IX - Blight Bane

  A heavy silence filled the air following the sentry’s words. Vlad glanced at Sybil, where he saw the immediate worry worn plainly on her face. He turned back to face the sentry and mustered the friendliest smile that he could manage. “That is most unfortunate. But it would appear that your luck is changing, for I, Vlad Albescu, am a traveling Plague doctor.”

  The gruff sentry looked unimpressed. “Is that so?”

  “It is, Mr…”

  “Brant.”

  “It is, Mr. Brant. And my apprentice and I would be more than willing to travel with your caravan for a time, until fate forces us to part ways. Why, I may even be able to part with a number of my elixirs for a reduced—”

  “Save your elixirs, Plague doctor,” Brant said. “Our caravan already has a real physician, and she does far more for our infirm than your snake oil ever could. Were it not for her, we’d likely all be dead by now.”

  “Even better, then,” Vlad said. “I would be happy to exchange remedies with her while on the road. Together I am sure we can do wonders for your sick and infirm.”

  “I doubt there is much you could do to aid Dr. Frost,” Brant said, “but who knows? Perhaps one or two of your Plague doctor tricks could accidentally assist her in some way. Very well. If you are foolish enough to travel with us, then I shall speak with Mr. Osmond on your behalf. He decides who we allow into our fold.” He turned toward the front of the caravan. “Come. I shall introduce you to him while my men finish with the burial.”

  Brant began walking through the caravan. Vlad prepared to follow after him, but was stopped when Sybil squared up next to him. “Are we certain this is wise, Mr. Albescu? We would move far more quickly on our own, and we would need not worry about the Plague.”

  Vlad smiled at her. “Do not fret, Night Owl. We will still make it to Fenwick in good time, and as long as we are cautious, we shall not contract the Plague. You have the cloth I gave you, yes?”

  She nodded and produced the black cloth, which she quickly tied around her neck.

  “Very good,” he said. “Now let us follow after Mr. Brant. I am eager to meet this Dr. Frost, and to see if there is not anything we can do to aid her and this caravan.”

  The two of them began to walk, following after Brant, who had stopped ahead of them and glanced back in their direction, annoyed at the delay. As they walked, Vlad heard Elpis snort once again. He looked at her briefly, then turned and continued after the sentry.

  Vlad and Sybil quickly made their way past the rows of stopped carriages and other transports in order to catch up with Brant. Men, women and children of all sorts watched them from the cabs of their vehicles or from their spot resting on the ground as they passed. Most of them looked healthy enough, but Vlad noted a number of them that had a paleness to their faces that he did not much care for. A few looked only hours away from being bedridden, and from there, not far from the makeshift graves that Brant’s men continued to fill.

  The Plague doctor and his apprentice squared up to the sentry. Brant shot them another aggravated glance, but said nothing until Vlad spoke. “Quite the large caravan you have here. Might I ask your destination?”

  “We make for Ardvent, at the mouth of the Ardventi River,” Brant explained. “We will unload our current shipment, and then Mr. Osmond will secure us a new one.”

  “That is quite a ways from here—a month, at least.”

  Brant nodded. “Aye. We could all be dead of the Plague by then, for all we know.”

  “And how long has your caravan been afflicted with the Plague?”

  “I have not been keeping track of the days. Dr. Frost might know more, although she will not be able to account for our time before she joined us.”

  “So she has not been with this caravan since its inception, then?”

  “No,” Brant said. “I have been travelling with Mr. Osmond’s caravan for many years, but Dr. Frost has only been with us for a handful of months. It is normal for folk to come and go along our route—we are lucky that she has been with us for this long. Without her, the blight would surely be far worse than it already is.”

  “What is her destination?”

  “Another thing to take up with her, and not the head of Mr. Osmond’s guard, wouldn’t you say, Plague doctor?”

  Vlad nodded. “That is certainly fair, Mr. Brant. More than fair, as a matter of fact.”

