In the fifth year of the eighth regency of Drennos, in the Capital of Nosh, in the third precinct, heading more or less southeast along the Cobbler’s Way, two figures wearing the plain grey wimples, veils, and frocks of the Voiceless walked side-by-side in unison, holding their black leather satchels at their sides.

  It was evening, and the street was not as busy as during the hours of commerce, but they still passed the last of the shoppers, a few apprentices, and some servant-girls returning home. The Sister of the Order of the Voiceless stared fixedly ahead. Jareen had long ago come to ignore the various frightened, curious, uncomfortable, or even reverent glances of the passersby. She did not meet their eyes or avert her fixed gaze. While other Sisters might enjoy the sense of reserved respect that their role afforded them, Jareen could not tell apart the looks she received for what she was and for what she did. Even in the garb of the Voiceless, it was clear that Jareen was not human; her arms and legs were too long, she stood a head higher than anyone else, and her gait made her swivel unlike the human way of walking—although she had worked to hide that.

  Jareen was a full Sister of the Voiceless, and a Novice of the Order trotted next to her. The novice was all of a foot shorter and keeping up with Jareen’s purposeful strides took effort. Her name was Silesh, and she was probably eighteen or nineteen, with the clear, moist complexion of someone who still snuck balms from the Order’s apothecary closets for her own use.

  Squinting, Jareen counted the numbers along the rows of doors. This was their first visit with this Departing. In this part of the city, the buildings were made of brick—not the crumbling mud brick of the lower flats, but well-kilned, solid red brick with decent mortar. Except where roads diverged in neat grids, there were no gaps between the buildings, just rows of ground-floor shopfronts and narrow domiciliary doors with leaden house numbers hanging above. They were looking for number 117, and thankfully there was a little daylight left to see the numbers. Everything was harder in the night when the numbers could not be seen so easily.

  Jareen abruptly turned to the door and Silesh followed behind. Jareen did not strike with the leaden knocker, but turned the handle. Finding it unlocked, she entered silently. It was rude to make the Voiceless knock, and most knew to let them enter unannounced. She held her breath as the door swung open and she stepped inside. It was dim, but there was an oil lamp flickering from a sconce on the wall. It looked relatively clean. Slowly, she tasted the air. These merchant streets were always better than anywhere on the flats—until they weren’t. It was incredible what could hide behind the neat facades of the brick row-houses. Finally, she let herself breathe naturally. This was all part of the routine she had developed years ago.

  Like all these houses, a steep stairway led from the landing directly up to the apartments over the shop. This line of houses was four stories tall with a long garret at the top where servants sometimes slept, but once in a while a particularly vindictive family would relegate their dying relatives to a corner of the garret to keep the smells and sounds away.

  As Jareen and Silesh climbed the stairs, a woman in a floral-embroidered gown covered with a dark apron turned the corner of the hall at the top.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” the flustered woman exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “He’s up here.”

  As the Sisters reached the top of the stair, the woman turned and led them into the reception room. These houses were almost always the same. Shops on the ground floor, and then a parlor and dining room on the second divided by a narrow hall, then bedrooms and a small family sitting room on the third, and finally servants’ quarters or more bedrooms below the garret. The kitchen was typically at the back of the building on the ground floor, behind the shop, and a narrow rear stair accessed all floors for the servants. The first time the Sisters arrived, they would enter via the main street. All subsequent times, they would take the servant stairs.

  There was a low cot set up in the center of the reception room, and on it lay the emaciated frame of a man. Jareen’s practiced eye took in the scene in moments. His breaths were rapid, his cheeks sunken, his jaw slack. There was the slight sound of gurgling from the secretions pooling at the back of his throat, indicating that he had stopped swallowing already. She approached the bed and pulled the blankets up to the man’s knees. His toes were a dusky purple, and his skin was mottled up to the knees. The hands, carefully laid out upon the blanket, were also mottled. The man’s rate of breathing slowed, and then stopped. Jareen and Silesh watched. After a few moments, he took a gasping breath, then another, and then the rapid pace of respiration began again.

  “He’s been doing that all day, and—” The woman turned back to the Sisters and really noticed Jareen for the first time. She managed to capture her startled expression only a moment after it sprang to her face. Jareen was just over six feet tall, and even the heavy veil that the sisters wore could not hide the distinct eyes or the angles of her body. The woman recovered well, all things considered: “—And the sound. It sounds like he’s just filling up.” Jareen approached and held the man’s wrist. The pulse was fast and thready. This man could have used their aid weeks ago, no doubt, and yet like so often was the case, they were not called until it was nearly too late to make a difference.

