"Mercy, Your Grace, mercy," the crone pleaded as Delmara passed with a bucket of water and a ladle. The pox had taken the woman's right eye, but her left was fixed strongly on the bucket.
Delmara knelt in the straw and mud, and helped the old woman sip the clean water. All around them, the moans and sighing and prayers of the afflicted continued. Delmara's heart still ached for her patients, but as the deaths had mounted, her tears had become fewer.
A canvas sheet flapped in the breeze, temporarily illuminating the woman in golden light. Her face was all scabbed over, and the flesh near her eye was leaking. Delmara took a strip of boiled fabric from her pocket and dabbed at the fluid carefully with gloved hands.
The woman flinched from the touch, but did not shy away.
"My son?" she rasped. "Is my son still here?"
Delmara couldn't say yes. But she wouldn't lie. "Your son is thinking of you, Mum. His heart is weary."
"I... I don't want him visiting. He... he can't afford to catch this."
Delmara smiled, hiding the fact that the woman's son was several cots down, covered in blisters of his own. "I'm sure he'll be fine," she lied. "You need your strength to help him with the children," she reminded the old woman.
"Suzie has never been sick. Not a day in her life," she croaked about her grandchild, the faintest of grins hiding among the scabs and pus. "It's Timothy I worry about."
"Then you must get well for him," Delmara encouraged, helping her at the water once more.
"Thank you, Your Grace, thank you," she whispered as Delmara turned away.
Delmara visited bedside after bedside, delivering water. Until she reached a bed where the patient didn't stir.
With a sigh, she placed a gloved hand on the man's chest. There was no rise or fall. He was dead.
To be sure, she reached into one of her pockets and withdrew a thick needle. She perched on the edge of the bed, then drew the man's bumpy hand onto her lap. Slowly, she slipped the needle beneath his thumbnail.
No blood welled up from the wound, and the man did not react.
Her eyes misted over, but she plucked up her bucket and ladle again. She passed from bed to bed until she finished her round.
"Mister," she said, getting the attention of one of the guards. "I have another one."
"Who?" he asked, sounding tired.
She pointed the dead man out, and he grabbed another guard. The two men removed the body, carrying it off to a cart.
Later this night, there'd be another grave burning. She didn't envy the septons and septas who would preside over the grim affair.
She didn't know the man's name; he had never told her. Hadn't spoken in two days, even. But she knew that he'd liked his soup with extra potatoes.
Now, his portion would go to someone else.
A septa passed by with extra blankets. She paused in her walk to stare at Delmara.
Delmara knew she stood out --even in her carefully chosen plain cotton dress-- and that she would never fit in. She wasn't a septa. She wasn't a physician. She was a noble playing pretend, as others would see her.
But here she was, for the past twelve days straight, working diligently to help the sickened. While the rest of Court tried to ignore the suffering, she was out here under the makeshift canopies, dressing wounds, holding hands, providing water, moving the dead, and burning used supplies.
She returned to the dead man's bed and gathered the bedding together. She wrapped the blanket in the sheet and tied it into something resembling a sack. She left it for the guards to take away. It, too, would join the fire tonight.
***
Later that day, the old woman's son --Terren Tannerly-- died too. She didn't have the heart to tell her. She knew grief might make the woman's condition worsen.
Delmara had just finished taking care of his bedding when someone tapped her shoulder.
Delmara turned, startled, and saw one of the Matrons. Matron Eliza had a weathered face and a pursed mouth, though she'd been the first to accept Delmara's help --with a sharply barked order.
Now, her eyes were wary, flicking behind her every so often.
"Yes, Mother?" Delmara asked.
"Child, there has been a rider. From the castle. It seems you are needed elsewhere."
"Oh?" Delmara asked, tone hard. "I think I'm where I need to be."
"Child, it's your father's seal," she said holding out a letter.
Delmara took it, then frowned beneath her bandana mask. It was an official summons to Court, complete with her father's signature. It wasn't like her father to be so formal...
"We will take over your charges from here," Matron Eliza continued. "Thank you for your services. May the Nine watch over you."
"And you as well, Mother. Thank you for allowing me to work."
Delmara headed to the front of the sick-camp and found a rider with two horses. One of them was obviously for her.
