Doctor Charcot

The doctor let his thoughts wander. Has the time already arrived or is this one of many distractions along the way? That notion filled him with dread. He wasn’t ready. Yes, Cape Town has become a risky endeavor, and leaving it would be wise. Tenoch-Ling’s grown greedy and bold. Her dealing in the Red Cities put him in danger. How long before the Royal Houses look our way? The mayor has had to open several bank accounts in Sagena, Madrab, and Etlam to hide the profits. No one can rise to such wealth and prominence without attracting the attention of a wrong sort of people. She certainly understands this, doesn’t she?

As the doctor’s eyes found the grim black smoke above the forest, his other worry resurfaced. Something that made the Royal Houses innocent in comparison. Shouts grabbed his attention and he looked to the small bridge over a river that divided the estate of the mayor and his, from the rest of the village. Cape Towners stormed past the guards and headed toward Tenoch-Ling’s mansion. It was difficult to blame them. Since the massacre in Soto, they haven’t seen a sign of banditry in a radius of twenty miles. The doctor lingered, waiting to see what would happen. He only hoped that she wouldn’t be foolish enough to use her mercenary man, this Yamil. He was a tough guy who has seen a real fight, fear, and death. Unleashing him would be a mistake. But aren’t we prone to mistakes?

A cordon of the mayor’s guards erected between the mayor’s mansion and the crowd. Angry shouts demanded Tenoch-Ling’s presence. She once had asked him about the infamous stinkleaf tea, but the plant – the stinkleaf shrub – has been made illegal by the Emperor and the prices have soared, making it a wasteful investment. Or so he’d told her years ago. Tenoch-Ling’s planned to spray the tea to disperse the crowds like this one.

“QUIET!” a roar rolled over the heads of people. They quickly fell silent, cowering in fear. Their newfound courage gone, stripped by the appearance of the infernal woman. She would make a good general. Which wasn’t possible. The Imperial army has only allowed the Royalbloods into the officer ranks. Commoners like everyone in Cape Town – except Giliad – could advance to some sort of pre-officer position, but it was only smoke and mirror. In the eyes of the law, the lowest Royalblood stood higher than the highest commoner.

The mayor glared at the people below her balcony. She’s started using it a few years back, arguing that her position must be elevated so the common folks won’t see her as their equal. The doctor sat down on the bench, overlooking the mess. His house was situated on a small hill, making it easier to see.

“You are a bunch of idiots!” the mayor snapped. “Do you want to be treated like civilized people? Then behave like them.”

“Smokes! Bandits! Murderers!” This has escalated quickly but that’s what the simple folks do. In the face of the unknown, they come up with all sorts of explanations.

“Shut your holes!” Yamil’s voice cracked like a leather belt. The crowd rippled. They feared him and there were different layers of fright. He was a foreigner. A man from the north. Wearing scars and tattoos like a statement of who he was.

The mayor used the silence to continue her terrible speech. “You don’t need to be afraid. Cape Town possesses militia and over a hundred well-trained hunters. No bandits will dare to attack. Yucca village is a shadow of what we have here. They have no walls or a gate capable of stoping the unwanted intruders. They cower inside their huts during the night while you? You thrive…” The doctor stopped listening to Tenoch-Ling’s words. He knew them. She spoke the truth, though the way she chose to do this, left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was propaganda aimed to elevate Cape Town even higher. The doctor’s attention returned to the speech when he noticed that she spoke of something else. “The dirt road to Yucca has been reclaimed by the jungle. No one would cut through the forest…” At least no one sane.

“What if the Forest Gods struck Yucca?” Questions popped up. It caused Tenoch-Ling to go red. She hated all religions and her acceptance of the Imperial Pantheon was tentative at best.

“Are you lost your minds? Her voice whipped with anger. “If you remain stuck in your small superstitious world, then maybe Cape Town isn’t the place for you!” She left the balcony and doctor Charcot shivered with the realization that the mayor has taken too much weight on her shoulder and it started to drag her down. The news of Giliad didn’t help. No amount of money would help if the Empire learned that he’s lived here for ten years. Cape Town would be made an example. Burned to the ground, not even babies would be spared. The doctor retreated from the bench lest his presence would draw the unsatisfied Cape Towners. They’d have questions. And because it was believed that he was the vice-mayor (which he wasn’t), people tended to come to him with non-medical issues. The doctor knew he could get away with that for a time. But Tenoch-Ling would eventually grow worried that he wanted to replace her. He didn’t need it.

*

Hours passed since the crowd dispersed. It took the mayor’s personal guards to force them over the bridge. The doctor had watched through the slit in the window how stubborn Cape Towners demanded something more from the mayor. It wasn’t them, he suspected, but Sul-Tizoca. The leader of the hunters had a big influence amongst the folks. The hunters brought the majority of food for the marketplace and the poorer folks. We shouldn’t tell Sul-Tizoca about Giliad. I should keep my mouth shut. These were foolish thoughts. It was impossible to predict the hunter’s reaction.

