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BEATRIX

Goligan roots surrender their pale dust beneath the stone pestle, each turn of my wrist releasing another trace of bitter oil. I grind until no splinter remains large enough to catch against my fingertip. A coarse fragment could spoil the mixture. Too much oil could make the antidote nearly as dangerous as the poison it is meant to counter.

Precision keeps people alive.

Beyond the apothecary walls, thunder rolls around Galmoleth without pause. The storm presses ozone through every crack in the stone, sharp enough to sting the back of my nose. Red dust follows it inside. A fine layer coats the nearest shelf despite the cloth I wedged beneath the door this morning.

I scrape the ground goligan into a shallow measuring spoon. Two level portions go into the center of a waxed-paper square. I add powdered fylvek grass, then a pinch of dried rirzed petals. The blue flecks disappear into the grey mixture as I fold the paper into a tight packet.

Across the counter, my customer shifts his weight.

The dark elf wears the embroidered coat of a prosperous household servant. Metallic thread marks the cuffs, though red dust has worked into the stitching and dulled its shine. A narrow iron collar circles his throat. The runes cut into it remain dark, but they do not need to glow to announce what he is.

Property outranks a human on Galmoleth.

His eyes keep moving between my hands and the door. “That is very little powder.”

“It is enough for one dose.”

“The Matron requires two.”

“Then she requires two packets.”

He studies the packet as though more antidote might appear if he distrusts it hard enough. “You said the treatment could be divided.”

“I said the treatment must be mixed with water.” I place the packet beside the first one. “Dividing a dose leaves two poisoned people equally dead.”

His nostrils flare. He is frightened, but fear does not make him foolish. It makes him difficult. There is a difference.

I brush the remaining goligan dust into a stoppered jar. My fingers are stained blue at the tips from handling the rirzed petals. The color will fade after several washings. The oil beneath my nails will last longer.

“How quickly does it work?” he asks.

“If the numiscu sap was swallowed, mix the packet into warm water and make her drink it. If it entered through a cut, wash the wound first and give her the mixture immediately afterward.”

“And if the paralysis has begun?”

“Then you have less time to argue with me.”

His gaze snaps to mine. Dark elves are accustomed to human deference, even here, where both races survive beneath demon rule. A dark elf servant may be collared and stripped of magic, but he can still have a human punished for disrespect. That truth has ended more arguments than reason ever could.

I rest my palm on the counter and wait.

The bone handle of my knife touches my wrist from where it lies beside the scales. I keep it visible when I trade. It would not save me from a dark elf, much less a demon, but people bargain more honestly when reminded that even prey can draw blood.

He reaches into his coat and places two jetons on the wood.

I do not touch them.

His mouth thins. “This is a generous price.”

“It is the beginning of one.”

“The lower market sells fever powder for a daler.”

“Then buy fever powder.”