Pinadarya arrived back at town after a week in the mountains tired, grimy, triumphant — and not very pleased to find out that she had a visitor arrived in her absence.

  She did not hurry to her lodgings, however. Instead, she took her time giving orders regarding the mule-loads of frost beetle carapaces that she had overseen the harvest of, to be repacked into moisture-proof jars and shipped to Heila. Then she took herself to the public bath and had a thorough scrub followed by a long soak.

  Finally, luxuriously clean, she ordered a big plate of steamed buns and banana blossom curry at the eatery of the Contemplative Monkey, along with the biggest pot of golden tea on the menu.

  This was when her visitor caught up with her.

  Pinadarya looked up at Humble Scholar Doctor ‘Ama’ Amalla and, despite everything, was not entirely displeased to see her old mentor.

  “You couldn’t wait until I was done eating? I’ve been living on bread and dried fruit for a week.”

  “I’ve been waiting for four days already.” Ama primly sat herself down on the stool next to Pinadarya. “I thought it prudent not to give you a chance to slip away on some trek again before we could talk.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Pinadarya countered.

  “I know.” Ama folded her hands inside her sleeves. She had declined both food and drink from the server, and now pretended not to notice the awed looks the staff were giving her white physician’s robes and turban. Pinadarya herself was wearing a sturdy, everyday working kaftan over practical trousers. She had not bothered with robes and turban since leaving Heila.

  “I also know,” Ama added, “That you are not contracted to a temple, and hence have no official reason not to heed our call back to Heila.”

  Pinadarya propped her cheek on her fist as she took her time chewing her bun. “Do I need an official reason? I’d say ‘I don’t want to’ is more than reason enough. What about ‘I don’t owe the University anything’? Or ‘After the way they treated me, I’d rather dedicate myself to alpacas for the rest of my life’? I did treat an alpaca once, you know,” she went on. “Down in the Three Basin plains. It stepped in a suricate hole and broke a leg, and there was no animal doctor on hand. I had to devise something clever with the splint, but the leg healed remarkably well.”

  She stabbed a slice of eggplant out of her curry with more vehemence than the inoffensive vegetable warranted. “So what about ‘I refuse to be at the beck and call of cowardly hypocrites grown decrepit in their safe little isolated marble towers, and for all I care, the University can go shove their letter down a suricate hole’? Is that reason enough?”

  “Are you done?” Doctor Amalla asked levelly.

  Pinadarya exhaled through her nose, popped the eggplant into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Yes, thank you, quite done.”

  “While of course alpacas are vitally important to the functioning of the Empire, I’d argue that the wasting fever spreading like wildfire in the West is rather more urgent,” Ama said drily. “I’d also say that while we have any amount of trained animal doctors who can treat the broken legs of livestock, physician-alchemists of your calibre is in short supply.”

  Pinadarya smiled sweetly. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Ama.”

  “It’s not flattery, it is a fact. We need you. People are dying at an alarming rate and up to now we don’t even know what is causing the wasting fever. Let alone how to cure it.”

  “People die all the time.” Pinadarya motioned for more tea. “I spent nearly five years in the war hospital in Lebran. I’ve lost more patients and saved more lives than the entire University faculty together in all of their careers. And I still am, you know. I’ve discovered how to treat sugar-sickness with the compounds released by the moulted carapaces of frost beetles with the right alchemical processes. You can’t tell me that’s not helping people.”

  “I know,” Ama said. “I’ve read all of your monographs. The sigils you’ve devised to use in conjunction with smoke therapy in the treatment of bloodspots will doubtless save countless of lives as well. Which is why I’m not even trying to tempt you with the fame and reputation that would be won by the physician who will discover the cause and cure of the wasting fever.”

  Ama straightened the unused tea mug and spoon before her. “Still. I believe the wasting fever might be of particular interest to you.”

  “Oh, and why is that?”

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  Ama looked around the eatery. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, and aside from the two doctors, the only customers were a young clerk apparently nursing the previous night’s wine-sickness and a couple of Temple apprentices on their way home from observing the night rituals. Whiling away the time before it got busy, the servers had arranged resin tokens on the counter for a game of Three-Legged Mice.

  “Finish your tea,” Ama said. “We need to speak somewhere more private.”

  *

  Back at Pinadarya’s lodgings, Doctor Amalla closed the door and remained standing in front of it. Sitting on the bed, Pinadarya gave her a questioning look. When she opened her mouth to ask, Amalla held up a prohibitive finger. She waited a few more counts, then opened the door quickly, as if to catch any eavesdropper.

  Sticking her head out into the hallway, she looked up and down until, apparently satisfied, she closed the door again — just to go to the window, overlooking an airy, plant-rich courtyard. Here, too, she looked outside — left and right, down and up — and finally turned to Pinadarya, who by now was staring in puzzlement if not in alarm.

