Page 59

"I am the House Obsidius apothecary," I say. "Yes."

He glances at the guards, then the Soz'garoth aide. Every part of him seems prepared to retreat from a higher caste's displeasure.

"Zonak business waits," the aide says.

The merchant taps one black claw against the counter. "He has coin. His business waits for no aide."

The Zonak swallows. "Three doses."

I take two more vials from my satchel and place them beside the first. "For whom?"

"West storm-net crew. Vespids nest beneath the line housings when the metal warms. We burned one nest, but there will be others."

"Humans on the crew?"

"Two."

"Then keep one vial on each human and the third with the shift master. One swallow after the first sting. A second if the throat begins swelling. Reach a healer even if the pain fades."

He nods through every instruction.

"Price?"

"Two jetons for all three."

His hand disappears beneath his apron and returns with two square coins. He places them on the cloth, then gathers the vials with both hands.

"A lower-patrol guard said your lung tonic cleared blue rot from his chest," he says. "He said your doses work when healers call rest a cure."

The public statement carries farther than the aide's mockery.

The dark elf servants exchange a glance. A Volvath woman at the next stall studies the bottles in my satchel. Even the merchant lowers his gaze to the two jetons now resting beside his nimond tray.

The Zonak bows to the House Obsidius seal rather than to me and hurries back into the crowd.

Respect has limits.

The sale has value anyway.

Someone outside Draxon's spire knows my work by result. He sought it without Miana arranging the meeting, paid the requested price, and carried instructions back to another working crew. My claim no longer depends only upon my voice.

The merchant picks up one jeton and tests its edge with a claw.

"The west storm-net employs forty workers," he says.

"Forty-three during repair season," his aide corrects.

"Many vespid nests?"

The aide's long ears angle backward. "Enough."

I slide the remaining jeton toward the merchant. "One jeton, one vial, and first choice of the next goligan shipment."

"For the entire nimond measure?"

"For beans you cannot sell before they spoil."

He looks at my remedy again.