On the Black Wind to Baldairn Motte

Part 2.

Basilides looked at the wall tapestries with disinterest. As big as the keep of Toli Verk, Earl of Gaulang was, it was a keep much like any other keep Basilides had seen: wood framed with plaster walls, long torch-lit corridors, and excessive tapestries, armament, and hunting trophies adorning the walls to distract attention from the rough workmanship. Of more interest to Basilides was the reason for his being here, sitting in the anteroom to the Earl's private chambers. One of the Earl's courtiers had found him in his usual place—tending to the poor in Fishers' Square—and not so much requested his presence as demanded it.

Basilides was not left long waiting. After disappearing briefly, the courtier stepped from the Earl's chambers and ushered Basilides inside. The room was large and well lit by a balconied window at the far end. A robed figure stood at the window, peering away at the city below.

The Earl himself sat at a desk beside the fireplace. He was a big man, somewhat shrunken by age, but still wide-shouldered and muscular. His head was bald—freshly shorn—but he had a thick, golden mustache and beard that were peppered with gray.

"You are the leech from the harbor?" the Earl asked, looking up from a map he was examining. "The healer?"

"I am a healer from the Order of Balin, yes, my lord."

"We've heard of your deeds. Some of the common folk say you perform miracles."

"I merely perform my duty, my lord," Basilides said, bowing his head.

The robed man at the window turned and stepped toward the fireplace. He was hunched over and walked with difficulty. His robes were much like Basiledes', but were crimson instead of gray. He was a master physician. "Tell me, leech," he said, "how would you treat a man with a melancholic lung?"

"It depends on the symptoms, master. Melancholic lung can have many forms."

"A dry melancholic lung," the old man specified.

Basilides pursed his lips. "Still I could not say, not without examining the patient."

"Who was your master?" the physician asked, an edge in his voice. "Where were you trained?"

"I began my training in the south, in the village of Liraeus, under the care of Master Garson."

"Outside the realm?"

"To begin with, yes, but I learned many things from Master Garson and from the elders of Liraeus, and afterward—after Liraeus was sacked and burned and Master Garson slain—I returned to the realm and completed my apprenticeship with Master Aldon in Fairnlin."

"Are you familiar with administering ethers at least?"

"Familiar with the practice, but I perform it rarely, and never with a patient suffering a melancholic lung."

The old man shook his head. "You'll not do. Be gone."

Basilides bowed his head and turned to leave, but the Earl held up a hand to stay him. "We haven't the time to find anyone else, Master Dooley. He'll do well enough to follow your instructions. Just tell him what needs to be done."

The old physician pursed his lips, but nodded his assent.

"It's you then that suffers the melancholic lung, my lord?" Basilides asked as he approached the Earl.

"Indeed, to my great misfortune."

"Indeed," Basilides agreed, still not comprehending why he was here. "Will the good Master Dooley be leaving? Is that why you require my service?"

"It's not Master Dooley that will be leaving—it is us,leech. The war for the throne has begun and we sail on the morrow to NorthPort."