“Zengati salts.” Valerius carefully spooned some of the liquid between the sleeping woman’s lips, then stood back, watching her closely. But Myrhichia did not stir, her face peaceful, breast gently rising and falling. She might have been truly asleep, if not for those empty grey eyes.

“Well?” Eirual demanded softly.

Ignoring her, Valerius pulled a small, three-legged clay bowl from his bag and filled it with bits from what looked like a twist of dry grass. To this he added several strands of Myrhichia’s hair and a crumb of dry mucus from the corner of her eye, then put a candle to it to start it smoldering. He held this over Myrhichia and blew the sweet smoke into her face, then set the bowl on the small table beside the bed and took up his staff, chanting softly under his breath.

And it went on like that as the stars faded outside and the first pale glow of false dawn showed beneath the velvet curtains.

Valerius finally sank into a chair beside the bed and sighed. “I’m sorry, Eirual.”

“Try something else!” she begged.

“I shall have to consult the texts.”

“You mean there’s nothing more you can do now?”

“I will send my best priests to pray for her in the meantime.”

Tears filled her dark eyes. “Pray? What good will that do?”

“If nothing else, it will cleanse her soul.”

“Because she’s a whore?” Eirual spat out. Seregil reached to embrace her but she shook his arm away. “You think this illness is some punishment? Her soul is as pure as yours, Valerius, no matter what you choose to think of us!”

“I meant nothing of the sort,” Valerius rumbled, rising to gather his things. “It’s to cleanse her of illness, if that’s possible.”

“Has it helped anyone in the Lower City?”

“Not yet,” he admitted. “I thought it might give you some comfort.”

“Keep your priests, and find some remedy!”

“As you wish.” Valerius motioned for Seregil to come with him.

“Stay with her, Alec,” he murmured as he followed the drysian out into the corridor.

“Is there somewhere we can speak?” Valerius asked, closing the door behind them.

Seregil led him down the hallway to Myrhichia’s empty chamber. Candles were burning here. The silken bed had been turned down, and the room smelled of expensive oils and incense.

The drysian scrubbed his fingers through his unruly black hair. “I didn’t expect this. Not so soon.”

Seregil raised an expectant eyebrow.

“It’s broken out in the Ring, too, in that cesspit behind the Sea Market.”

“I suppose that’s less surprising than finding it here. Those few found near the Sea Gate might have been random wandering, but now it’s more likely someone infected with it must have escaped the Lower City quarantine and headed for somewhere they thought they wouldn’t be noticed.”