Briar glared at Niko, who glared right back. If he’d been feeling tolerant, Briar would have seen that Niko’s eyes were tired, his skin chapped and red, and backed off. Briar was not feeling tolerant just then.

“This reeks!” he yelled, terrified that he would spend the rest of his life in Urda’s House. “This really, really reeks! Lakik’s mercy to the blue pox and whatever sent it!” He ran upstairs with his shakkan, fighting the urge to cry like a baby. The problem was that he was already seeing Lakik’s mercy, which was no mercy at all.

7

Frostpine placed the lid on a sample box; Daja gave it one last rub. Kirel took it to the girl in the yellow habit of the Air Temple who waited in the doorway. She balanced a wooden crate nearly filled with sample boxes in a wheelbarrow. Kirel placed his burden there, shut the crate, and fastened the leather strap that kept the lid on. The girl thanked him, giving the big youth a sidelong glance, then turned the wheelbarrow and trundled it away.

“Perhaps you should help her,” Frostpine suggested as he winked at Daja. “She looked strong, but such loads are delicate….”

Daja noticed that Kirel’s skin turned a nice shade of crimson. “She seemed to like you,” she pointed out, massaging her fingers.

“I’ll see her at supper,” Kirel replied. “Her and her girlfriends eat at a table close to mine.” He brushed his white habit, trying to wipe away soot marks.

“Are your hands all right?” Frostpine asked Daja, putting away the rest of his tools. “I know engraving is hard, but you did so well that I didn’t think to ask.”

Daja tucked her hands into her tunic pockets. “I’m just surprised they’re empty,” she said. “How many days have we been at this?”

“I lost track,” Kirel remarked wearily. He ladled water from the barrel and poured it over his long braids, blowing like a whale.

Frostpine slung one arm around Kirel’s wet shoulders and another around Daja’s. “You did fine work,” he told his students. “Only the healers, and Lark and Sandry, are working harder.” He let them go. “Daja, my pearl, you can return to Discipline tonight, if you like.”

“I would,” Daja replied. “Did we make enough of those things?”

“They have enough to last a month, and tomorrow we are going to rest,” Frostpine announced as they went outside.

“Here! Watch it!” cried a man just when they would have walked onto the spiral road. Four wagons rolled by, each carrying novices and Fire and Earth Temple dedicates. They were armed with picks and shovels. Still more wagons followed, laden with canvas, empty carry-baskets, and lumber.

“What’s all this?” Frostpine asked one of the drivers.

“Setting up a hospital camp,” replied the woman, an Earth Temple dedicate. “Hospital camp and an open pit for burning the dead.” When Frostpine and his students stared at her in shock, she said, “Where have you been? The blue pox is everywhere in the city. Urda’s House and the Water Temple are full up. Duke’s clearing a warehouse, and they’re building the camp uphill of the Mire. Pit’s to be dug on Bit Island.” Her wagon rolled on, bound for the south gate and the road to the city.

Briar? asked Daja, reaching through their magical connection. Are you all right? She was suddenly frightened for him and Rosethorn.

I’m fine. Go away, Briar replied firmly. Daja was cut off as crisply as if he’d slammed a door in her face.

As Briar stalked down the hall to the room where Flick was, a healer stopped him. “Mask, gloves,” he said tiredly. “We’ve fresh ones on the tables; use them.”

Briar wanted to tell him off as he’d just told Daja, but the man looked so weary over his own mask that Briar decided it wasn’t worth it. He put the shakkan down and helped himself to a mask. A sense of Lark and Sandry washed over him as herb-scented cloth pressed his nose. He could almost see their faces, their magic was so powerfully written into the undyed cotton. The gloves were the same. Fitting them over his hands, he felt as if Lark and Sandry stood at his back, keeping him safe.

That made him feel small.

Daj’? he called out silently, sheepishly. Daj’, I’m sorry.

He could feel the Trader’s hurt, as sharp as if he’d cut her. Then Daja too relaxed. It’s bad there?

Bad enough, he replied, stroking the shakkan’s wrinkled trunk. Ain’t you heard?

Only a bit, just now, she told him somberly. We’ve been making sample boxes ’round the clock, with breaks for catnaps.

She felt exhausted to him. Now he was really ashamed of himself. Sleep and eat, he told her sternly. Lots of both.

One epidemic and you’re a master healer? she asked, amusement threading her weariness.

That’s it, he agreed, mock-serious. Tell them at home me and Rosethorn miss ’em.

I will, she replied, drawing away.

Feeling better for the contact, Briar carried his tree into the ward he’d left that morning. His bed had been filled.

“You aren’t sick,” replied a healer when he protested. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Briar settled his tree on the shelf behind Flick’s cot. “I should be and I am,” he said firmly. “I’ll see to my—my mate, here.” The term wasn’t strictly accurate: a mate was someone who stayed with you in dire times, as the girls had with him the year before. Still, he was as much of a mate as Flick was going to get. Lifting his eyebrows, he asked, “You want to argue?”