Firebrand
Chapter 82: Heal or Hurt

Heal or Hurt

Healing class meant plenty of different chores to carry out in the infirmary, though with each passing fiveday, the nurses were more inclined to teach Martel how to actually care for the ill and injured. He readily listened whenever they showed him something and would happily come running from across the hall to watch a procedure, however simple.

The fact that he was a few years older than other novices who took this course did not hurt either. They had come to learn magic at the Lyceum, not mundane tasks such as taking care of small injuries or cleaning sick from patients. Perhaps the mageknights had an interest in learning how to dress wounds, but being forced to perform chores, just like servants did, often cooled their enthusiasm for the infirmary, and quite a few skipped more than one lesson, the nurses confided in Martel. Given that they were destined for the legions, they never faced consequences for doing so.

In contrast, Martel proved as eager a student as they could want. His knowledge of the apothecary only increased his usefulness, and more than one nurse viewed him with matronly affection. When the other novices were still kept scrubbing, Martel increasingly received tasks that involved actual healing work, if still the mundane variety. Of Master Kelsos, he rarely saw anything.

"Sister Grace, how do you treat a sprain?"

"You bandage it, but not too tight, and give it rest until it's healed."

"Right, but anything to hasten the healing process?"

"Oil of mint may help soothe the irritation, though that is more for the patient's comfort." The nurse poured a liquid onto a rag and placed it against the hand of the mageknight she was treating. "Alright, hold this." She left the acolyte to keep the cloth in place with his uninjured hand.

"What did you use for that?" Martel asked, nodding towards the mageknight's now hidden fingers.

"Just olive oil. Good for burns." The nurse left, attending to her next task.

"What happened?" This time, the novice directed his question at the acolyte.

"Just training. Sometimes, the battlemages get a bit carried away," he explained with a sudden grin. "And you, you're the next nurse?" He laughed, and Martel could not tell if it were meant derisively. He found that he did not care.

"Why not?" The novice shrugged. "I would rather heal people than hurt them."

~

The next bell Martel spent in the apothecary, and then his tasks for the day were over. The mandatory ones, at least. He had to make the most of his spare afternoons, so once he had eaten lunch, stashing a few extra loaves of bread to take with him to the slums, Martel went to the workshops.

Master Jerome raised an eyebrow seeing the tall novice. "Again? Lad, how many letters do you send to your mother?"

"Just the one," Martel clarified, as he turned the rune token around inside his pocket as an idle gesture. "But I do have other things I'd like to buy."

"I wonder what's the cause our young man to have such need of coin," the artificer mused. "If I were to hazard a guess, I have always found that female company is the swiftest way to empty your purse."

Martel was tempted to admit the truth. He did not imagine it would get him into trouble; Master Jerome did not seem the type to chastise him for helping others. But he might reproach the novice for staying in the slums after dark. Martel did not like lying to the artificer, who had shown him such kindness, but his dishonesty only brought discomfort to himself; if for any reason Master Jerome prevented him from continuing his work, it would hurt others. However much Martel wanted to be recognised for his good work, he realised that was a selfish impulse. "Spot on, master. Gifts aren't cheap." The best lie was the one already believed.

The big man laughed heartily. "Come on. You can wash bottles from the infirmary. You'll probably be handling half of them again in the apothecary, so it feels fitting."

"Gladly, master."

~

His newly earned silver quickly converted into supplies, along with the scraps of food he had scrounged from lunch and supper, Martel returned to the slums. He took the fastest route through the market district to save some time, enduring the crowds. Last night had gotten late, so if getting there faster meant he might get home sooner, that would be best.

The children greeted him with their usual clamour and excitement, accompanying him down the alley to the house. Once inside, Martel handed over the bread, which the urchins eagerly seized, divided, and consumed. Meanwhile, their young healer-in-training took out his botanical supplies and added them to the small apothecary he had built over the last few days. As the last, he added his newest prize, which consisted of a bolt of linen that could supply a decent number of bandages.

Finally, Martel could set to work. Besides his existing patients, more had shown up. The latecomers looked older, perhaps approaching fourteen or fifteen in age, which surprised Martel a little; he did not know any in Weasel's band was older than the chief himself.

"Sliced my arm on some glass."

Martel regarded the youngster in front of him; the wound ran long and looked more like the work of a knife. But he applied the ointment and a bandage before turning to the next.

"I fell and scraped my hand. Hurts a bit. Itches."

"Don't scratch it. Here." Martel put a layer of skin salve on the knuckles.

The last of the new patients approached. He coughed, almost into Martel's face, making the novice raised his arm to shield himself. "I can't get rid of this cough."

Martel grabbed some lungwort from the table next to him. "Boil some water and put one of these herbs in. Let it soak for a good while and drink it. Just the water, mind you." Yesterday, one of the children had eaten the herb as well. The gangly kid accepted the plants and moved along. "Where is Sparrow? She should get fresh bindings."

Still munching on her piece of bread, having savoured every morsel, the small girl approached Martel and stuck out her arm. Quickly and efficiently, he gave it balm and bandage.

Smiling, Sparrow regarded his handiwork. Hesitating for a moment, she gave Martel a hug around his waist before running off, leaving the novice melting on the inside.