But the relief was very short-lived. The amulets—though they had probably survived—were now heading to Bohemia with Scharley and the entire Tábor, temporarily out of reach. But he needed them within reach. The festering wound required magic. Left to traditional methods, he risked losing his arm at the shoulder. At best. At worst—losing his life.
“There’s an apothecary…” he grunted, seizing the harlot by the hand. “There’s an apothecary in Oława. He is certain to have a secret alchemic workshop… Only for a closed circle… For people from the magical confraternity… I need magical medicine. For Samson… For him, I must have a medicine called dodecatheon. For me, for my shoulder, I need unguentum achilleum—”
“The apothecary…” Dorota turned her head away. “The apothecary won’t sell us anything. He won’t even let us cross the threshold. All Oława knows who we’re treating here. The hospital is under the guard and protection of the duke, but the townspeople revile us. They won’t help. No use going… And it’s dangerous on the street—”
“I’ll go,” said Elencza Stietencron. “I’ll go to the apothecary’s shop. Please…”
“You’ll say the password: Visita Inferiora Terrae. The apothecary will understand… Visita Inferiora Terrae… Will you remember it?”
“I will.”
With great effort, Reynevan managed to focus his gaze on her, even though it kept blurring with the fever. Again, she appeared encircled by a glow. A halo. An aureole.
“The medicaments…” He felt himself losing consciousness. “By the name of… Dodecatheon… And unguentum achilleum… You won’t forget?”
“I won’t.” She turned her head away. “I cannot. God must have punished me with an inability to forget.”
He was too sick to notice how bitter it sounded.
“Dorota?”
“Yes, Reinmar?”
“When we met, three summers ago, right here, near Oława, on the Strzelin road… You meant to go out into the world. As you said, if only to Wrocław. To work… You didn’t get very far…”
“I went to Wrocław.” The harlot put down the bowl she was feeding him from. “I resided there and returned. Work, it turns out, is the same everywhere. And it’s just as hard everywhere. Then I returned to my old stamping ground, to Brzeg and the Crown whorehouse. I thought, when I die, they can bury me in the same boneyard as they’ll bury my mother. And then, when the fighting began, there were plenty of wounded and sick people. The monks in the hospitals needed help… so I helped. In Brzeg to begin with, at the Holy Spirit. Then I came here, to Oława.”
“You decided on a hospital… I know something about it, and it’s exacting and hard work… Harder and probably more thankless than—”
“No, Reinmar. Not more.”
Although it was verging on the miraculous, the apothecary in Oława possessed the necessary medicine. Although it was verging on the miraculous, he sold it to Elencza of Stietencron. Although it was verging on the miraculous, the effects were visible right from the first treatment. Yarrow, achillea millefolium, the herb which formed the main ingredient of unguentum achilleum, not without reason bore the name of the hero of Troy—it healed wounds suffered in battle quickly and effectively. Rubbed on several times a day, the ointment arrested the gangrene, lowered the fever and visibly reduced the swelling. After a day of treatment, Reynevan was able to sit up; after the next two—admittedly not without the help of Dorota and Elencza—to stand up. And to take care of Samson.
After barely one day of dodecatheon being applied, a mixture whose effectiveness was second only to the legendary moly, Samson opened his eyes. Despite the dose of the medicine obtained from the Oława apothecary’s shop being negligible, after two days the giant regained consciousness sufficiently to begin complaining about an unbearable headache. Medicine wasn’t needed for that; Reynevan treated his headache with a spell and his healing hands. Samson’s pain turned out, however, to be a quite a challenge, and he exhausted himself before alleviating it. Both of them, doctor and patient, lay almost lifeless the entire following day. Until the nineteenth of May.
When problems began.
“Black-haired,” repeated Dorota Faber. “Dressed in black. Shoulder-length, black hair. A kind of birdlike face. Nose like a beak. And the look of a devil. Know anyone like that?”
“I do, dammit,” Reynevan drawled, wiping away the cold sweat that was suddenly beading his forehead. “I’ll say.”
“Because he knows you. He was with the hospital master and described you exactly. He asked if anyone looking like you was here. Fortunately, the hospital master is a decent fellow, and on top of that has no memory for faces, so he quite honestly denied seeing anybody who looks like you or that anyone like you was staying in the hospice. And when the black bird-man began to demand to be allowed into the hospital, the hospital master didn’t give his permission, citing ducal orders and the agreement guaranteeing the Hussites sanctuary. The fellow at first tried to frighten and threaten him, but when he noticed it was in vain, he left. He finally said he’d soon return with the duke’s permission, that he’d scour the hospital, and if he found you and it turned out the hospital master was lying, woe on him. Ha, Reynevan, seems to me that bird-man really could be a troublemaker. And even takes pleasure in it.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“Something tells me also that he’ll return with the duke’s permission.”
“You’re absolutely right. I must flee, Dorota. At once. Today.”
“I, too, must leave,” moaned Elencza. She was as white as a sheet. “I know that… person as well,” she stammered out. “I think he tracked me to Oława. He’s hunting me.”
“Impossible,” said Reynevan. “He’s hunting me! He has evil designs on me. I’m his target.”
“No. I am. I’m certain it’s me.”
Samson sat up in bed. He was quite lucid.
“I believe,” he said quite clearly, “that you are both mistaken.”
They left Oława before dusk, unnoticed. It transpired that Dorota Faber had numerous, reliable acquaintances among the right people. The hospital janitor—who made cow eyes at the red-headed harlot—supplied them with clothes and helped them leave the hospital in secret. A burly servant looked at her in the same way as he led them to the stable, helping Samson to walk. Because Samson required assistance. Reynevan wasn’t in the best way, either, as a matter of fact. His thoughts turned anxiously to the ride ahead of them.
As it transpired, Dorota and Elencza had given some thought to the matter. With the help of the janitor and the servant, they strapped them on to the saddles so they were able to keep reasonably upright as they rode and wouldn’t slide off or fall. It was none too comfortable, but Reynevan didn’t complain. He had reason to believe that capture by Birkart Grellenort would guarantee them even fewer comforts.
They left the town through a wicket gate close by the Brzeg Gate, in the south-eastern part of the town. They did it not out of choice, but necessity. Dorota had acquaintances among the guards on sentry duty there. This time, neither her charm nor her beguiling smile were sufficient—more concrete, clinking arguments were necessary. Reynevan’s debt with the harlot was growing quickly.