Week 5

  The Healer’s Guild Hall was an unimpressive stone box between a shrine and a tavern.

  Calanthe checked her reflection in the window: wind-chapped, eyes underslept, hair refusing to obey. Ember, still on probation as an “outdoor warg,” watched from under the shade of a water barrel. His new leather muzzle gleamed in the sun, but he wore it like a badge of shame.

  “You behave,” Callie told him. “I don’t have bail money.”

  Ember snorted, sending up a cloud of dust.

  As she entered the Hall, she felt the heat and humidity slap her like a wet towel. The air was steeped with the aroma of old herbs and boiled roots.

  The front chamber was, in theory, a waiting room. In practice, it was a barn for sick people and their problems. A row of wooden benches lined one wall, while the other was taken up by dusty scroll shelves. In the back, an immaculately ordered desk had been installed. Behind the desk sat a junior clerk: sallow-skinned, ink-stained, and equipped with an expression that could curdle milk.

  The clerk spotted Callie immediately and narrowed his eyes. “You here for treatment or registration?”

  “Neither,” said Callie, “I’m here for the bureaucracy.”

  The clerk exhaled through his nose, the sound dismissive. “Healers must register. No exceptions.” He pulled a form from under his elbow, set it on the counter, and began sharpening his quill as a threat.

  “Let’s make it quick,” Callie said, and sat on the only available stool.

  “Name, place of origin, and professional references,” said the clerk, barely waiting between items.

  Callie rattled off her name, made up a plausible town in the far west (“Quanzhou Port”), and, for references, listed the miller-baker, the village warden, and a made-up noblewoman who she doubted existed.

  The clerk paused at “Quanzhou Port.” “That’s quite far,” he said, skeptical.

  Callie shrugged. “Sickness knows no borders.”

  “Are you licensed?”

  “I was.” She said it with enough gravity that the clerk seemed unwilling to argue.

  He moved on, scanning the form. “Healing discipline? Aetheric, Alchemical, Physiurgical, or Verdant?”

  “Uhm… Probably Alchemical and Physiurgical? Those are the basic ones right?”

  The clerk frowned, then ticked two boxes. “Proof of capability?”

  “Does treating a dozen villagers in the last two weeks count?” She wondered if any were sitting behind her.

  “Patients must be submitted for verification. Please provide names and conditions.”

  Callie had anticipated this. She reeled off a string of cases: Becklin, ingrown toenail. The dock hand with a rash. The child with the bloody nose. The old man who’d come in “for a checkup” and stayed for the gossip.

  The clerk scribbled furiously. Then: “You forgot your familiar.”

  Callie paused. “Familiar?”

  “The Cinder-Fury Warg,” the clerk said, almost prim. “It’s been seen around your premises, The Disenchanted Cauldron I think it’s called.”

  Callie smiled, a thin slice of sarcasm. “He’s not a familiar. He’s a patient.”

  The clerk’s pen hovered, ready to pounce. “You claim to be treating a magical beast without Guild sanction?”

  Callie weighed her options. Lying would probably get her expelled, but truth was only marginally less dangerous. She went with the latter.

  “Yes,” she said, “and he’s alive, thanks to me.”

  The clerk’s expression soured, like he’d bitten into a rotten plum. “Monsters cannot be considered patients under Guild Statute 17.3,” he intoned. “If you admit to practicing beast-healing, you will be fined or, in egregious cases, barred from medical practice entirely.”

  Callie raised an eyebrow. “So, healing monsters is a crime?”

  “It’s a liability. The risk of corruption, magical spread, or unlicensed mutation is... ” he broke off, flipping through his own paperwork, “ ...well-documented. If you wish to treat monsters, you must register as a Licensed Beastian. There’s a six-year probationary period and a test. Multiple tests.”

  “Sounds fun,” Callie said. “But for now, I’ll stick to humans.”

  The clerk, satisfied, went back to the form. “You will require a probationary license. You must complete three approved healing quests, after which you will be audited by a senior practitioner.” He stamped the bottom of the page with a flourish, then shoved a blank paper at her. “Sign here.”

  As she took the quill, Callie caught a glimpse of the waiting room behind her. Half the villagers stared with open curiosity; the other half were locked in their own minor dramas, noses bandaged or arms in slings. She imagined her life reduced to this: patching up cold sores and boils for the next decade, never leaving the Hall, forever chained to a probationary license.

