The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 1 Part 3

The early morning sunlight brightening the city did not reach the alley where Basilard stood on a half-rotted wood stoop before a door. Gang graffiti marked the chipped and broken brick walls around it, and rusty bars protected a window closed off with oilskin rather than glass. A homeless man snored on a stoop farther down while a mangy dog pawed through excrement dumped on the ancient cobblestones. This old neighborhood was not on the city sewer system, as the smell attested.

Thanks to the knives at his belt and the scars covering his hands, shaven head, and face, Basilard doubted anyone would bother him. He was more concerned about dealing with the woman inside. A sign dangling from rusty hinges read Apothecary.

Basilard lifted a fist to knock, but paused. A bushy tuft of greenery sprouting from a crack caught his attention. Soroth Stick? Like dandelion and lizard tail, the Turgonians treated the plant as a weed, but he hopped down from the stoop and plucked several leaves. They made a tea that soothed cramps, and, given how much training the team did, such a beverage was often necessary for replenishing the body.

Since he did not have the foraging satchel he carried in the wilderness, he tucked the leaves into an inside pocket in his vest, with a mental reminder to wash them well before using them. Given this dubious locale, they had probably been peed on. By multiple species.

Basilard returned to the stoop, but he cast his gaze about, wondering if the grungy alley might host any other edible plants.

Stop it, he told himself. No more procrastinating. As grandpa used to say, “Cleaning a fish don’t get any more pleasant for having put the task off.”

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A part of him hoped no one would answer. Not many of his people lived in the Turgonian capital, and he had not sought any out since Amaranthe and Sicarius had killed the wizard who had bought Basilard years ago. Nor had he had the freedom to visit anyone during his tenure as a slave. He had never come face-to-face with the Mangdorians that played a part in the city water poisoning a couple of months earlier, so this would be the first he had met since… He swallowed hard at the memory of a young man he had killed in a pit fight engineered by their owners. He had killed many in those forced battles, since it had been the only way to preserve his own life.

The sound of footsteps came from within. A lock thunked, and the door opened.

A stooped woman with graying red hair squinted at Basilard. An Eye of God necklace hung around her neck, and his breath caught. He had expected an apothecary, not a priestess. She peered up and down the alley before addressing him.

“You must be here for my herbs,” she said in heavily accented Turgonian. Her gesture encompassed his scars. “Come in, come in. My services are very affordable. I don’t use no magic though, so don’t expect that.” She glanced up and down the alley again.

Basilard guessed that meant she could use the mental sciences, but would not risk it if there was a chance the locals would find out.

He followed her into a one-room dwelling partitioned into sections for sleeping, meal preparation, and work. The pungent aroma of dozens—hundreds?—of drying herbs thickened the air. She gestured for him to sit on a faded sofa, and he ducked beneath bundles of leaves hanging from the ceiling to perch on the edge.

“What’s your problem?” She sat on a stool beside a desk piled high with flasks, tins, and tools. “You’re in pain from your scars? I’ve seen pin cushions less poked up.”

Basilard shook his head and touched the knot of scar tissue on his throat, the wound that had stolen his ability to speak.

“No voice? I can’t fix that. No herb can repair damaged vocal cords.”