Doctor Charcot untied three small sacks. Exotic scents filled his small laboratory. The ugly sand, Arcan dust, and dried moonflower from the bottom of the Emerald Lake. To get these three things, doctor Charcot had to spend his substantial savings. Their man in Etlam was expensive but effective. The doctor has hunted these ingredients for years and at best he’d received weak substitutes.

Now he could smell the scent of victory. Can it be? He asked himself. That we are close to the end? That the Scar in the Fourth Region will finally be healed? He wished so and more he did, stronger doubts coursed through him.

Then he stopped himself from going deeper into the mad dream. He’s understood years ago one thing. The Liveren Treasure wasn’t for him and the three substances laying on the table were only a distraction. If his memories and mind worked as they should, then he could create the universal antidote. Something like this was only a myth. Such an achievement would put his name alongside the likes of Riv, Higar, and maybe even the infamous Jea Liveren who has created the cornerstone of today’s medicine and left the treasure that’s haunted minds of thousands. But the doctor wasn’t a fool, he understood that the higher the rise, the harder the fall. The Empire would execute him without mercy if they got the wind of his attempt to create the universal antidote. Such creations were permitted only under the aegis of the Empire. It evoked the memories of Uladain Liveren, the nephew of Jea Liveren, whose greatest achievement had been his resistance against the Empire. He had abandoned the luxury and splendor and traveled to the Fifth Region in order to find peace. What happened to him has remained unclear to this day. Am I going to be another Uladain or Jea?

Shouts outside made his heart skip a beat. Did Sul-Tizoca lose his mind and decided to attack the mayor or did he reveal the truth about Giliad? But before the doctor had a chance to reach the door, loud knocking arrested his feet. Did they come to get me? Sul-Tizoca must have blamed the doctor for keeping the truth from the council.

The banging intensified and doctor Charcot stepped to the shelf with unnamed jars. He opened one of them and carefully extracted a pinch of fine red powder. It was perfect for self-defense. Only then he went to the door. He cracked it open, finding three hunters holding a badly injured man. His clothes were shredded. Despite the agonizing wounds, he didn’t complain. His hard eyes fell on the doctor and the old man shivered because these eyes were evil.

“Doctor, they are the refugees from Yucca,” one of the hunters said. “Sul-Tizoca—” Doctor Charcot waved him into silence. He gestured the fools to bring the wounded man into the surgery room. He didn’t like this, but couldn’t refuse to help someone only because of some remote bad feeling.

The surgery room had the best lightning in Cape Town. It cost the doctor fortune. Luckily the most of Cape Towners couldn’t gauge the cost. The hunters placed the man on the bed in the middle of the room then stepped back. The doctor hurried them away from the room but before he could close the door, another man entered the surgery room. Lean and with average features, he was clearly of a tribal origin. His hand raked through his long oily hair as he looked around, then after a few vital seconds, his eyes returned to the wounded man.

“Jaguar's attack.”

“I can see that,” doctor Charcot slipped into his professional shoes, bitter and mean old man. “Go find a place to sleep in the tavern. I have a job to do.”

The man didn’t move.

“What kind of healer are you?” he asked instead.

The doctor looked up, judging the companion of the wounded.

“What kind of a fool enter the jungle at night?”

No answer came forth, which made doctor Charcot suspicious. The man didn’t insist to help his companion, he just stood there watching the surgery room.

“If you want him saved, find me my assistant, Rigial-Pik.”

The man silently left.

Doctor Charcot picked a syringe and filled it with a mix of antibiotics. These wounds were septic and within a few days, this man would die. As the doctor pressed the needle against the man’s skin, their eyes met. Who’s this man? He should be screaming in agony. He didn’t miss doctor Charcot’s hesitation and said, “do what you have to do, healer.” Healer. This word was used mostly in villages. Towns and cities have been reformed to possess doctors, and doctors were required to follow strict imperial rules.

As the doctor pressed the antibiotics into the blood vessel, he got a better look at the man. Ginger-haired, hard, severe with muscles tough like old leather. His brown eyes held nothing but contempt. The only good thing was that this man wasn’t another Royalblood.

“This will stop the infection,” the doctor put the empty syringe and reached to a jar with the raw knitbone leaves. This unrefined plant had miraculous properties, but one day too many or a few degrees too much and it turned into yet another poison. The Fifth Region balanced between death and life and too many times, they meant the same thing.

As the doctor began stuffing the leaves in the wounds, the wounded man only grunted, keeping his mouth shut.

Two minutes later Rigial-Pik arrived.