The stench hit Zafira first: a thick, putrid miasma of unwashed bodies, stale sweat, and something acridly sweet, like decaying fruit. It clung to the air, coating her tongue before she even stepped across the threshold of the lower palace infirmary. What she had imagined as a rudimentary clinic turned out to be a cavernous, dimly lit hall carved from rough-hewn stone, a stark contrast to the Sunstone Palace’s gilded corridors. Rows of crude cots, little more than straw pallets on wooden frames, lined the walls. Each held a figure, some stirring feebly, others unnervingly still. A low, constant murmur of coughs, groans, and quiet sobs filled the space. The air was thick with flies.
Two young men, their faces gaunt and their tunics stained, glanced up from an invalid they were attending with startled wariness. Behind them stood Jaleh, the maid's smooth features drawn tight against the reek.
“Welcome, Lady Zafira,” one spoke hoarsely, lines carved deep around a twitching eye. “I am Kaelan, steward here. This is my brother, Ramil.”
“Thank you both,” Zafira said, surveying the crowded hall. Her medical eye immediately cataloged the critical issues. Open sores festered on limbs, dressings clung yellowed and stiff, and dead air pooled under the low ceiling. There was no order, no separation; the healthy-looking coughed alongside those clearly succumbing to something more virulent. This was no ward; it was a holding cellar.
“Where is the water source?” Zafira asked, her voice firm despite the knot tightening in her stomach. “And where do you scald your instruments and dressings?”
The steward blinked, brow creased. “Scald? The courtyard well sits right outside, My Lady. The water is sweet. We rinse what we can.” He gestured vaguely towards a basin filled with murky water beside a cot.
Zafira set her jaw. “No. From this hour, every drop drawn for cleaning or drinking must be brought to a rolling boil over flame. Every linen strip, every rag, gets scalded. And your hands,” she displayed her palms, “scrubbed raw with the soap I brought, before and after touching anyone.”
Kaelan and Ramil exchanged a bewildered glance. “But My Lady,” Ramil ventured hesitantly, “that would take endless fire. And the water is already clean. The blessed well of Qirat has served us for generations.”
“It’s not clean enough,” Zafira stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Jaleh, fetch the fat-soap from my chest. Kaelan, Ramil, drag out your largest iron caldrons and build the hearth hot. We begin with these foul rags.” She pointed to a pile of soiled linen near a cot. “And then we will scrub these floors until they gleam.”
The next few hours blurred into a whirlwind of activity. Zafira, leaning on Jaleh's brisk help, rigged a scalding line over the soot-stained kitchen grates. The hall's caretakers, sullen at first, gradually bent to her pace. Unseen contagion meant nothing to them, but the brisk clarity of her commands brooked no delay.
While Zafira worked tallow lather over her knuckles to model the technique, Jaleh hauled a pail of steaming water from the kitchen. It was steaming, an almost sacred substance in Zafira’s eyes. Jaleh navigated the cramped aisles between cots, her footing seemingly careful. Then, with a sudden, theatrical stumble, the bucket tipped. The precious water cascaded across the stone floor, soaking into the straw bedding of a few cots, leaving a steaming puddle.
“Oh, no! My Lady, I am so sorry!” Jaleh cried, her face a mask of distress. “I tripped. The floor is so uneven here. I’m such a clumsy fool!”
Zafira stared at the spreading puddle. “It’s fine, Jaleh,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Mind your footing,” Zafira said, wiping moisture from her cheek. “We will kindle the hearth again.” The orderlies grumbled among themselves, the steward's mouth pinched tight with irritation at the wasted labor.
By twilight, the stone hall smelled faintly of woodsmoke rather than rot, the stiff crusted rags stripped away for clean scalded linen. She moved down the rows. Common agues and infected scrapes filled most pallets, but the far alcove held those withered by the true imperial blight.
Its victims were alarmingly thin, their skin stretched taut over prominent bones, their eyes sunken and distant. A hollow, rasping cough echoed through the stones, skin burning with low, persistent heat. Among them lay a small boy, no older than seven or eight, his breathing shallow and ragged. His name was Tamin. He was barely conscious, his small body wracked by tremors. Zafira checked his pulse, noted the dry skin, the rapid, shallow breaths. She began administering rehydration fluids she’d devised, a simple solution of boiled water, salt, and a touch of sugar.
“Lady Zafira, a moment,” Jaleh whispered, drawing her away from Tamin’s cot. Her handmaiden held a small, dark wooden flask and a delicate porcelain cup. “My grandmother kept a remedy for the wasting ague. A sweet tonic of herbs. May I give a spoonful to the child?”
Zafira hesitated. Her training screamed against unknown remedies, against anything not scientifically proven. But Tamin was so weak, his life teetering on the edge. And Jaleh was her friend, her loyal handmaiden, who had shown only kindness. “What herbs are in it?” Zafira asked, peering at the dark liquid. It smelled faintly of honey and something vaguely earthy.
“Just common herbs, My Lady. A little ‘saffron-bloom,’ a dash of ‘moon-petal’ for calming. Nothing harmful, I promise,” Jaleh said earnestly, her eyes wide and innocent. “It always helps them sleep, and gives them strength.”
Zafira’s kindness, her fundamental trust in those who showed her affection, won out over her medical caution. “Very well,” she conceded, a flicker of desperation in her eyes. “Only a small amount. And watch him carefully.” Jaleh nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she poured a measure into the cup and gently coaxed Tamin to swallow.
For the next two days, Zafira worked tirelessly. The hygiene regimen, though still met with grumbles, had an undeniable effect. Flushed skin cooled across the pallets. Tamin showed clear signs of rallying. His breathing grew more even, his eyes lost some of their distant glaze, and he even managed to take a little broth. A fragile hope blossomed in Zafira’s chest. Her methods were working. The Wasting Sickness, or at least its initial stages, could be fought.
On the third morning, Jaleh, ever attentive, brought another small cup of her sweet tonic to Tamin. Zafira stood near the doorway, demonstrating how to roll clean linen wraps to the steward. Jaleh knelt by the boy, her hand gently supporting his head as he drank. Zafira glanced over, a pang of gratitude for Jaleh’s dedication warming her.
Then, Tamin’s small body stiffened. His eyes rolled back, and a guttural gasp tore from his throat. His limbs began to flail violently, his small hands clenching into fists as a terrible, shuddering convulsion seized him.