Chapter 47: The Exchange

Chapter 47: The Exchange
But the woman did not give up. She raised her hand to stop her husband and gestured for me to continue. Clearly she was a desperate mother, grasping at even the faintest glimmer of hope.

"Has she heard of any doctor using a decoction of Whitemaple bark?" I continued.

The woman shook her head.

"I can tell you the formula," I said.

I took out my notebook and a pen from my inner pocket. I tore out a blank page from the notebook.

I wrote quickly but comprehensively, including the processing method for Whitemaple bark, the daily dosage, how long to boil it, and when to take it. I added Bittersorrel root powder as a supplement and wrote down the proportions between them. I also noted three possible complications of this disease and the corresponding solutions.

After I finished writing, I let the woman take a look.

"Can you read?" I asked.

"She can read," the man said involuntarily, with pride. "She used to work in a scholar's household."

The woman took the paper. Her eyes scanned across it.

"How do I use this prescription?" she said.

"Whitemaple bark can be purchased at Aethon's medicinal market," I said. "The price is not expensive. The dosage is written for the weight of a six-year-old child."

"How do you know her weight?"

"I estimated it. From the symptoms you described. If she's thinner than the average six-year-old, reduce the dosage by a quarter. If you don't trust me, you can show it to any physician, and I stake my life on its efficacy."

The man looked at the prescription, then looked at me differently. It was the expression of someone who had been under some kind of pressure for a long time, in an unexpected moment, unsure whether to trust what was before him.

"Why are you doing this?" he said. "We don't know each other, we can't give you anything in return."

"Because the Great Prophet cannot help her," I said. "What he can give is a passage of unknown efficacy. That passage will not stop her coughing."

"How do you know the Great Prophet can't help her?"

"I can't prove it," I admitted frankly. "I don't want to disappoint you."

The man was obviously surprised, then his expression softened a bit. I continued with my request.

"I only ask that you sell me the tickets."

"How is that possible? We came to queue early in the morning. This is—"

Their refusal was within my expectations. Those two tickets had cost them all their savings and were what they believed to be their only effective bet.

For me to ask them to give me those two tickets now—not just them, anyone would refuse.

"I will also give you something."

To convince them, I glanced at Rendell. Rendell came out from behind and stood beside me.

"This money," I said, "is all yours."

Rendell unfastened the money pouch from his person without asking any questions. Our sum of money was considerably more than what the couple had used to buy the tickets.

I had Rendell hand the money to the woman. The woman took the heavy money pouch and looked inside. In her eyes was something I had seen in my mother's eyes, something called hope.

I made myself continue.

"This money is enough for you to see the best doctor in Aethon for the entire course of treatment," I said. "The doctor will confirm the diagnosis and make adjustments and improvements based on my prescription. This money gives you that choice."

"That Great Prophet..." the man wanted to ask something, but hesitated.

"You know I'm right," I said. "If you use those two tickets, when you go home tonight, she will still be coughing."

"But what if you're wrong—"

"This money is still yours," I said. "If you still want to believe what the Great Prophet says, you can come to the next session."

The man and woman looked at each other in a way that was their silent communication method accumulated over many years—they only needed a glance to understand each other's thoughts.

Finally, it was the woman who looked at me first.

"Why do you need these two tickets?"

"My mother is also ill," I said, my tone sincere. "My mother has also been sick for a long time. Her illness is different from your daughter's, but her condition overlaps in part with the condition you described for your daughter. In order to find a cure, I left my mother's side. From the day I left my mother until today, every single day I've been thinking about how her condition might be changing."

"I need to hear this sermon," I said. "Because the Great Prophet has a passage that I must hear. That passage contains the last remaining clue I have."

"If I don't hear that passage today, the path I need to take next will have no direction."

After I finished speaking, I let myself look at her. This time I had told the truth, without any deception.

She finally reached out and took the two tickets from the man's hand. She handed those two tickets to me.

"I believe you," she said.

I took the two tickets.

"Her name," I said.

"What?"

"Your daughter's name."

"Linda," the woman said.

"Linda will get better."

---

By evening, we were seated in the middle-back section of the circular hall in the Great Prophet's manor. The air was filled with a faint scent of incense—the expensive ambergris mixed with some kind of nerve-relaxing herb burning together, obviously meant to create some kind of sacred atmosphere.

Or rather, this atmosphere was designed to numb people's nerves, making their minds more susceptible to suggestion and manipulation.

The great hall was temporarily constructed, yet there was nothing perfunctory about it. From the dome to the floor, all the supporting structures looked new, with workmanship as excessively ornate as the mansion outside, exuding a nouveau riche kind of refinement.

A massive crystal chandelier hung from the dome, with countless perfectly cut crystal prisms refracting the candlelight, casting mottled, constantly shifting spots of light on the walls. The entire hall, in that hazy light, was deliberately crafted with an ostentatious sense of mystery.

The hall was packed, all one hundred people present. The audience's seats were soft, with long slanted backrests, comfortable enough to make one drowsy.

I quickly scanned the room. Most of those people wore the dark, heavy, multi-layered fabrics typical of Aethon—local wealthy merchants or minor nobles. There were also a few weary-looking outsiders who, judging by their clothing, were pilgrims who had rushed here from other cities. Every person wore a similar expression on their face—the fervor and anticipation peculiar to believers facing a charlatan, the devout expectation of those who had come to hear someone they respected speak.

This was absurd.