  For the first time since they had left the Wards, Jareen spoke, knowing even after these years how different her voice sounded to the people of Nosh.

  “Bring many pillows and a towel.”

  “How many?”

  “As many as you have.”

  When the woman left to climb the stairs to the next floor, Jareen and Silesh set down their satchels. Standing side by side along the man’s cot, they deftly rolled him, pulling away the blanket to expose the man’s buttocks. He was clean at least; the woman was doing that much. The buttocks were mottling as well. There was one small open sore, but it didn’t matter, now. They laid him back before the woman returned with arms full of pillows and a towel draped over her shoulder. Jareen and Silesh divested her of her burden, and with practiced hands they laid the towel alongside the man and, this time making sure not to expose him, gently rolled him sideways and nearly onto his face. A stream of thick phlegm and saliva drained from his mouth. Jareen took the corner of the towel and wiped out the inside of the man’s cheek. White residue came away, as well as some more thick fluids. They rolled the man back and propped him up as high as they could. Jareen did not need her listening horn to hear the crackles in the man’s lungs.

  “Keep him propped,” she said. “He will breathe easier that way. Speak to him. It is hearing that leaves last. Sing him songs, if he liked any.” Jareen turned to Silesh and nodded. There was a low round table nearby. Usually it would stand upon the crimson rug in the center of the parlor, but now it was pushed aside and the cot had taken its place. Silesh went to the table, knelt down beside it, and opened her satchel, removing a series of vials and setting them upon the dark polished chernak wood. The humans called it “elfwood,” shipped all the way from Jareen’s homeland, and it was no doubt a sign of status for the family.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Judging only by appearances, the woman of the house was in early middle age, perhaps forty-five years old, well past her prime in looks, but she did not seem unkind. She was dressed in a matronly way, not trying to hide her years. The house felt empty and still, though; there was no sound of other living beings, no children or servants, even. The woman looked from one to the other of the Sisters, her lips pursed and her brow wrinkled. Jareen knew precisely the questions that the woman wanted to ask, but she waited, making her ask.

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “No,” Jareen answered. “It is not catching.”

  “What is it?”

  “His lungs. They are failing him.”

  “I will tell my brother. He will come, now.” The woman dropped her voice. “How long?” she whispered.

  “Hours,” Jareen said.

  “Hours?”

  “Hours or less.”

  “But by the time my brother receives the runner, he won’t be able to get here until morning!”

  “I do not believe he will live till morning.”

  “Is there nothing you can do. . . to prolong?”

  “I can get him more comfortable,” Jareen said. That was cue enough for Silesh, who stood back up, holding a small glass dropper full of a blue tincture. The blue was a dye, serving no function other than to distinguish the tincture.

  “No,” the woman said. “That is how you kill people.”

  “No,” Jareen replied with a flat tone. “This is how we take away their pain. The pain makes them struggle, and it strains the body. If we can bring relief, the body may relax. He may even live a little longer. Or he will let go sooner. But it will be without pain.”

  “But my brother should see him before he dies.”

  “Is this your father?”

  “Grandfather.”

  “We are here to serve. Your grandfather will not make it to morning. The choice is yours. He can die with pain or with relief.”

  The woman’s face was flushed red and her brow deeply scored. Silesh waited in silence with the dropper. At last, the woman’s shoulders fell, and tears welled in her eyes.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Jareen nodded. Silesh bent over and released the dose under the man’s tongue. As Silesh turned back around, Jareen motioned to the woman with her head. Understanding the silent command, Silesh stepped in. Jareen had relegated this part of the process to her as training.

  “Come, I will show you how to dose him with tincture.”

  “No!” the woman said, shaking her head and covering her mouth. “I cannot do that. What if I give it and he dies? I cannot kill him.”

  “It will be the sickness that kills him, not you,” Silesh answered. “We never intend to kill, only to ease.”

  “Take him to the Wards,” the woman begged. “Let me pay you back. In a year, we will have the money.”

  “There are no beds, even if you could pay,” Jareen interjected flatly. Silesh glanced at her teacher.

  “Then stay with me,” the woman said. “If it won’t be long—”

  “We cannot,” Jareen interrupted. “There are many more Departing. We can return before dawn on our way back, but it will likely be to prepare the body.” She motioned to Silesh.

