The Wiles of Weasel

Martel yawned his way through his morning duties. Going to the slums after the evening meal and returning late at night left precious little time for sleeping. Several rounds of this had begun to take its toll. Fearful of making a mistake in the apothecary, Martel worked very slowly, so his brain had a chance to keep up with everything his hands did. Mistress Rana chided him several times, making him nervous and thereby giving him further reason to work slowly. Fortunately, she eventually retreated to her laboratory. While Nora also made remarks, they were of a jesting nature, and Martel survived the two hours without further issues.

Elemental magic was another matter. He could not rely on muscle memory like when chopping roots or grinding powders. He still had yet to produce even the simplest effect combining two elements, and giving his difficulty in focusing, today did not promise to be any different. What he needed to learn was combining water with air to create clouds capable of raining, but given his innate nature, Master Alastair had him start by producing steam from water and fire. Not even the tiniest wisp of wet air appeared between his hands; when he pushed himself, he either just made drops appear on one hand or fire burst out around the other.

"I'm sorry, master, I'll get it eventually."

"I'm not concerned," his teacher told him. "You've picked up the basics faster than I expected. But I think rather than a deficit of practice, your current lack of progress stems from a deficit of sleep."

The combination of that very issue along with the complex wording meant Martel spent a few moments catching up. "Oh, right. I had some trouble sleeping last night." After all, it was hard to rest when walking on the streets.

"Well, you have some spare time between this and your next lesson, I suggest you catch up on sleep when you get the chance."

"Yes, master." Not wanting to linger on this topic, Martel seized the first question he could think of. "I've been taking the healing class for a few fivedays now, but I still don't understand what it has to do with magic."

His teacher gave half a smile. "Nothing so far, if I remember right. At the end, Master Kelsos will do a small test. It'll take a moment only, and he'll know if you got the talent for healing."

"It's rather rare, I gather?"

"More than anything. Us fire-touched may not be common, but you'll find one or two of us every generation or so. Healers, on the other hand – several decades may pass without any."

"A shame, given how useful their power is."

"Certainly. Alright, no more! Don't think I can't recognise an attempt to get your teacher talking." Master Alastair crossed his arms, but his expression was benevolent. "Get back to your exercise."

~

By now, the route to the children's house had become familiar to Martel. He did not plan a long stay, though, as he had dealt with most of what required attention on previous evenings. Mostly, he just intended to check whether his remedies had provided improvement for those in need thereof, and how much was left of the herbal supplies he had given them.

He was still a few streets away when a man raised his arm to get Martel's attention. The fellow in question wore rather ragged clothes like most in the slums, with a dirty brown cloak over his shoulders. He had a scraggly beard and greasy skin. Martel did not feel inclined to speak with him and kept going.

"Hey, you!" The man did not give up but hurried to cross the street and catch up to Martel. "You're the healer, right?"

"I don't know what you mean." Martel quickened his pace.

"Sure you do." He kept up. "Over at Weasel's gang. I've seen you come in and out of their house. You're the apothecary he's been talking about."

"Leave me alone."

"What's the split? Bet that Weasel is sticking ya. You work with me and my boys, we'll give you seven out of ten."

Martel stopped in his tracks as he finally understood. The other man grinned, probably mistaking the novice's intentions, which only made him angrier. He placed his hand against the greasy fellow's chest and sent him to the ground with an empowered push. "Don't ever approach me again." He stalked away.

~

As before, the children quickly spotted Martel to surround him even before he reached the house. Unlike before, he walked with a stern expression, tight-lipped. As soon as he entered, his eyes searched the room until he found Weasel. He walked over to stare down at the ten-year-old. "Are you charging people money for my help?"

"I knew it was a bad idea," mumbled Badger from elsewhere in the room.

"Shut up." Weasel turned his eyes from his compatriot towards Martel. "What does it matter to you? You wanted to help people. I brought you people in need of help."

"First, my teacher has forbidden me from selling my services. You made me break my promise to her. Second, I came here to help your people because nobody else will. Everything I brought you, I paid for with my own coin. If people can afford to pay you, they can afford to go somewhere else." Martel stared at the little chief, feeling betrayed.

"You're making this too complicated. What's the harm in earning a few coins? It pays for food, something we need even more than all your medicine."

"I have other duties. I can't spend my entire nights making you money," Martel argued forcefully. He gave the boy a harsh look. "I'm here to help the residents of this house, and only this house. If I find out you've charged a single penny from someone again, I'll never be back. Understood?"

Several of the children gasped. "Don't make him mad, Weasel!" Mouse implored.

Faced with unrest in his own ranks, Weasel relented. "Fine. It's over and done with."

A girl, older than the rest and not part of the gang, raised her hand. "What – what about me? I already paid."

Martel sighed. Despite his stated intention to only help the small inhabitants of this particular home, he found it hard to reject someone in obvious need of aid. He walked over and sat down next to the table. "Alright. I'll have a look."