  They walked on in silence for some time until they reached the front of the caravan. As they went, Vlad became more and more certain that Brant had not exaggerated the severity of the Plague: coughs and moans poured out from transports as they passed, creating a haunting song of suffering and death. The air felt heavier in that dense thicket of carriages and wagons. He quickly found himself wondering if it would soon suffocate him entirely.

  They reached the leading carriage, where they came upon two people in the midst of conversation. One was a portly, red-cheeked man with a thick moustache and a wide-brimmed hat that surely hid a head of deeply thinning hair. Round spectacles came to a rest on the bridge of his rosy nose. His companion was a young, tall, strikingly beautiful woman with a head of long raven hair that shone in the sunlight despite its deep blackness. Her icy eyes glistened with both the last years of youth as well as the maturity of a woman much her senior. She looked no older than thirty-five, but there was a wisdom in her gaze that was beyond her years.

  “Truly? Well, that’s certainly splendid news, Dr. Frost!” the portly man was saying. There was a jovial energy to his voice that matched his jolly physique.

  “I am glad you think so, Mr. Osmond,” Dr. Frost said. “We must take any positive news that we can find in times such as these, no?”

  “Aye, Dr. Frost,” Brant said as they approached, “and I could use a lick of some myself.”

  Osmond turned to look at his new guests, who came to a stop in front of him. “Ah, Mr. Brant. Dr. Frost was just telling me that she believes Mrs. Guthrie’s treatment was successful, and that the poor woman is likely to make a full recovery.”

  “Excellent news indeed,” the head sentry said. “One less body to bury, that one will be.”

  Osmond grimaced. “That is a rather… pragmatic way of looking at things, Mr. Brant.”

  Brant nodded. “It’s what you keep me here for, Sir.”

  The caravan owner turned to look at Vlad and Sybil. “And who might these guests of yours be?”

  Vlad smiled, raising a genial hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Osmond. My name is Vlad Albescu, and this is my apprentice, Sybil Fletcher. I am a travelling Plague doctor. We expressed interest in journeying with your caravan for a time, and Mr. Brant here offered to introduce us to you.”

  “A Plague doctor, you say?” Osmond crossed his hands in front of his chest, resting them on his large belly. “I cannot say we have much need for your services, seeing as we have Dr. Frost…”

  “Do not be so sure, Mr. Osmond,” Vlad said through his continued smile. “I have heard of your caravan’s current affliction, and I thought I might be of use to Dr. Frost. Should we take the time to exchange notes, we may just manage to learn a thing or two from each other.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Osmond deferred to his companion. “What do you say, Doctor? Will you entertain this man?”

  “Mr. Albescu seems sufficiently pleasant,” Frost said. Her voice was reminiscent of the gentle gliding of hard strips, but with the strength and firmness of an iron shield. “I am certain it would do no harm for the two of us to collaborate on our Plague predicament.”

  “Very well,” Osmond said. He looked at the sentry. “Mr. Brant, return to your duties.” Then, to the Plague doctor: “And Mr. Albescu, you and your apprentice may travel with us for as long as you see fit—just so long as you do not try to poison any minds with the nonsense that I hear some Plague doctors are known to spew.”

  “You can rest assured that I am no such Plague doctor, Mr. Osmond.”

  “Let us hope not. Now, I think it best that you go with Dr. Frost to her wagon while we finish burying our dead. You can familiarize yourselves with each other while we prepare to get back on the road.”

  Vlad nodded. “Very well, Mr. Osmond. Thank you for allowing us to join your caravan. I am certain you will be glad to have us along. You shall not regret this decision.”

  “That may be so,” Osmond said, suddenly growing somber, “but by the time we part ways, you just might.”

  ___

  Dr. Frost led the way to her wagon, which was situated toward the front of the caravan; Vlad knew he and Sybil had a decent walk back to the rear, and so they could not idle for long if they wanted to make it to their coach before the caravan resumed its journey.

