“I figured, else you would not be here,” the healer replied. “Many such as you came through here. They were always showing up at odd hours with mysterious injuries—usually traumatic ones—claiming they occurred in the most mundane of ways. What is your excuse?”

“I fell after fixing a roof,” Rezkin replied.

The young man snorted. “Because every thatcher carries swords and daggers and wears armor.”

Rezkin pounded his fist on the desk. The fever and pain were making him irritable. “I did not say I was a thatcher, but the cause is still the same.”

The young healer’s face sobered. “Look, I am not Dronidus. Whatever he was involved in, I am not a part of it. I do not treat criminals unless it is requested by the city guard or magistrate.”

“I can make it worth your while,” Rezkin said as he plopped a heavy purse on the desk.

Yerwey glanced at the purse thoughtfully and then shook his head. “No, you need to leave. Find someone else.”

Rezkin sighed, his fatigue getting the best of him. He upended the purse on the desk, and gleaming coins spilled out in a small mound. Yerwey’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “That’s gold!” he exclaimed. Rezkin waited as the young man eyed the small fortune hungrily. It was probably half a year’s income for a Journeyman, and only slightly less for a new healer.

“I … uh … damn. No, I cannot,” the young healer said as he shook his head emphatically. “I do not treat criminals,” he whispered quietly, as though it was a mantra he was repeating to convince himself.

Rezkin did not have the energy to find another healer. He needed this one. “I am not a criminal, and likely those men Dronidus treated were not either. They were most likely strikers.”

“What?” Yerwey exclaimed, meeting Rezkin’s fevered gaze once again.

The warrior sighed again and said, “The strikers do not visit the healer’s wards. Their business and their identities are secret, and only a few select healers would be permitted to know of them. When they are injured, they will go to a healer’s safe house, like this one,” he gestured to the room around them.

The young healer looked doubtful, so Rezkin continued. “Think back. They were all likely large men, finely built with expensive, quality weapons and equipment. They would have shown little or no reaction to the pain they were in, and they would already have evaluated their wounds prior to arrival. How many criminals would you expect to meet such a standard?”

Rezkin did not know if other strikers had come to Dronidus for healing, but the strikers who had trained him had insisted he memorize this place, among many others, that he could use if ever he was injured in the outworld. It was likely that if they knew of and had vetted it, then other strikers would have as well.