A Hope and a Prayer

Figuring he might as well get it out of the way, Martel approached Alain at breakfast the next morning. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to make the ointment for the sparring matches after all. Sorry," he reiterated. Having to retract his offer bothered Martel, maybe more than it should. But it had seemed like a good opportunity to both demonstrate his generosity and also his skill and knowledge, and maybe sow some seeds of friendship. Looking at Alain's disappointed face, all of that now seemed doubtful.

"Alright, I guess. Why not? You seemed happy to do it the other night."

"Mistress Rana won't let me," Martel lied. "She doesn't want me making it for anyone other than the apothecary." He felt a little guilty pushing the blame on his teacher, but given the situation, Martel's self-pity mattered more, and the lie made him feel less embarrassed.

"That is a shame. I guess we will have to pay Nora again. If you can spare any coin, we all try to contribute," the mageknight said.

"Definitely," Martel replied, possibly lying again. He had nothing to contribute at present, unless he got another task with the Night Knives. Where Jasper would appear again to take half. Deciding to leave before his frustrations got the better of him, Martel nodded at Alain and walked away.

***

With a jar of salve in his hand, Martel followed the main road north towards the temple district. He walked in light snowfall, making him occasionally shake his cloak. Although not the best of weather, he did not mind so much. Being away from the Lyceum made him feel better about his situation, getting some distance from his problems. And as the towers of the Basilica rose in the distance through the snow descending from the skies, Martel almost felt uplifted. To see such beauty, to know it existed in the world, comforted him.

Crossing the square before the Basilica, Martel noticed that the ragged preacher railing against magic was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the cold weather had driven him off, or people had finally lost interest in his message. Martel hoped it was the latter.

Entering the temple itself, Martel spent a moment taking it in. Even if he had seen the vaulted halls before, they still amazed him. Approaching the great altar of Sol, a quandary presented itself. Normally, people left offerings of obvious nature. Money, food, clothes, maybe candles or the like. But the priests could not be expected to know what to do with a jar containing a smelly substance.

Looking around, Martel located the nearest clergyman and approached. "Excuse me, father."

Despite the title used by Martel, the priest was young, probably in his twenties. He gave a kind smile. "What is it, child?"

Martel held up his jar. "I have made this. I work in an apothecary. It is ointment to heal wounds and prevent infections. I would like to give it as offering."

The priest nodded with an understanding look. "Of course. Go ahead and present it on the altar and say your prayer. I will be sure to fetch it and put it to good use."

"Thank you, father."

"Of course. Sol bless you, child."

Martel made his way towards the altar. Plenty of other people had come for the same purpose, so he waited a little while rather than push through the crowd, out of respect.

Eventually, he could step forward and kneel. This was another altar than the one he had visited last; the Basilica held several to accommodate the many supplicants. This one consisted of an enormous statue, at least fifteen feet high, showing a bearded warrior in golden armour and with a solar crown of the same metal. It stood on an even bigger pedestal, with room for lots of people to position themselves and pray while leaving their offerings at the base.

Martel did the same, carefully placing the jar on the marble foundation. "Great and benevolent Sol, I bring you this gift made by my own hands. Salve to heal the hurt done to your servants. May it be pleasing to you. If so, I ask that you bless my brother John with good health. He is but seven years of age, dark hair with blue eyes, from the town of Engby where he lives with my mother, Hilda, and older brother, Keith. If you will grant him recovery from his ailment, I promise to bring another such offering soon."

The words to the prayer came easy. Martel had said nearly the exact same when his father had been ill, as instructed by Father Julius, back in the small temple at Engby. It had not made a difference, perhaps because his offering back then had been so meagre; just a bundle of reeds he had collected from the marsh nearby, which Father Julius had need of at the time to repair a leak in the roof of his shed. Martel hoped that this gift would prove more pleasing.

Martel considered whether to add a prayer for his recent troubles with Jasper, but he decided against it. Asking for two things might seem presumptuous, and he could end up with neither. Standing up, Martel bowed before the altar and left the Basilica.

***

It took Martel several hours to make his way to the copper lanes. The snowfall had subsided, at least, and he rested his feet as he passed through the market district before making the final stretch to Weasel's gang. None of the children were outside as he approached; the weather kept them indoors unless otherwise necessary, he assumed.

As he entered the house, Weasel appeared almost immediately. "You have my money?"

Martel extended his hand and let the silver coins fall into the boy's palms. "There you are."

"Better late than never, I suppose, though you really stretched my patience."

"Sorry. A problem showed up." Martel hesitated, unhappy to admit he was being extorted. He felt shameful about it. But he also needed advice. "Someone at my school found out about things I've done, in the city." That was as much as Martel was willing to elaborate. "He's extorting me for money. I don't know how to deal with him."

"Stab him."

Martel gave the little chief a look. "I don't want to kill him."

"Stab him a little, and warn him if he bothers you again, you'll stab him a lot." Weasel stared back. "Want me to do it for you? This time, I'll need payment in advance."

While frustrated, Martel was not at the point where he would pay a child for an assassination. "I'll think of something."

"You know where to go if you change your mind."