Chapter 9: Dependents

Two brothers ran the operations of the combination. While one brother managed the stable, ‘Young’ Bart ran the inn. The happy innkeeper watched the line slowly dwindle in front of the two healers seated in a corner of his common room. Their presence for the past week or so had increased his morning and midafternoon business by a significant factor. He was a savvy man, more so than his dead father, ‘Old’ Bart, had been on the farm. The increase in business was enough that he had offered the party of five a free room and had reduced the charge for their meals. He wanted to keep them from relocating to his competitor down the road.

The party included a rather nondescript man accompanied by two short, very attractive women and a pair of teens or almost-teens - hard to tell. The blonde woman was clearly the senior of the two healers, but the redhead was something of an enigma. She always stood slightly apart and watched the room, moving occasionally to fetch something. All five were armed. That was not unusual for a male healer, but for women to be so obviously armed and for a woman to position herself like a guard - that was very unusual.

One other anomaly had surfaced. The two healers were still here and had not slunk away in the night, nor had they been run out of town. They actually seemed to be able to help and often cure folks. Not, of course, everyone, but more than the usual nostrum peddler. Women were obviously more comfortable telling their intimate problems to another woman - after overcoming the prejudice concerning the competence of a woman as healer. And the fees, their fees were actually reasonable for what they achieved.

Bart watched as the man, Pēteris he called himself, carefully unwound a filthy bandage from the hand of a young boy as the urchin’s mother stood by anxiously. Bart turned to Beatrice, his serving wench, and called, “He’s going to be wanting boiled water and boiled rags again. See to it!” Then he returned his attention to the scene rolling out before him.

Pēteris examined the hand before him. There was a large splinter driven directly into the boy’s palm. The hand was hot, swollen, and red. The splinter was surrounded by pus. The good news was the lack of angry red streaks that often indicated sepsis.

“I couldn’t get the splinter out,” wailed the boy’s mother. “I have no man, and when it broke off, I couldn’t get a grip on it. We heard about you and walked two days to get here.”

Pēteris turned to the blonde and asked, “Robyn, what do you think?”

“I think we have a good chance of saving that hand if we get the splinter out and the wound drained and cleaned,” his lady replied. She turned to summon the server, and found Beatrice standing with a pitcher of near boiling water and a bowl filled with steaming cloths.

Turning to the boy, Pēteris told him, “I won’t lie, this will hurt some, but then it will feel a lot better. Do you think you can take it?”

“Yes, sir,” came the timid answer.

He had the pair round the table and seated the boy at his side with his injured hand on the table. “Your mother can hold your other hand for you to squeeze, and Robyn, here, will hold your hurt hand while I get the splinter out. I’ll wash your hand first, then we’ll see what we’ll see.”

As he worked to clean the boy’s hand, a large man pushed into the inn, dragging a girl or young woman of indeterminate age. “Where’s the healer,” he demanded and pushed to the front of the remaining patrons waiting to see Pēteris and Robyn. “You’re to fix this wench, NOW,” and he pushed her forward. “She sick, and she can’t cook, and she can’t do chores, and she can’t fuck. NOW. Cure her! And he stuck a knife of about eighteen inches into the table next to Pēteris’ patient’s hand.

Pēteris looked up calmly and replied, “You’ll wait your turn like anyone else.” And looked down at the boy’s hand again.

The towering man turned florid and yelled, “NOW, I said.” And he leaned over the table to pull his knife free. Pēteris stood, grabbed the off balance man by the collar, and yanked him half over the table. The man staggered, and Pēteris doubled his hands and rabbit punched him as he strove to rise. Feeling vertebrae crunch, Pēteris stepped back as the man’s chin hit the table beside the boy’s hand. There were additional cracking sounds from his neck area.

Muttering to Robyn, “Finish the boy, please.” Pēteris pulled the knife, rounded the table, grabbed his dead or dying attacker by the collar, and hauled him out the front entrance and into the street. The red headed Miriam followed, knife in hand, to watch for any friends the man might have. The teens, sitting off to the side, remained alert for further trouble.

Once clear of the inn, and mindful of advice to never leave a live enemy behind him, Pēteris stabbed the man through each eye. There wasn’t a twitch. The stranger was fully dead.

While Miriam stood watch, Pēteris wiped the bloody knife on the dead man’s filthy tunic and searched the body for money, weapons, and anything useful. In addition to the longer knife, he acquired a good quality sheathed and belted knife, two boot knives, and a hatchet. He tried on the man’s gauntlets, and when they fit, he kept them. He took the boots to sell or trade.

In two money pouches, he found a considerable number of conchs, shells, quads, and pinches. He did not take time to count, but placed them all into a single pouch and tied it to his belt, tucking the pouch itself inside the waist of his pants.

Returning inside, he called out, “One of the first things you learn as a healer, you have to find and eliminate the cause of the problem. Looks like we just did that a few minutes ago.” He looked about and continued, “There is trash in the street. Anyone who removes it to the midden can have anything useful they find.”

As he crossed back to his table, he stopped and asked Bart, “May I borrow Beatrice? I’ll pay you and tip her if that’s allowed.”

“That you may,” responded the innkeeper, “You just removed a big cause of problems - for me and for others. I won’t charge you much, and Bea will be allowed to keep her tip.”

Motioning to Beatrice, Pēteris told her, “I’m going to keep you busy for a while. Do your usual good job, and Bart has agreed that you can keep my tip.” He smiled at her sudden excitement.

“First,” he instructed, “get a hot bath started in our room. I suspect we’ll need at least two changes of water. Then, go to the store, seamstress, dress shop - whatever you have here -, and buy two dresses of a size to fit that young woman whose master I just killed. If there is only one dress, order another. Get a supply of whatever you women folks wear under the dress, riding pants and tunic, and a warm coat. Then your tip is whatever you buy for her, buy for yourself.”

Beatrice gasped and hurried away to do his bidding, and Pēteris turned to the young girl-woman standing in front of the table, trembling. “What is your name, girl?” he asked.

Her answer was so low he could barely hear her, “Master called me ‘Wench’ or ‘Slut’. I know no other name.”

Frowning, Pēteris continued his questioning. “How many years remain of your indenture?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she responded, “Master never told me, and I dared not ask.”

“Bart, come here, please,” Pēteris called across the room. When he arrived, Pēteris asked, “What can you tell me about this hapless girl?”

“Rooster - that’s the fellow you killed - took her indenture when her mother died. Her mother was indentured to him, you see. As she probably told you, Wench or Slut were the only names he ever used. I suppose that she is about fifteen or sixteen now.” Bart stood silent, then, “You have no reason to know, but Rooster had two brothers - and a sister.”

In his head, Pēteris heard Kathleen Turner, ‘But if there was one law of the west: Bastards had brothers... ‘ Apparently, that was a law on Chaos as well. He sighed.

Turning to the still quivering girl, Pēteris told her, “I always liked the name Sarah. If you like it too, that’s your name now - do you like it?”