She removed her apron, heavy with all its instruments, and set it aside. She untied her mask and the bonnet covering her hair, then she peeled off her gloves and handed them off to be burned.
She scrubbed her hands in boiled wine until her fingers and wrists were scrubbed red and raw. As they started to sting, she doused them in cold water.
If anyone at Court caught the pox, she knew she'd be blamed. Her jaw locked as she climbed up into the saddle.
Her escort was one she recognized. Ser Jonah Whitefrey was a favored knight of her father's. He gave her a nod and handed over the reins.
"Apologies, Princess, but it's urgent," he said gruffly.
She knew looking back meant weakness. She kept her head high as she steered her horse back towards the city.
***
Zhèng-shì-táozǐ --or Zheng's Peach-- was the capital of Jiǔguó, the Nine Kingdoms. The city, though massive, was cramped and closely built with narrow, cobbled streets and great park plazas. The whole of the city smelled of fire and salt, sweat and food.
Legend had it that thousands of years ago, Zheng the Conqueror built the original city itself from bayside clay after sacrificing 700,000 men. Various fires had destroyed the city multiple times since, but the bones remained visible when in the city's jewel, Dàlǐshí-gōngdiàn, the Marble Palace.
Riding through this city, you could hardly feel the history. Rough wood apartments were stacked on top of each other and various store fronts. Sewage ran through gutter-canals carved into the city roads like open veins.
But every now and then, a gleaming column stood crumbling in a square. A carved lion statue clutching a pearl the size of Delmara's head poked out from between buildings. A granite bridge leading nowhere crossed over the main road, its destination long since gone. Some shacks were clustered both in the bridge's shadow and on it.
Off in the distance, the Marble Palace gleamed gold in the late sun, a towering structure that projected upwards like a great stone cake or a tiered pine tree. Despite having grown up there, it still made her feel small --insignificant even.
That might have something to do with how their branch of the tree was never meant for the Jade Throne. It had belonged to the Qin Dynasty until recently being seized by her father during the Rebellion.
Delmara and Ser Jonah continued through the city, people occasionally giving them either dirty looks or ones of awe.
A young woman stepped out of the crowd and approached them. Delmara brought her horse to heel, and the lady offered her a wrapped bundle, tears steaming down her worn face.
"Grace, grace," the woman repeated. She was likely in her early twenties, just a few years older than Delmara.
"What is it, Miss?" Delmara asked, ignoring as Ser Jonah withdrew his sword.
"Take it. Take it," the woman muttered. "Help us."
Cautiously, Delmara reached down for the bundle.
"Princess!" Jonah snapped. "You don't know--"
It was a baby. Blistered and scabbed over from the pox, its eyes sealed shut. The babe was cold and unbreathing.
Delmara swallowed down the sinking feeling in her bones as she cradled it. She'd seen too many younglings go. "Is this your child, Mum?"
"He does not eat. He will not nurse."
"What is his name?"
"Jon. Jon." The woman was shaking now, eyes wide as she watched Delmara.
Another child gone, Delmara remorsed. She made a show of rubbing the child's rough feet. Of trying to tickle it. She rubbed circles across its chest. She patted its back.
The mother watched on eagerly, unblinkingly.
"Princess," Jonah said softly. "I think the child is dead."
Iknow, she wanted to snap at him. She wasn't stupid. But she knew the woman's denial was stronger than reason. "Jon," she called uselessly. "Jon?"
She tried gently pulling the child's mouth open. Cold blue lips didn't budge.
"I'm sorry, Mum," she said gently. "He will not wake for me."
The woman started crying. "My first... my first child... He won't eat! He won't wake up!" She clutched at Delmara's legs, causing Jonah to swiftly dismount and try to separate them.
Delmara laid a gentle hand on the woman's head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."
The woman wailed and clawed at Delmara's dress.
Jonah tried to unhook the woman's talons but Delmara just petted her hair softly.
"There is something you can try?" Delmara asked gently, and the woman's broken eyes turned upwards once more. "Take Jon home. Bathe him in warm water. If he wakes, he'll live. If he doesn't..."
"Warm water..." the woman murmured. "Warm water..." she reached for her baby, her eyes already hollow and knowing. But it was a chance.
Delmara carefully passed Jon's lifeless little body back to his mother. She watched as the woman disappeared into the gathered crowd.