  She hesitated. What if she simply walked out, never came back, headed east until the paperwork couldn’t catch her? It would be so easy. Even the Narrative Engine would have to work overtime to track her if she slipped out of this little town. No one in the Library had ever said the protagonist was required to participate.

  She eyed the clerk, who tapped the desk with increasing irritation.

  The scene could play out either way, she thought. But this—this little slice of bureaucracy—might be the very thing that kept her out of the main plot. The more time she wasted in administration, the less she’d have to spend risking her neck in some cataclysmic story arc.

  She signed.

  The clerk seized the document, dried it with a flourish, and deposited her probationary license in a small envelope. “Welcome to the Hall,” he said, without warmth. “Your first assignment will be posted by the end of the day.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Callie stood to leave, and made a mental note: never trust anyone able to recite statute numbers from memory.

  Outside, the air was fresher, if not cleaner. Ember met her with a low, questioning rumble.

  “Congratulations,” she said, “I’m officially part of the bureaucracy.”

  Ember sneezed, unimpressed.

  Callie scratched his head, then led him down the lane, away from the Hall. There would be a letter waiting at the shop by afternoon, she guessed. Three healing quests before she could graduate from “novice” to “licensed quack.”

  She felt a flash of amusement, followed by something like relief. The Engine might have wanted a protagonist, but what it had gotten was a paperwork monster.

  “Perfect,” she muttered, smiling to herself as they walked home.

  ***

  Callie didn’t make it two blocks before a runner flagged her down. The boy—barely old enough to wield a broom—skidded to a stop and gasped, “Hall wants you. Now.”

  She considered sending Ember back in her stead, but the Hall was already in sight, and resistance would only earn her a longer to-do list. She followed the boy, who led her through a side door and into the main administrative chamber.

  This room was the brain of the Hall: less chaotic, more polished, and kept at a temperature that seemed specifically designed to preserve paperwork. The windows were small and grimy, but enough sunlight filtered in to keep the dust motes in business.

  At the far end of a long oak table sat the senior recruiter, the sort of man who’d chosen his profession by process of elimination. He was plump, balding, and wore a smile so fixed it seemed to have been embroidered onto his cheeks. He gestured grandly to the seat across from him.

  “Miss Calanthe!” he boomed. “What a pleasure to meet in person.”

  She sat. The chair was better than the one at the junior desk, but only by the margin of not threatening to collapse.

  The recruiter folded his hands. “I’ve reviewed your registration. Efficient. Thorough. And your references spoke highly.” He winked conaspiratorily. “But you’re not officially a member until we complete the orientation. Shall we?”

  He didn’t wait for assent. “First, the rules. We’re all about safety—ours, yours, and the community’s. That’s why probationary members must complete three certified healing quests before being admitted as full practitioners. You’ll receive assignments by post, or you can check the board daily. Most are simple; routine treatments, public sanitation, the occasional quarantine.”

  “I’ve been made aware, thanks,” Callie replied.

  He slid a thick envelope across the desk. “Your license,” he said. “Inside, you’ll also find a summary of rights and obligations, a voucher for one free dose of Sunroot tonic, and a pamphlet detailing our community programs.”

  Callie opened the envelope, then the pamphlet. The print was dense, the illustrations uninspired. She scanned the fine print at the bottom.

  Applicants who fail to fulfill their probationary obligations within ninety days may be subject to relocation, demotion, or, in exceptional cases, summary discharge from the community.

  “So it’s join or leave?” she said, voice flat.

  The recruiter’s smile flickered, then came back twice as bright. “Not at all! You’re free to decline. But we find that healers flourish with support—and those who refuse tend to attract the wrong sort of attention. I’m sure you understand.”

  He leaned in. “It’s a difficult world, Miss Calanthe. The Guild offers protection. Solidarity. Access to resources you could never afford on your own.”

  Callie turned the pamphlet over. “Five percent of monthly income to the Guild. Annual audits. Mandatory participation in ‘wellness checks’?”

  The recruiter nodded enthusiastically. “We keep everyone healthy; including our own. It’s a tradition. And in return, you get access to healing scrolls, discounted lodging at every Guild Hall from here to the coast, priority on medicinal herbs, and, of course, our legendary insurance plan.”

  Callie wondered what the Guild considered “insurance,” but decided not to ask.