  A tall, implacable woman known and feared for her brisk, no-nonsense approach, Doctor Amalla was not normally given to theatrics. Whatever reasoning was behind her bizarre behaviour, Pinadarya was inclined to believe it sound, and sensible. That was alarming.

  “What do you know of Saint Igbran?” Ama asked.

  Pinadarya frowned. “They follow Nur, don’t they? But not in a public capacity. If I recall, they’re rather reclusive. Secretive, even.”

  “They’re dedicated to studying the mysteries of Nur of the Silver Ink,” Amalla nodded. “As such, they take a vow of silence.”

  “What does this have to do with the wasting fever?”

  “The Temple is sending a priest of Saint Igbran to investigate the wasting fever.”

  “…Huh.” Despite herself, Pinadarya was intrigued. “What does the Temple know that we don’t?”

  “I can’t answer that, but I can tell you what the University suspects. The involvement of Saint Igbran along with some of the more, ah, esoteric symptoms of the wasting fever — we believe the cause might very well involve demonic phenomena.”

  Pinadarya stared. Doctor Amalla was not normally given to making jokes, either.

  From outside came the sound of chattering birds and leaves gently rustling in the breeze. Further away, the sounds of town life: vendors calling, children laughing as they played during their school break, the clatter of hooves and carts. The air smelled of flowers, balmy air, fried sesame puffs from a vendor’s cart. The late morning sunlight was still bright through the window. It was surely only Pinadarya’s imagination that the atmosphere in her cozy little room had suddenly got darker.

  “You’re a perfect fit for the mission,” Ama said. “For one, you have some knowledge of the West and their customs.”

  “I was stuck in a field hospital,” Pinadarya pointed out. “Aside from the fact that the lakes are cold, the local delicacy is spiced potato balls, almost everyone’s ethnically Ulgarian and drinks barley spirits like it’s water, I can tell you next to nothing about Lebran.”

  “Still. I suspect you’re in a very unique position to investigate this matter,” Doctor Amalla said carefully. “What with your... acquaintance with Saint Celund.”

  Pinadarya did not say anything. She did not trust herself to do so without another display of temper.

  “You will have access to research material that wasn’t available four years ago.” Seeing Pinadarya’s expression, Doctor Amalla added, not unkindly: “I know you looked into it. I wouldn’t have expected otherwise of you.”

  “It’s no longer relevant,” Pinadarya said coldly. Whatever little she had learned four years ago had not been enough to fix Ehrban. She had failed him — and for her failure, he had left. That chapter of her life was over. Closed and done with.

  “Besides,” she added, her scholar mind annoyingly unable to let it go quite as easily. “The study of demons is prohibited.”

  “Under Temple Law, yes,” Doctor Amalla said calmly. “But the current position of the University Faculty of Medicine is that safeguarding the soul should not come at the cost of healing the body. Or, more specifically, that laws designed to uphold the sanctity of the soul should not be confused with laws aimed at protecting human life. Our oath, Doctor, you know fully well, is concerned with the latter.”

  “Good grief. Next you’ll be talking about the ‘shackles of superstition’.”

  “Of course not.” Doctor Amalla was prim. “But if I did, it would be in the trust that you of all people would not accuse me to the Temple and see me excommunicated.”

  She leaned forward. “I know you’re angry at the University. I admit it was terribly ill-considered, the way they threatened to cast you out for your association with an unthulan. I always thought that it showed a gross violation of the University’s policy of impartiality with regard to Temple laws. But if I know you, Pinadarya, and I think I do — you are even angrier at the Temple.”

  “How does that help you, if I am?” Pinadarya asked.

  “It means you’re untainted by religious biases, and you are unafraid. Sending a priest of Saint Igbran on this mission, with all the secrecy surrounding it — we need someone who is not afraid to stand up for knowledge and the greater interest of society.”

  Pinadarya folded her arms over her chest. “That’s asking a lot.”

  “When have you ever shied away from a challenge?” Doctor Amalla reached into her satchel and pulled out a clasped leather folder, thick with notes. “Here is everything that we know so far. Take a look, and think on it. The party will set out from Heila in a fortnight, so think fast.”

  When Pinadarya didn’t take the folder, Amalla placed it on the table and gave it a meaningful little tap with her fingers. “Just take a look. Even if you decide not to go, we’d really value your thoughts on the matter.”

  Pinadarya lifted her chin and stared out the window. “If I have time.” She resented that Ama was bargaining on Pinadarya’s scientific curiosity. She resented even more that it was working.

  Doctor Amalla nodded and turned to leave. She paused at the door and looked back at Pinadarya. “Your research and innovation have always been above par, Doctor. You might not be an expert in demonic phenomena — but then again, no one outside of the Temple is. You are, however, a gifted alchemist, and I have a hunch that’s exactly what we’re going to need.”