A sorceress and healer, called Marti Sodergren. And the volunteers. Shani, a student from Oxenfurt. Iola, a priestess from the Temple of Melitele in Ellander.

I know Marti Sodergren, thought Rusty, I’ve already worked with that beauty more than once. A bit of a nymphomaniac, she’s also prone to hysteria, but that’s nothing, as long as her magic works. Anaesthetic, disinfectant and blood-staunching spells.

Iola. A priestess, or rather a novice. A girl with looks as plain and dull as linen, with long, strong peasant hands. The temple had prevented those hands from becoming tainted by the ugly mark of heavy and dirty slogging on the soil. But it hadn’t managed to disguise their descent.

No, thought Rusty, I’m not afraid for her, by and large. Those peasant woman’s hands are sure hands, trustworthy hands. Besides, girls from temples seldom disappoint, they don’t cave in at moments of despair, but seek comfort in religion, in their mystical faith. Interestingly, it helps.

He glanced at red-haired Shani, nimbly threading curved needles with catgut.

Shani. A child from reeking city backstreets, who made it to the Academy of Oxenfurt thanks to her own thirst for knowledge and the unimaginable sacrifices of her parents in paying her fees. A schoolgirl. A jester. A cheerful scamp. What does she know? How to thread needles? Put on tourniquets? Hold retractors? Ha, the question is: when will the little red-haired student faint, drop the retractors and tumble nose-first into the open belly of a patient being operated on?

People aren’t very hardy, he thought. I asked to be given an elf woman. Or somebody from my own race. But no. There’s no trust.

Not towards me either, as a matter of fact.

I’m a halfling. An unhuman.

A stranger.

‘Shani!’

‘Yes, Mr Vanderbeck?’

‘Rusty. I mean, to you it’s “Mr Rusty”. What’s this, Shani? And what’s it for?’

‘Are you testing me, Mr Rusty?’

‘Answer, girl!’

‘It’s a raspatory! For stripping the periosteum during amputations! So that the periosteum doesn’t crack under the teeth of the saw, to make the sawing clean and smooth! Satisfied? Did I pass?’

‘Quiet, girl, quiet.’

He raked his fingers through his hair.

Interesting, he thought. There are four of us doctors here. And each one’s ginger! Is it fate or what?

‘Please step outside the tent, girls,’ he beckoned.

They obeyed, though all of them snorted to themselves. Each in her own way.

Outside the tent sat a cluster of orderlies enjoying the last minutes of sweet idleness. Rusty cast a severe glance at them, and sniffed to check if they were already plastered.

A blacksmith, a huge fellow, was bustling around by his table which resembled a torture chamber, and organising his tools which served to pull the wounded out of suits of armour, mail shirts and bent visors.