  The doctor’s wagon was large, rivalling the bigger cargo-carrying transports in the caravan, and it required the muscle of four sturdy horses in order to pull it. The animals stood by idly, chewing on grass; they did acknowledge the approach of their master or her guests.

  Frost turned toward her companions in time to watch Vlad prepare to pull his Plague mask over his face. Sybil had already dawned her own cloth. “That is quite unnecessary, Mr. Albescu. I may treat Plague victims, but I only treat them in their own spaces—my wagon is in fact quite disease-free.”

  “I do not doubt it,” Vlad said, offering a friendly smile, “but you will forgive an abundance of caution.”

  The doctor nodded. “Certainly. One does not survive encounters with the Plague without practicing caution.”

  “It is no small miracle that you have managed to avoid contracting the Plague yourself, with how many victims you treat.”

  “My good health is not the result of a miracle, Mr. Albescu,” Dr. Frost said, “but rather of science. I am proof that my remedies, which I consume regularly out of that same abundance of caution, are more than effective at fending off the Plague.”

  Frost gestured to the opening in the rear of the wagon. “Please come inside and I can show you.”

  “Dr. Frost!” came a voice from nearby. They all turned to watch as a young woman, not much older than Sybil, approached from somewhere deeper in the caravan. Her curly brown hair fell to just below her shoulders and framed her round, smiling face.

  Dr. Frost returned the smile. “Hello, Felice.”

  Felice looked at Vlad and Sybil. “Ah. I did not realize that you were entertaining guests.”

  “This is Mr. Vlad Albescu, a Plague doctor, and his assistant, Sybil Fletcher. They will be travelling with our caravan for a short while.” She looked at Vlad and Sybil and gestured to the young woman. “This is Felice, my apprentice.” Back to Felice. “Mr. Albescu and I were about to go into our wagon so that we can discuss Plague remedies.”

  “I would love to stay for the conversation,” Felice said, “but I am only here to collect Mrs. Guthrie’s final remedy. I shall be off to give it to her just as soon as I have it.”

  “Why not take Sybil along with you?” Dr. Frost suggested. “I am sure she would appreciate being spared the pleasure of this very stimulating discussion.”

  Sybil looked at Vlad. “Do you suppose that would be alright, Mr. Albescu?”

  “I don’t see why not,” he said, “just so long as you mind yourself. There is still Plague about, after all.”

  Sybil nodded. “Of course.”

  Felice stepped into the wagon and returned a few moments later holding a clear, bulbed phial filled with a crimson-red liquid. Vlad studied the phial for the brief few moments that he was able to before she and Sybil took off, disappearing into the caravan. When they were alone, Dr. Frost looked at him and smiled. “Now then, please step inside, Mr. Albescu.”

  Vlad, at long last, pulled his beaked mask over his face. Once it was secured, he gestured to the door. “Ladies first, Doctor.”

  Frost nodded and climbed into the wagon. Vlad followed after her.

  The interior of the wagon was as spacious as the outside was large, but it was also packed tight with all sorts of physicians’ apparatus, as well as bulky containers that were presumably meant for storage. While able to stand upright inside, they did not have much room by which to navigate the space, and had to carefully shuffle through the clutter in order to make it deeper inside. The air here smelled musty, and Vlad was glad to be wearing his mask; even if there was no Plague present, he would have preferred not to breathe in that stale, if not clean, environment.

  “Welcome to my study,” she said with a smile. “My temporary study, at least. Please, try not to mind the mess. I was forced to shove my entire life into this small wagon, and had to make do with the space I was given.”

  “I fully understand,” Vlad said. “I sometimes struggle to find room for my own wares in my coach—I could not imagine having to make space for some of the apparatus found in here.” He paused. “I noticed that you said temporary study. Are you not usually a travelling doctor, then?”

  She shook her head. “I am not. And in fact, I am not yet quite used to this nomadic lifestyle that I’ve taken on recently. I doubt if I’ll ever fully adjust to it.”

