rags. It was uncomfortable, filthy, and placed in the room without any regard for flow or good taste. Corliss wouldn't be caught dead in a bed such as this, but for the moment she was willing to be caught wounded in it.

The rag heap was in a small one-room hut dominated primarily by a cast iron stove. An ancient-looking Cathayan woman was busying herself with a pot atop it, which seemed to be the source of all the individual and distinct fish smells that choked the hut.

The old woman apparently heard Corliss hiss. She turned around to face her guest, a soup bowl in one hand and a ladle in the other.

"You'll live," said the old woman "I know one or two things about the healing arts. You're lucky though. If I hadn't been there you would have died in the ocean. That's not a dignified way to die."

"Who are you?" asked Corliss "Why did you help me?" before remembering to add "Thank you for that, I suppose."

"I saw your fight," said the old lady, ladling a vile fish soup into the bowl "You acted with honor, you opponent did not. You announced yourself and your purpose and she responded by attacking with a coward's weapon."

Corliss decided that this old lady actually made some sense.

"But you fell to a coward wielding a coward's weapon," the old lady continued, pointing her ladel at Corliss "Your shame is double."

She wasn't making sense anymore.

"I was shot," said Corliss, seething "There was nothing I could do about it."

"Your sword is well-made. With such a weapon you should not be vulnerable to pistol fire," the old lady retorted.

"A sword is not stronger than a pistol," Corliss snapped back, exasperated "More elegant? More refined? More worthy? Of course. But even I would have to concede that the gun is the stronger weapon."

"Only in the hands of a weakling," said the old woman "The strength of a sword is dependent of the will of the woman holding it."

"I liked the part where you called Shi a coward," said Corliss "But you're obviously a madwoman. I thank you for your rough and untidy help, whatever little good it did me, but now I shall take my leave of you forever. I have a revenge to plan."

"You're not ready for revenge," said the old lady "Not yet. You've still got something left to lose."

"That's very witty," said Corliss "You should sew pillows."

She made another attempt to stand, and cried out in pain instead.

"Eat your soup," said the old lady, thrusting the monstrous concoction at her.

* * *

Corliss never developed a taste for the fish broth, but she did learn to choke it down without retching. It was all she was fed during the weeks she spent recovering in the old Cathayan woman's hut, hidden somewhere in Thule's lower docks.

As vile as the soup was, it allowed Corliss to regain her strength and then some. Thanks to the healing poultice carefully maintained by the old woman her gun wound healed more quickly and cleanly than Corliss even thought possible.

In the blink of an eye Corliss was healthy again.

"I can't say much for your bedside manner," said Corliss "But your healing skills are first rate. When I return home I'll send a servant to bring you a bag of silver as thanks."