  In the background, she could hear voices from the adjoining examination rooms. Healers, all in crisp white robes, were seeing patients at a rate that bordered on the industrial: three beds to a room, patients in and out within ten minutes. The official healers moved with the practiced economy of a military hospital; precise, efficient, and utterly unflappable.

  The recruiter noticed her distraction. “You’ll have access to a uniform once you’re full member. Until then, we recommend something professional, but approachable.” He gave her a look that suggested her jacket did not meet either standard.

  She set the pamphlet down. “What if I just want to practice solo?”

  He tsked, as if she’d asked to perform surgery with a rusty spoon. “We discourage it. Too many risks. And the Guild’s reputation is only as strong as its members.” He leaned in again, this time dropping the smile. “If you want to practice solo in Apsu’s Respite, we’ll need eight percent on the monthly income. Let me stress, income not profit. Otherwise…” He let the threat hang, unspoken but heavy.

  Callie nodded, keeping her face neutral. “Understood.”

  The recruiter beamed, satisfied. “Excellent. Your first assignment will arrive within the week. In the meantime, make yourself at home. The library is open to novices. The Hall kitchen serves a fine lunch.”

  He rose, signaling the meeting was over. “Welcome to the Guild, Miss Calanthe. We’re very glad to have you.”

  She left, the envelope heavy in her hand. As she stepped out into the corridor, she caught a glimpse of herself in a polished copper plate. She looked, for all the world, like someone who’d just been gently blackmailed into a pyramid scheme.

  Back outside, she tore open the envelope and read the details again. The pamphlet’s list of “discounted” herbs was laughable: even at the lower prices, she’d need to triple her fees to break even. The “insurance” was only good for incidents occurring during sanctioned quests. The uniform was not complimentary.

  She chuckled to herself and pocketed the lot. This had her old boss, Belus, written all over it.

  ***

  She didn’t open the “welcome” scroll until later, when safely back in her apothecary with Ember. She sat in a corner where the dust motes danced, and loosened the faded blue ribbon with surgical precision.

  The scroll inside was both dense and overwrought—she could almost hear Belus dictating the bullet points. At the top, in calligraphy, it announced:

  HEALER LEVELING SYSTEM: FULL TREE TO LEVEL 42 (with path options)

  Below that, the contents sprawled in neat columns: Each level, its XP requirements, the reward, and, for some, a “Specialization Milestone.” Callie scanned quickly, finding most of the milestones to be familiar: Detoxify I, Mend Flesh, Soothe Pain, and the crowd favorite, “Karmic Transfer – Share 50% of an ally’s HP loss with yourself (requires line of sight).” So healers were meant to share their HPs with tanks; a truly exceptional idea.

  She skipped to the bottom, where a block of text explained that only three people in the history of the guild had ever reached Level 32. The current Guild Master had done it after fifty years of continuous work and 6,720,000 XP.

  Callie sat back, doing the math. Ten XP per patient. If she saw twenty patients a day, six days a week, she’d barely cross a quarter million in three years. The odds of reaching the top level before she died of old age were... well, statistically impossible; unless there was some grift she wasn’t aware of.

  She checked the top-level skills and almost laughed. The Aetheric Loom branch which the Guild Master had chosen provided new skills every five levels; and the following skill at Level 30:

  Active: Soul Stitch – Repair frayed spirit threads. Cures madness, fear, or minor curses.

  Passive: Empathic Resonance – Sense emotional/mental trauma in others.

  Someone had actually worked almost every day for fifty years to become more empathetic towards their patients. In a certain way, the whole leveling system made a kind of twisted sense.

  Callie set the scroll down and pulled out a brand new Library ledger—a pocket-sized thing with a hard blue cover. In it, she wrote below her first entry, added in the first week of her arrival in Apsu’s Respite:

  1. Don’t be a busy body.

  2. Never take more than 10 cases per day, or they’ll catch on.

  3. Learn all the loopholes.

  4. Enjoy the quiet.

  It was perfect; though the script was, in all honesty, illegible. She could stay in Apsu’s Respite, patching up garden injuries, dodging the narrative arcs, and never risk a real story again.

  She signed the bottom of her license with a flourish, then folded everything into her satchel.

  As she walked out for a good stretch, Ember, now healed enough to patrol the back garden, greeted her with a slow wag.

  She scratched his ears. “Time to get to work,” she said, not hating the sound of it.

  And if the Engine wanted a protagonist, it would just have to wait.