He regards me, a grudging respect apparent in his body language. “You don’t worry about getting bitten yourself?”

“My body is resistant to the venoms.”

He furrows his brow, then shrugs. “Where should I…?”

“Sit down on my bed. I’ll need to examine you.”

He settles on my cot, plants his legs sturdily in front of him, and props his forearms on his thighs. I frown at the way he’s pushed my neatly folded blankets into a pile. He glances at my expression and his mouth quirks in amusement, though he makes no move to put the blankets back in place.

I’m falling into my old healer’s routine already, looking over his body with a practiced eye. He’s young and healthy, but too thin to be at his full strength. I estimate his weight to be around eighty ingots, though with more food he could stand to gain a good ten or fifteen more. His coloring is good. Even with the abundance of umbermarks covering him from head to toe, his olive complexion is warm and his brown eyes are clear.

I reach for his wrist. “May I check your pulse?”

“Are you going to tie me up again?” he asks. But he holds out his arm.

I hesitate for the briefest moment before touching him. Again, I have to remind myself that he can’t catch my disease. His skin is warmer than mine but not feverish, and his pulse strong. In addition to the umbermarks, a network of scars crosses his exposed skin, though his face is unmarred. It makes me wonder if he’s vain of his appearance, and if he gets much attention from the young women of his tribe. He certainly carries himself with that swagger. When he turns his head, I see that his ears are puffy and misshapen. I’ve heard that ears can become this way with repeated blows, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it up close.

“You’re healthy enough. Your body should be able to handle my potion.” I’m starting to feel jittery, so I go to my table and spoon the ziko I’ve prepared into a bowl. Then I add seven drops of venom. “If all goes well, I’ll take away your memory today, and then restore it for our journey.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he cranes his neck to inspect the ceiling, tracing the length of the bamboo beams with his gaze. “The empire makes their slave cages of bamboo,” he says.

I pause in my mixing, unsure what to say. It’s true that the majority of the empire’s bamboo comes from our groves.

Dineas snorts in disgust. “Must be nice, buying your safety with the blood of others.”

And now I’m glad I’m bent over my herbs so he can’t see my jaw clench. “We do what we must. And we’ve had our share of suffering.”