In Which Adal Catches a Cold

“Stillow, Stillow my dearest friend, the only one who has stood by me all these years, Stillow my—come back!”

Stillow stopped and looked back at Adal, who was lying on the bed of the cart under a thin blanket, “Why?”

Adal looked outraged.

“Why? Why? Because I’m dying!”

“We all are Adal.”

“Well I’m dying faster. So there. Probably won’t make the night.”

“Nobody likes a show off.”

“A show off? I’m dying!”

“Aye, you said. Dying first, you said. Such pride does not serve the spirit.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to ask you to do for the last ten minutes. Pass the bottle!”

Stillow clutched the round wine bottle in his hand tighter, “What?”

“Serve the spirits. Over here please. Into my laboriously breathing mouth.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m dying! It’s a last request.”

“It’ll be wasted on you. You wouldn’t spend enough time appreciating it.”

“You mean I’ll not wake up with a hangover. Pass it over.”

“I don’t think such strong wine is supposed to be good for you.”

“I’m dying, what does it matter?”

“Seems to me the best time to be healthy.”

Adal’s eye’s bulged, “I can see the soul renderers!”

“That’s an ancient belief.”

“Well I’m a historian,” Adal snapped.

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“Were,” Stillow corrected.

“I’m not dead yet.”

“I know, I can hear you. Say, why don’t we both get a good night’s sleep? I bet things will all look better in the morning.”

“I’ll be dead by morning!”

“See? Shall I fetch your pillow?”

Matthew ran over to the two of them and leapt on the cart. “I’ve found a healer, not too far from here. She says she thinks she can help you.”

Matthew flicked the horse’s reins, setting the wagon rattling down the road. The sudden motion caused Stillow to splash a bit of wine in Adal’s face.

“Hey! Be careful with that! You may as well pass it here at this point.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it? You philosophers could spend here to the next week deciding on the issue of getting out of bed.”

“It is an important consideration. I’ve written several treatise on the matter.”

“I know. I found them when sorting the archives. Some fool had put them in the long storage. I burned them, of course.”

“What? You’ve set back bed philosophizing by thirty years!”

“And you’ve spilled half the wine down your front.”

“If you wanted it, you shouldn’t have caught a cold. What if I catch it by sharing?”

“Give me the whole thing and it won’t be a problem.”

The wagon stopped at a crossroad. A small wooden house was constructed there, with the healer’s cross painted on its front. A woman dressed all in white waited outside. She rushed over to the cart.

“Grab his arms, I’ll take his feet,” she said, climbing up beside Adal.

“Who’s this Matthew?” Adal cried, “Who is she? Unhand me girl! I’m of a delicate constitution right now!”

“I thought you said he was coughing nonstop and his skin had become as pale as a dogfish’s belly.”

“How dare you!” Adal roared, struggling against the two of them, “A dog is not a fish and never has been!”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s gone quite mad,” Stillow confided, “The classification of fish contains all sorts: dogs, bats, leopards, even the occasional honorary dolphin.”

“He’s been railing at Stillow for half an hour,” Matthew said, “Its put some colour back into his face.”

“If he can stop himself from coughing the illness is not nearly as serious as you had me believe,” said the healer.

“I once saw Adal hop around on a sprained ankle to spite it,” Matthew said.

“Deserved it too,” Adal said as they laid him on a cot, “I was supposed to be hiking up the old Trail of Runes the next day and the thing gave out on me. Never trusted it si—.”

Adal’s voice gave way to a grating cough.

The healer’s brows rose.

“We’ll need to give him plenty of beer.”

Matthew could swear he saw his master’s ears perk up.

“Where’s Stillow? Tell him I told him. Hah!” He coughed once loudly.

“Tell him you told him what?” Matthew asked.

“That I needed his wine!”

The healer frowned, “I said beer, and weak; just enough alcohol to keep the water clean.”

“Phah, let me die.”

Matthew took Adal’s hand gently in his own, “Master, if you live you’ll have more chances to drink wine.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Adal mused, and then broke again into a fit of coughing. He tried to speak again, but he was coughing so hard now he could barely draw breath.

“Is this more to your liking?” Matthew asked wryly.

The healer grimaced, “At least I can treat this.”