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“This is robbery.”
“This is numiscu antidote.”
The distinction matters. Numiscu blossoms mimic rirzed closely enough to fool careless hands. Both have blue petals. Both grow low against Galmoleth’s red earth. Rirzed can ease pain, settle a cough, or flavor wine. Numiscu steals movement from the body while leaving the mind awake.
A human child can die from brushing crushed petals with a scraped palm. A Matron requires more poison, but enough sap mixed into food could trap even demon muscles inside rigid carapace.
Whoever poisoned his mistress either knows plants or has paid someone who does.
The servant glances behind him again. The street beyond my door remains crowded with human porters and Zonak laborers moving beneath baskets of metallic produce. None spare my apothecary more than a passing glance.
He leans closer. “Three jetons for both packets.”
“Three jetons and the nabella.”
His hand moves protectively toward the pouch at his belt.
There it is.
The spice reaches Galmoleth through summoned trade, which makes a small pouch worth more than most humans earn in a season. Nabella can soften the bitterness of medicine, preserve certain salves, and persuade wealthy customers that a remedy is valuable because it tastes expensive.
“I was not offering the spice,” he says.
“You wore it where I could see it.”
His pale eyes narrow. “You presume much for a human.”
“I know what the antidote is worth.”
“You know what you wish it to be worth.”
I pick up one packet and slide it toward my side of the counter. “Then your Matron can decide whether your bargaining was worth the delay.”
His fingers close over the second packet before I can retrieve it.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves.
The thunder outside deepens, making the glass jars murmur against their shelves. He looks at my knife, then at the packets. I look at the embroidered mark over his breast. I do not recognize the house, but the workmanship is old and costly.
His mistress will not forgive failure.
At last, he adds a third jeton to the counter. The enchanted center flashes deep green beneath my fingers. He unties the spice pouch and drops it beside the coins.
“Your greed will earn you enemies,” he mutters.
“My remedies earn me customers. Enemies arrive without payment.”
I push both packets toward him.
He takes them quickly. “If this fails?”
“You will not return to complain.”
His expression promises consequences, but he tucks the antidote inside his coat with great care. I give him written instructions even after he insists he can remember them. Fear ruins memory, and I refuse to have my work blamed for his panic.
The moment he steps outside, heavy footfalls strike the street.
The jars begin to rattle.
