The Sword of Knowledge by C.J. Cherryh

Author:C.J. Cherryh [Cherryh, C.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780743498753
Google: NLR6PQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0743498755
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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After a brief hour of sunlight, the clouds had gathered again and, accompanied by thunder, rain fell on Targheiden in sheets. Duran looked out the open door at the water rushing by in the street and gave up on the notion he might have any customers this afternoon.

Despite the open doorway, the thick clouds cast the interior of his shop into deep shadow. Duran walked back to the counter, reached for his flint, and struck a light. Cupping an oil-soaked rag between his hands, he carefully lit the lamp and drew the glass down around it.

Its feeble glow barely reached the walls of the narrow shop. A large yellow dog rose from its place on the other side of the counter and ambled through the shadows toward Duran, its tail swinging side to side.

“So, Dog,” Duran said, glancing out the doorway to the street, ” now you want to go out. Well, go then, though gods know you won’t like it much.”

Dog nuzzled Duran’s knee in passing, stood for a moment on the rain-spattered threshold, then carefully ventured onto the overflowing walk. The rain was easing somewhat, but Duran did not expect the dog to go far.

He turned away from the door and found a long splinter of wood. Lifting the glass side of the lamp, he kindled the splinter and lit the lamp that hung over the counter. No more, he cautioned himself, unless customers come. Fish-oil’s not getting cheaper.

Wind gusted through the doorway, setting both lamps to flickering. Duran considered closing the door for warmth but that would reduce the light and discourage customers. He sighed quietly, and sat down on the high stool behind the counter to wait, disconsolately, for business. In the street, water overflowed the gutters, poured off roofs.

Ha. The only people who will visit me this afternoon are the drowned.

Behind him, neatly arranged on wooden shelves that ran up the wall, sat his herbs and medicines, each resting in small pottery jars. He was not rich enough to afford glass, so he had labeled each jar in small,

neat printing. His more precious medicines sat in a locked cabinet toward the rear of the shop; he kept the key on its chain around his neck at all times. Certain crazies would kill a man for what rested in that locked cabinet.

He laughed to himself. From the Queen of Sciences to herb—pottery. Here he sat in a narrow shop, surrounded by herbs, poultices, and whatnots, visited by the poor folk of Old Town, for whom he was the only thing coming close to a doctor. He healed their fevers, their sores, dispensed drugs that took away pain, and even more dangerous drugs that ended unwanted pregnancies. Those he never admitted to having, and the women who sought him out—even the whores—knew that blackmail worked both ways.

There was his cure of the sexual pox; gods knew he saw enough business from the poor who could not afford to go elsewhere, but he occasionally treated richer

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