  “I hear you have been with the caravan for a short while now. How much longer will you be with us?”

  “Until the end of the current journey, if you can believe as much,” she explained. “I have accepted an opportunity at the University of Ardvent. They are interested in learning the nature of my remedies, and what properties they possess that help them so effectively combat the Plague. If given the proper stage, my research could even help vanquish the disease for good.”

  “Were we only so fortunate,” he said. “How blessed you are, though, to have found a caravan that will take you all the way to Ardvent. Surely the Mother smiles upon you.”

  “I would hope so,” she said, “for it is in Her name that I serve.”

  Vlad smiled beneath his mask, saying nothing for several seconds. “Now, about this research of yours. I would very much like to hear about this remedy that you claim so effectively combats the Plague. To create such an elixir is no small feat, and you will forgive me for being skeptical of its authenticity.”

  “Of course,” Frost said. “’tis part of our nature as medical professionals to constantly question the field in which we work, is it not? Were our positions reversed, and you were the one claiming to have found a cure for the incurable, I would be skeptical myself.”

  “So we are calling this remedy a cure now, are we?”

  “Well, the closest thing to one, at least,” she said. “Of course it is not one hundred percent effective, but its success rate is far greater than any other remedy for the Plague that I’ve heard of—and I’ve heard of them all.”

  “Would you mind showing me a phial of it?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Albescu.”

  Frost maneuvered her way to one of the nearby wooden storage cupboards and pulled open one of its doors. Inside was a small collection of crimson-filled phials that resembled the one Felice had taken earlier—he could not see the entirety of the container, but he counted no more than seven or eight phials including the one that Frost picked up. She handed the phial to him, allowing him to look it over while she spoke. “I call it Blight Bane. I am sure I do not need to explain the moniker.”

  “A name that certainly gets straight to the point,” he said, turning the phial over in his hand, allowing its dark red liquid to gently slosh around behind the glass. “And this is the same elixir that our apprentices are currently bringing to your patient—Mrs. Guthrie, was it?”

  Frost nodded. “It is.” She frowned, her countenance growing regretful. “Poor Mrs. Guthrie recently lost her husband to that cursed Plague. He was hesitant to try my remedy, Goddess knows I cannot blame him, and the disease ultimately took him from us. Mrs. Guthrie, however, has made close to a full recovery thanks to this elixir. The bottle that Felice took should be the woman’s final dose.” She paused, reflecting on her story. “My remedy cannot save everybody from the Plague, but it can at least give them a fighting chance to overcome it, which sometimes is all we can hope for.”

  “I have never once, in all my days as a Plague doctor, come across a remedy that can boast the same degree of success as this Blight Bane can,” Vlad said. “Even if it is not infallible, I am surprised you have not been able to eradicate the Plague from this caravan, even in the relatively short time that you have spent with these people.”

  “That is a matter of supply, I am afraid. If I could give this remedy to every single one of my patients—even for something as simple as a runny nose, or for the slightest tickle in the backs of their throats—I would do so without hesitation. But it is crafted from somewhat rare materials, and even then, not every batch is produced successfully. I only make enough to give consistent doses to Felice and myself, since we are both so frequently exposed to the blight. We can only give our patients doses as the need arises, when showing signs of the Plague—and by then, the doses we can afford to spare for them may not be enough to save them.

  “This is why I am so eager to take this opportunity in Ardvent. With the University’s funding, my supply concerns will be greatly mitigated—if not eliminated entirely. Until then, I am only able to give Felice and myself enough doses to ensure we are protected from the Plague while we treat our patients with what little supply we have left." She sighed. “You must think me terribly selfish, Mr. Albescu.”

  Vlad handed her the phial. “Not at all, Dr. Frost.” He met her gaze with the impassive obsidian eyes of his Plague mask. “I understand all too well the burden of a painful sacrifice.”