Page 8 of Bonded To The Arena Master

Jory places the tray on the workbench with exaggerated care. He has been my apprentice for four months. He can identify twenty medicinal plants, grind dried material without wasting half of it, and prepare a simple fever tonic. He still treats every correction as proof that disaster has selected him personally.

Nervousness can become caution. Confidence is harder to repair after it poisons someone.

I sort yesterday’s trade stock while he ties the first bundles. Three packets of numiscu antidote remain in the locked cabinet. The dark elf servant purchased two, and no news of a dead Matron has reached the market. The medicine worked or the household has concealed its failure.

Either way, the three jetons remain mine.

Outside, Galmoleth’s storm beats against the black spires. Thunder vibrates through the shelves and rattles the jar stoppers. Red dust has gathered beneath the door despite the cloth pressed into the gap. Jory swept after sunrise. By evening, another layer will cover the stone.

“Not so tight,” I say as he secures a bundle.

He loosens the knot.

“Not so loose.”

Jory closes his eyes briefly. “There must be something I can do correctly on the first attempt.”

“There is.”

He waits.

“Learn it.”

His mouth twitches. He reaches for the next bundle.

A shape passes the front window.

Jory sees it first. His faint amusement vanishes. The bundle slips from his fingers just as someone strikes the door three times with the butt of a staff.

The knock is too hard for a customer and too measured for a patrol.

When the door opens, Jory flinches so violently that the tray tilts. Fylvek bundles slide toward the floor.

“Counter,” I order.

He catches the tray against his chest and drops it onto the workbench. The wooden frame lands hard enough to make the nearest jars tremble.

A young Zonak footman stands in the doorway.

He reaches only to my shoulder, though his wide head and long arms make him appear larger. Grey skin folds around amber eyes. Two blunt horn nubs protrude beneath a dark cap. His formal black tunic bears no house insignia, and red dust powders the hem.

A sealed scroll fills his right hand.

Jory retreats behind the workbench.

The footman notices. Zonak occupy the lowest demon caste, assigned work no Volvath or Matron would touch, but even a Zonak ranks above a human. His mouth curves slightly at finding someone more frightened than he is.

His attention returns to me.

“Beatrix Ferryman?”

“Yes.”

“Human apothecary?”

“You have already named me.”

His fingers flex around the scroll. “I carry a summons.”