  “Come, let me show you,” Silesh said gently, laying a hand on the woman’s arm.

  The young Sister proceeded to demonstrate how to draw up tincture from the small glass vial into the dropper. The matron of the house watched with bleary eyes.

  “Under his tongue, every two hours,” Silesh said. A bell rang in the distance, and Silesh pointed. “Consider it starting now.” It was obvious there was no bell clock in the reception room. There was little embarrassment in it, though; only the wealthiest had clocks, all others relying on the hours struck in the belfries throughout the city.

  “And each time you give him tincture,” Silesh continued. “Try to turn him a little from side to side.” Silesh demonstrated, turning the man to his right and placing a pillow below one hip. Not that it would matter much, now. His condition was too advanced to worry about keeping sores away, but it might provide some comfort.

  “And make sure to keep him clean if he soils,” Jareen added. Silesh glanced at Jareen.

  “Yes, of course,” the woman replied, her shoulders stiffening. Of course, the woman looked kind and well-to-do compared to many, but Jareen had seen horrors among the wealthy and love among the poor. . . she’d also seen love among the wealthy and horror among the poor. But all said, diligent care was rarer than not, regardless of money.

  Silesh put her hand on the woman’s shoulder,

  “Are you alright?” she asked, her tone soft and compassionate.

  “How could I be?”

  “You’re doing well,” Silesh said. “You’re taking good care of him, and keeping him from suffering. What is his creed? Has he had his rites?”

  “He has, this morning,” the woman said. “Erthrusian.”

  “Then he is ready, and you’re doing well.”

  Jareen watched this exchange in silence.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  Jareen glanced toward the door so that Silesh would notice.

  “You’re doing well,” Silesh repeated, touching the woman’s shoulder once more. “We’ll be back before dawn.”

  “If we can,” Jareen said.

  With that, the two adherents of the Order of the Voiceless took their satchels and proceeded back down the stairway.

  Out on the street, the last of the twilight was fading. Thankfully, this district of the city had plentiful lamps. It wasn’t like the dark of the Flats. Their next Departing was three blocks away.

  “Why are you brusque?” Silesh asked.

  A late servant hurried past them on the far side of the street.

  “You forget yourself,” Jareen hissed. “We are not in seclusion!”

  Silesh fell silent.

  The Voiceless could not speak, except in the Wards, the Cloisters, or when in the presence of a Departing. To speak of a Departing or share the words of a Departing or their family to anyone else was punishable by death, and that was a justice strictly given. Though many of the other old practices of the Noshian rites had faded, this one yet served a purpose for the wealthy in particular.

  But beyond that, Jareen did not want to hear the young girl’s moralizing. Certainly, Silesh was more than a woman by age—at least as far as the humans reckoned—but she had only been out in the city for a matter of a month, and Jareen did not want to be criticized by a fresh face who had so far spent her days in tutelage in the Wards. Silesh was only a young girl during the last plague.

  Jareen had lived it. She had done what she could day after day and night after night as other Sisters died. Silesh and the young ones like her were sequestered, quarantined, so that the future of the Order and its knowledge would not be lost. It was not so for Jareen. Jareen cleaned the bodies, watched men and women drowning in their own lungs night after night, stood vigil whenever she could for those who would die alone, with no one else willing to witness. . . Saw her own friends die. And she’d wanted to scream. She’d wanted to shout about it to everyone she met.

  But there could only be silence for the Voiceless. The Arch Sisters of the Order only shrugged and reminded her that she should be thankful she was immune to the human diseases.

  Was she brusque? There was a time when she spoke in those same gentle tones. Now she was tired. And departure. . . departure was so banal. Let Silesh remember this a thousand departures from now. Besides, none of these people had cared during the plague. They abandoned the Departing to the care of her and her Sisters, until there were so few Sisters left. Toward the end, Yerel had stuffed cotton in her ears to block out the gurgling sounds and the moans in the common halls of the Ward, to let her concentrate on just one at a time—until Yerel herself had joined them. She had been one of the last remaining Sisters who had studied with Jareen when first she’d been accepted among the Voiceless, and Jareen had lived to see at least two more crops of the human Sisters raised up to fill the gaps.

  Jareen did not need to be questioned by a novice.

  The Dwarves of Ice-Cloak series and , but it is not necessary to have read those to enjoy this story.

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