The ducal signet ring sat loose and chilled against my skin. His feigned concern quickly returned, a practiced flicker of sincerity. He addressed Ksaver, his voice a low rumble. “My Prince, a miracle you are unharmed. My men swear by the Old Ways, they truly believe the tower was cursed.”
Ksaver merely inclined his head, a gesture of weary dismissal. “The tower was poorly constructed, Borislav. Mistress Ivana will now oversee all repairs and future demolitions.” He glanced at me, a silent cue. I held up my hand, letting the heavy gold band catch the torchlight. Volkov’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his 'concern' for Ksaver evaporating in an instant, replaced by a calculating stare. He simply nodded, his features unreadable, then turned and barked orders to his nearby guards, sending them scrambling.
My first assignment, delivered during our walk back through the gallery, concerned the pestilence rotting out the garrison. “A flux, Ivana,” Ksaver had explained. “Men falling ill faster than we can recruit new ones. If Volin cannot field a garrison, we are truly lost.”
Dysentery. Of course. In a world where 'hygiene' meant not actively rolling in mud, it was a given. Two days later, I stepped into the central billet hall, greeted by stagnant drafts smelling of sour wool, stale ale, and bile. A hundred pair of eyes, mostly resentful, some merely bewildered, watched me. Before me stood Vydar, a squat noncommissioned officer with a nose broken in three directions. He was the most vocal opponent of Ksaver’s “kitchen witch,” as Duchess Zorya’s whispers had dubbed me.
“Mistress,” he grunted, spitting onto the flagstones. “The Prince Regent says we must heed your water wisdom. But my infantry aren't court dandies. We sweat, we bleed, we fight. We don’t bathe in winter.” A ripple of agreement went through the ranks.
“That wisdom,” I began, struggling against my urge to lecture, “keeps you breathing, Vydar. Not from Raskian blades, but from tiny, invisible things in your own water and on your own hands. They fester in your guts, they make you empty yourselves until there’s nothing left.”
Blank stares. A few snickers. “Invisible things?” a young recruit scoffed. “Is this some new witchery, girl? Are you putting spirits in our drink?”
I bit back a sharp retort. “No spirits. Just microscopic vermin. Teeny worms you cannot spot without ground glass lenses, thriving in your slop. And they’re killing you. We are going to boil all drinking water. And you are all going to wash your hands.”
Vydar’s neck flushed brick-red. “Wash our paws before bread? Like milk-sucking babes? We build stamina by taking the mud as it comes!”
“You build your strength by enduring the filth until the filth kills you,” I countered, my voice rising. “A corpse defends no gates. A troop crouched over a trench panicking out his innards is a liability. And you are going to wash first.” I pointed to two large wooden troughs I’d had placed at the entrance to the mess hall. “These are hand-washing stations. And this,” I held up a rough bar of lye-and-ash soap I’d personally supervised the kitchen staff in making, “is for scrubbing. You will use it.”
Vydar snorted. “This… 'soap'… what is it? Some witch’s paste to soften our skin? My grandfather never used soap. My father never used soap. We fought and died with honor, not perfumed hands!”
“It’s not witchery, Sergeant, it’s chemistry,” I snapped, my academic arrogance taking over. “It strips away the microscopic vermin that are turning your bowels to liquid. It’s what happens when fat and ash mix.” I picked up a small, greasy slab of rancid lard and a handful of wood ash I’d brought, along with a pot of water. “Watch closely.”
I ordered a fire pit cleared in the outer bailey and a brass cauldron hauled atop it. The men watched, morbidly curious, as I melted the fat, added the ash lye, stirring the concoction. The fumes were acrid, the process slow, but after an agonizing twenty minutes, the mixture began to thicken, transforming into the familiar, if still primitive, consistency of soap. I poured a small amount into a wooden mold. “This,” I declared, holding up the still-warm, grayish bar, “is not magic. It is simply understanding how the world works. And it will save your lives far more reliably than any ‘Old Way’ or ‘hardening through filth’ ever will.”
Vydar shut his mouth, staring at the cooling tallow cake. The men muttered among themselves, trading sidelong glances. The demonstrable change of foul rendering fat into cleansing lather beat any lecture on microbiology. The next morning, I watched, grimly satisfied, as the men, grumbling but compliant, lined up at the troughs, scrubbing their hands with the rough soap. They still looked like they’d rather face a Raskian cavalry charge, but they were doing it.
The rank-and-file were not the only observers. Scribe Lena, a frail, studious girl who had quietly observed my work in the workshop, had taken to sitting in a corner of the mess hall, sketching. A few days after the soap demonstration, she approached me, her eyes bright. “Mistress Ivana, if I may… I drew sketches. To explain the vermin and how tallow scrub drives them out.” She unfurled a sheepskin roll covered in dark strokes: a bristling, multi-legged horror fleeing a soapy knuckle, and a pikeman chewing bread in peace. Below each drawing, a few simple words in the Vodyan script: “Boil water. Wash hands. Keep your guts.”
“Lena,” I said, genuinely moved, “This is brilliant. This is exactly what they need.” I instructed her to make dozens of copies, tacking them along the bunkhouses and mess tables to guide the illiterate men. Slowly, imperceptibly, the tide of illness began to turn. Fewer men reported to the infirmary. The quarters, while still drafts of damp wool, smelled less like an open latrine trench. My standing among the ranks climbed despite Zorya's mutterings, earning me the muttered moniker of the 'Well-Keeper'.
One evening, as I crossed the inner courtyard after inspections, a familiar silhouette blocked the archway. Captain Borislav Volkov. He was smiling, a warm, affable expression that never quite reached his eyes. “Ivana. Ingenious as always. Truly.” He paused, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “But you’re making the men soft. A soft army is a dead army.”