The Unfortunate Son by Constance Leeds

Author:Constance Leeds [Leeds, Constance]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781101572375
Publisher: Viking
Published: 2012-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Skills

IT WAS AFTERNOON, just after the the muezzin’s midday cry. Luc had grown accustomed to hearing these calls to prayer, sung out from every mosque in the city, five times throughout each day. The heart of the summer’s heat had finally broken, and the late September days started warm but cooled once the sun set. Salah sat at his desk, where he had been reading. Luc rubbed a lemon-soaked cloth on the silver pitcher Salah always used when he treated patients. Salah knew from practice and observation that there were fewer infections when silver, rather than a base metal, was used for medical tools and vessels. The precious pitcher’s polished surface gleamed under Luc’s cloth. When he saw the shine, Salah nodded.

“This is the third season you have lived here, Luc.”

“Yes, master.”

“You understand every word of our language now, don’t you?”

“Almost every word, master.”

Luc reached for Salah’s tools. The blades of some of the scalpels were obsidian, a black, hard stone that could be honed to the sharpest point. The rest were silver: tweezers and tongs, picks and needles; Luc began to polish each one. Salah watched the boy.

“The unguent for skin disease?” asked the old man.

Luc looked up and said, “Olive oil and garlic. I made the paste this morning.”

“What would I ask you to hand me for a patient who complained of flatulence?”

Luc looked up from polishing for a moment with a half smile. “Peppermint and dill seed. I shall try that on Pons when I return home.”

“Home?” Salah frowned. He leaned back and twirled his beard with his long fingers. “You are more than I hoped for, Luc. You work hard, and in a short time, a remarkably short time, you have learned so much beyond the language,” he said, pointing to the jars of dried herbs and powdered potions. “You have a fine mind and as strong a character as any lad I have ever known. You are made of iron, I think. But are you flexible?”

“I am a slave,” answered the boy. “What does it matter?”

“Metal that will not bend is metal that cracks.”

Luc shrugged. “I do know that I am fortunate to have you as my master.”

“But you are my slave?”

Luc met Salah’s eyes and said nothing. He put down the polishing rag and rolled the tools in a clean cloth before replacing them in the leather-covered box on Salah’s desk.

Salah clasped his hands and rested them across his chest. “A tree is best measured when it is down, Luc,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Do you ever speak a word to Bes?”

Luc studied his master’s face, searching for anger.

The old man continued. “Not a single word. I am right, am I not?”

The boy sucked in his cheeks and nodded.

“A traveler to distant places should make no enemies.”

“I am not a traveler. I was taken.”

Luc swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, fighting the bitterness that threatened to undermine the amity that he had recently felt from Salah.

“The remedy against bad times is to have patience.

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