Jean glanced down at the three empty ale-cups on the table before her and a sudden realization settled in his gut like a cold weight. He grabbed Locke with his left hand and all but heaved him out of his chair.
"Back against the wall," he hissed. "Guard yourself!" Then he raised his voice and shouted across the tavern: "Help! This woman needs help!"
There was a general tumult; officers and sailors alike came to their feet, straining to see what was happening. Elbowing through the mass of patrons and suddenly empty chairs came an older woman in a black coat, with her stormcloud-coloured hair drawn into a long, tight tail with silver rings. "Move! I'm a ship's leech!"
She seized the dockworker from Jean's arms and gave her three sharp blows against her back, using the bottom edge of her clenched fist.
"Already tried," cried Jean. The choking woman was flailing against him and the leech alike, shoving at them as though they were the cause of her troubles. Her cheeks were wine-purple. The leech managed to snake a hand around the dockworker's neck and clutch at her windpipe.
"Dear gods," the woman said, "her throat's swelled up hard as a stone. Hold her to the table. Hold her down with all your strength!"
Jean shoved the dockworker down on her tabletop, scattering the empty ale-cups. A crowd was forming around them; Locke was looking at it uneasily, with his back to the wall as Jean had insisted. Looking frantically around, Jean could see the older barkeeper, and one of his assistants… but one was missing. Where the hell was the one who'd served them those cups of ale? "Knife," the leech shouted at the crowd. "Sharp knife! Now!"
Locke conjured a stiletto out of his left sleeve and passed it over. The leech glanced at it and nodded — one edge was visibly dull, but the other, as Jean knew, was like a scalpel. The leech held it in a fencer's grip and used her other hand to force the dock-worker's head back sharply.
"Press her down with everything you" ve got," she said to Jean. Even with the full advantage of leverage and mass, Jean was hard-put to keep the thrashing young woman's upper arms still. The leech leaned sharply against one of her legs, and a quick-witted sailor stepped up behind her to grab the other. "A thrash will kill her."
As Jean watched in horrified fascination, the leech pressed the stiletto down on the woman's throat. Her corded neck muscles stood out like those of a stone statue and her windpipe looked as prominent as a tree-trunk. With gentleness that Jean found awe-inspiring, given the situation, the leech cut a delicate slice across the windpipe just above the point where it vanished beneath the woman's collarbones. Bright-red blood bubbled from the cut, then ran in wide streams down the sides of the woman's neck. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her struggles had become alarmingly faint. "Parchment," the leech shouted, "find me parchment!"
To the barkeeper's consternation, several sailors immediately began ransacking the bar, looking for anything resembling parchment. f Another officer shoved her way through the crowd, plucking a letter from within her coat. The leech snatched it, rolled it into a tight, thin tube and then shoved it through the slit in the dockworker's throat, past the bubbling blood. Jean was only partially aware that his jaw was hanging open.
The leech then began pounding on the dockworker's chest, muttering a series of ear-scalding oaths. But the dockworker was limp; her face was a ghastly shade of plum, and the only movement visible was that of the blood streaming out around the parchment tube. The leech ceased her struggles after a few moments and sat down against the edge of Locke and Jean's tables, gasping. She wiped her bloody hands against the front of her coat.
"Useless," she said to the utterly silent crowd. "Her warm humours are totally stifled. I can do nothing else."
"Why, you" ve killed her," shouted the eldest barkeeper. "You cut her fucking throat right where we could all see it!"
"Her jaw and throat are clenched tight as iron," said the leech, rising in anger. "I did the only thing I possibly could to help her!" "But you cut her—"
The burly senior officer that Jean had seen earlier now stepped up to the bar, with a cadre of fellow officers at his back. Even across the room, Jean could see a rose-over-swords somewhere on every coat or tunic.
"Jevaun," he said, "are you questioning Scholar Almaldi's competence?" "No, but you saw—" "Are you questioning her intentions? "Ah, sir, please—"
"Are you naming a physiker of the Archon's warrant," the officer continued in a merciless voice, "our sister-officer, a murderer? Before witnesses?"
The colour drained from the barkeeper's face so quickly Jean almost wanted to look behind the bar, to see if it had pooled there. "No, sir," he said with great haste. "I say nothing of the sort. I apologize." "Not to me."
The barkeeper turned to Almaldi and cleared his throat. "I beg your absolute pardon, Scholar." He looked down at his feet. "I'm… I" ve not seen much blood. I spoke in wretched ignorance. Forgive me." "Of course," said the leech coldly as she shrugged out of her coat, perhaps finally realizing how badly she'd bloodied it. "What the hell was this woman drinking?" "Just the dark ale," said Jean. "The salted Verrari dark." And it was meant for us, he thought. His stomach twisted.
His words caused a new eruption of anger throughout the crowd, most of whom had, of course, recently been drinking the very same ale. Jevaun put up his arms and waved for silence.
"It was good, clean ale from the cask! It was tasted before it was drawn and served! I would serve it to my grandchildren!" He took an empty wooden cup, held it up to the crowd and drew a full draught of dark beer from the cask. "This I will declare to witnesses! This is a house of honest quality! If there is some mischief afoot, it was nothing of my doing!" He drained the cup in several deep gulps and held it up to the crowd. Their murmuring continued, but their angry advance on the bar was halted.
"It's possible she had a reaction," said Almaldi. "An allergy of some sort. If so, it would be the first I" ve ever seen of anything like it." She raised her voice. "Who else feels poorly? Sore necks? Trouble breathing?"
Sailors and officers looked at one another, shaking their heads. Jean offered a silent prayer of thanks that nobody appeared to have seen the dockworker taking the fatal cups of ale from himself and Locke.
"Where the hell is your other assistant?" Jean shouted to Jevaun. "I counted two before the ale was served. Now you have only one!"
The eldest barkeeper whipped his head from side to side, scanning the crowd. He turned to his remaining assistant with a horrified look on his face. "I'm sure Freyald is just scared shitless by the commotion, right? Find him. Find him!"
Jean's words had had precisely the effect he'd desired: sailors and officers alike scattered angrily, looking for the missing barkeeper. Jean could hear the muffled trilling of watch whistles somewhere outside. Soon enough constables would be here in force, sailors" bar or no. He nudged Locke and gestured at the back door of the tavern, through which several others, plainly expecting much complication, had already slipped out.
"Sirs," said Scholar Almaldi as Locke and Jean moved past her. She wiped Locke's stiletto clean on the sleeve of her already-ruined coat and passed it back to him. He nodded as he took it. "Scholar," he said, "you were superb."
"And yet completely inadequate," she said, running her bloodstained fingers carelessly through her hair. "I'll see someone dead for this."