Canavan, Trudi - Age of the Five 03 by Canavan Trudi

Author:Canavan, Trudi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2007-07-24T09:49:40+00:00

Rain and heat assailed Kave in successive waves each day, so the air became thick with humidity.

Washed clothes refused to dry and dry clothes were wet with perspiration as soon as they were worn.

The stink of the refuse below the city rose to cover all in a layer of foulness. Biting insects swarmed in clouds, forcing the city’s inhabitants to stay indoors, so Mirar and Tintel saw few people as they walked toward the river.

Tintel wiped her brow with a wet cloth and sighed.

“I so love this time of year,” she said dryly.

“How long does this last?” he asked.

“Up to four weeks. Once it went for six. Anyone who can afford to leaves Kave for the summer. Even if they can bear the heat, there is the summer fever to avoid.”

Mirar thought of the increasing number of sick people coming to the hospice. The other Dreamweavers had explained that this was a yearly occurrence, and soon the whole House would be filled with beds occupied by the sick. The fever was rarely fatal, however.

Ahead the houses ended abruptly a few hundred paces from the river’s edge. Narrow wooden staircases descended to the muddy ground below, where a temporary road of planks led away to the water’s edge.

Mirar and Tintel stopped. They could see a barge tied up to pylons, surrounded by Servants. Men dressed only in short trousers were carrying boxes and chests on board, their backs slick with sweat.

“I have a parting gift for you,” Tintel said.

Mirar turned to regard her.

“You don’t have to—”

“Wait and see,” she told him sternly. “You will need this gift.”

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Trudi%20Canavan%20-%20A...he%20Five%2003%20-%20Voice%20of%20the%20Gods.html (245 of 494)24-7-2007 11:50:03

VoiceoftheGods

Opening the bag hanging from her shoulder, she lifted out a clay jug with a narrow neck. The top was sealed with a lump of wax from which a string protruded. Grabbing the string, she pulled the wax plug free.

“Hold out your hands.”

Mirar did as she asked. She tipped the bottle and a yellowish oil filled the hollow of one palm. It smelled pleasantly herbal and zesty.

“Rub this into all exposed skin,” Tintel instructed, tipping oil into her own hand. “It helps keep the bugs and summer fever at bay.”

“So the bugs bring the sickness?” he asked as he rubbed the oil over his hands then onto his face.

“Maybe.” Tintel shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a convenient side effect of the oil. It does help to cool the fever.”

“It is surprisingly refreshing. Makes the heat a little more bearable.”

She stoppered the bottle and replaced it, then drew out a small wooden box. Opening it, she showed him that it was full of candles.

“They’re scented with the same extracts. Use them sparingly and they should last you the journey to the escarpment. We sell both oil and candles each summer, for the cost of making them. We are the only ones who make it, even though we give the recipe away to anyone who wants it.”

“So anyone seeking a profit can’t compete with you. Do you ever have a shortfall of oil and candles?”

“Yes.

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