"Return to yourselves!" Jonah called out. "The show is over!" He swung back up into his saddle. "Princess, you'll need to burn your dress."
"I know."
***
The rest of the journey was uneventful. They arrived at the iron gates -- with their carved dragon guardians-- and received entry.
The first paved courtyard led to the thronehall, the servants' quarters, the stables, the guest apartments, and the tea house.
Jonah escorted her past all that, over the dry moat, and into the garden courtyard.
Daffodils and snowdrops. Orchids and primrose. Daisies and bluebells. Pansies and tulips. Everywhere you looked, colors popped out from the grass and bamboo in little clusters. Little gravel ponds and fish filled streams dotted the land.
In here, the smallpox outbreak simply didn't exist. In here, ladies would walk about and have little garden parties while the smallfolk lay dying on the other side of the granite and brick wall.
Jonah led her past the Queen's Hall that seated three hundred people. He led her past the kitchens. Past the Small Hall that seated a hundred guests. Past the Tower of the Hand. Past the Royal Sept. Past the empty Harem Hall. And up the winding, narrow steps to the royal family's keep.
Once in the marble hall, a maid rushed to take Delmara's hands but she recoiled and Jonah stepped between them. "Her Grace has come into contact with the plague. She needs a bath and a change of clothes. Now."
The maid disappeared behind a door and Jonah followed Delmara to her room. As she went in, he guarded the door.
***
An hour later, Delmara surfaced from her chambers, body freshly scrubbed and newly dressed in silken layers, her hair done into a simple updo.
She met Jonah at the door and followed him back out and down the serpentine stairs. He surprised her, however, by leading her to the Tower of the Hand, rather than back to the thronehall.
Delmara paused under its shadow. She'd never been in the Tower. Never known her father to go there either.
She entered the grey building and followed Jonah through the hallways and stairways until they came to an open door near the top. The Master's chamber.
The door was ajar, but Delmara could only hear something soft squeaking. With a steeled breath, she pushed the door open, and took in the scene.
Duke Nyra, the Hand of the King, was lying in bed, pale and sweaty, a cloth covering his elderly forehead. Delmara's father, the Emperor, was sitting by his bedside, holding his fragile hand. He looked exhausted. The Hand's son, Jon, a boy of four, was sitting on the floor playing with a wooden horse on wheels. Duchess Nyra, a woman forty years her husband's junior, was seated on the Duke's other side, her face strained and her eyes sharply on Delmara.
"She shouldn't be here," Duchess Nyra said, voice hard. "She'll get him sick."
"I'm already sick," Duke Nyra said, coughing. "Come, child."
She approached and inspected him. Sweat filled the lines on his face. His cheeks and what little could be seen of his forehead was flushed. She couldn't see any blisters, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
"What did the Physician say?" she asked.
"They don't know," her father said, voice sounding unnaturally hollow.
"When did it come on?"
"Just the other day, Your Grace," Duke Nyra said. "It isn't the pox. But we don't know what it is."
"What are the symptoms?"
He smiled, but the Duchess spoke up.
"You think you know more than a Physician?"
"No?" Delmara replied, taken aback. She'd never once claimed to have their vast knowledge. "I just want to help."
"You can't," she snapped.
Duke Nyra placed a weary hand on his wife's. "You can't help, Your Grace, but I will indulge you." He sighed. "I woke up the other morning and my stomach was aching. All day, I grew nauseous and dizzy. It's hard to breathe. I fainted. I can't feel my toes. I've been vomiting acid, and can't keep food down. Not even poppymilk. I have a fever, but it's low enough."
"Have you tried willow bark? For the pain?"
"It hasn't helped."
"I'm... sorry. Do the Physicians have any ideas? Could it be a strong flu?"
"They don't know."
"I suspect poisoning," a sly voice said from behind Delmara. She turned and saw the Master of Coin, Lord Kiff Bateson.
"What makes you say that?" her father demanded.
"When people in power die, it's usually poison," the newcomer replied nonchalantly.
"I'm not dead," Duke Nyra said firmly. Then coughed.
"Do you have a purpose?" her father asked Lord Bateson, slowly losing his already thin patience.
"I just returned from Rosby. I was bringing a toy for little Jon when Valys told me the news."
"Well then," Duke Nyra said, "let's see it."
Lord Bateson produced a long, flat box. The boy sat up eagerly, his pale blue eyes wide with excitement. Lord Bateson handed it over to Jon, and the boy shook it, a jangling sound filling the air. Jon opened the box and pulled out a xylophone.
"What is it?" he asked, eyes scrunched up.
"Bring it here," Duke Nyra said.
Little Jon scrambled onto the bed and his father showed him how it worked. Shortly, the boy was banging away at it, sharp little melodies filling the air. Duchess Nyra twitched with every note.
"Did you have to?" she asked.
Lord Bateson was smiling giddily. "The boy is old enough for music. I thought he might prefer this to a harp or flute."
"You've given your toy," the Emperor grumbled.
"I have. Is there anything I can do for you, Lord Nyra? Duchess?"
"We are good, thank you," the Duchess said stiffly.
"I'll take my leave," Lord Bateson said.
He left without another word, and Delmara couldn't help but wonder where he was headed. Something about that man always nagged at her, and she could never place it.
"You summoned me, Father?"
"You should be here," he said plainly.
"Talk some sense into your father, girl," Duke Nyra said.
"Shutch yer face," her father grumbled.
"Oh? Lord Nyra?" She looked back and forth between the two men.
Duke Nyra looked tired and pleading. Her father had crossed his arms and was staring defiantly at Nyra.
"The Emperor should consider taking another Hand," Nyra explained.
"You're not dead," she said.
"No. But I might be soon regardless. Your father needs to pick someone else."
"I'm not replacing you, Bernard," her father said.
"Perhaps matters of rule should be left between you men?" Duchess Nyra said, eyeing Delmara like she was a shark among fish.
"What use could I be?" Delmara asked instead. Duke Nyra smiled faintly, and her father rolled his eyes.
"You interviewed for your own handmaidens, did you not?" Nyra asked.
Technically one had been selected by her grandfather, but she had interviewed for the other. "Yes, My Lord?"
"If you were to interview for Hands of the King, what would you look for?"
"Stop this," her father said.
Delmara studied her father's locked jaw beneath his wiry black beard and the weariness of his eyes. He isn't angry, she recognized.
"I would look for someone who has experience in management. Someone who wouldn't shy away from the work."
"Stop," her father repeated.
Slowly, she approached her father and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her father's free hand. His hand was clammy, but slightly sticky, and nearly three times the size of hers.
She held it firmly. "Let the Heavens Tremble," she recited. "Let the Heavens Tremble that a boy should lose his father."
The Emperor's fingers twitched, but he did not look away Duke Nyra.
"Let the Heavens Tremble that a man should lose his second father."
His jaw twitched.
"I won't," he muttered, barely heard above the xylophone.
"Whether or not he goes soon, he will go," she promised softly.
A vein at her father's temple pulsed frantically. He didn't blink.
"We can be ready, or we can be caught off guard --with our pants around our ankles. Father, don't pick someone now," she urged. "Just consider."
She took a deep sigh and squeezed his hand. He blinked and frowned.
"Bernard Nyra wants to know who we're thinking about," she continued. "We need someone who knows how to run a kingdom. We need someone we can trust. Father, who do you trust?"
"Bernard..." he whispered.
"There's someone else, isn't there?" she probed. "A Duke, perhaps?"
"A Duke?"
"Mhm."
"Why?"
"Dukes are great, powerful people. They know how to take care of others. How to protect their own. We could use that. Someone who fought for you. And would do so again."
Her father's brow furrowed and he strongly considered the ground between his shoes.
"If there was someone from the past that should be here right now... who is it?"
"Ed," he whispered. "Ed should be here." He shook slightly, as though coming out of a fog, and flexed his hand that lay in her lap. "Get me something to write on."
She scrambled off the bed.
"You were his father too," he said to Nyra.
She returned with a writing box and he snatched it from her. He quickly scrawled a letter, then sealed it with the official crest.
"Delmara, send this out. Now."
"Yes, father," she said, taking the sealed letter. Duke Nyra gave her a conspiratorial wink before she turned away.
As she sent the letter off with a pigeon, she didn't need to read the header to know that it was addressed to Duke Edmon Krats, a northern lord and old-time friend of her father's. The two had fostered under Duke Nyra as boys and been quite close through the Rebellion.