Chapter 75: The Physician With Clean Hands
Master Physician Vane did not look like a butcher. He stepped into the lower common room of The Stag & Ember looking immaculate, his tailored black wool coat entirely free of the freezing mud that coated the rest of Hartsgate. He smelled of cloves, starched linen, and cold antiseptic.
His hands, resting casually on the silver clasps of his medical case, were long, pale, and spotlessly clean.
Cassia Vale met him near the hearth, receiving the heavy parchment scrolls bearing the Duchess’s seal. Vane was perfectly polite, bowing to Cassia with the exact degree of deference required for a spymaster’s daughter. He inquired about Callis’s "fragile constitution," accepting Cassia’s practiced lies about her brother’s shattered nerves with a smooth, professional nod.
But Cassia’s dark eyes never left the physician’s face. She watched him scan the tavern, his gaze moving past the soot-stained timber to lock onto the best table in the room.
Maeve was holding court.
The sugar merchant’s wife was draped in expensive, pale pink wool, a cup of imported tea resting in front of her. She was playing the pampered, unbearable merchant wife to absolute perfection. She kept one manicured hand resting protectively over the proud swell of her belly, complaining loudly to the room about the draft, the smell of the market, and the sheer incompetence of the local midwives.
Sitting rigidly beside her, wearing a heavily embroidered merchant’s doublet that looked two sizes too stiff for him, was Dalmir.
The sugar merchant reached for his cup of ale, his hand trembling just enough to rattle the pewter against the wood. He was sweating, but he was playing his part. He patted his wife’s hand with exaggerated, fawning devotion, loud enough for Vane’s ears.
"Only the best for my heir, my dove," Dalmir proclaimed, puffing out his chest with a nervous bluster that perfectly mimicked a man desperate to please a demanding wife. "I have already told the Guild I will double the caravan fee if it means securing a proper Capital tonic for your nerves."
Callis heard the exchange from the far end of the bar.
The Vanguard was dressed in a simple, roughspun tunic, his broad shoulders hunched. To sell the illusion of a thoroughly domesticated, beaten boy, Mara had put him to work. He held a heavy boar-bristle brush, rhythmically scrubbing dried ale from the scarred oak planks of the counter.
Every muscle in Callis’s back was coiled tight enough to snap steel. He had to stand there, eyes lowered like a servant, while Dalmir publicly laid claim to his unborn child. Worse, he had to watch the Imperial physician—a man whose clean hands had quietly ended a dozen unwanted pregnancies in the Arathorian Court—slowly walk toward Maeve’s table.
"Mistress Maeve, I presume," Vane murmured, his voice a soothing, cultured hum. He offered a slight bow. "Her Grace, the Duchess of Vale, heard of your delicate, expectant condition. She extends her deepest goodwill to the merchants who keep this province fed, and has offered my services to ensure your pregnancy proceeds without frontier complications."
Maeve fluttered her eyelashes, letting out a delighted, utterly spoiled sigh.
"Oh, the Duchess is too kind," Maeve cooed, leaning back in her chair to emphasize the heavy curve of her belly. "The women in this town know nothing of proper care. They smell like sheep and tell me to chew on bitter roots. It is simply wretched. A proper Capital physician is exactly what I require."
"My wife is a delicate flower, Master Vane," Dalmir added, nodding vigorously. "Her comfort is my highest priority."
From her position near the hearth, Cassia watched Vane’s eyes.
The physician was smiling politely at Dalmir, but he wasn't looking at the sugar merchant. Vane’s cold, calculating gaze was mapped entirely onto Maeve. Cassia saw him tracking the flush of Maeve’s skin, measuring the width of her hips, and calculating the exact height of the bump beneath the pink wool. He was doing the math. He was comparing the gestation timeline directly against the month Callis had arrived in Hartsgate.
At the bar, Callis’s knuckles turned bone-white around the wooden handle of the scrub brush.
He could feel the threat. The deep, territorial violence buried in his blood spiked, a deafening roar in his ears demanding he cross the room, draw iron, and put the Capital physician through the floorboards before the man could take another step toward the pregnant woman carrying his child.
The heavy bristle brush cracked audibly in Callis's grip, the wood splintering under the immense pressure of his hand.
Vane’s cold gaze flicked toward the bar—no longer than a single, calculating heartbeat to register the sound of splintering wood—before gliding smoothly back to Maeve.
Mara Vell moved instantly.
The tavern owner stepped up beside Callis, slamming a heavy, wet canvas rag directly over his hands to hide the broken brush.
"Gods below, boy," Mara snapped loudly, pitching her voice to carry clearly across the tavern. "Can’t even scrub a counter without breaking the brush? Keep your head down and clean the mess."
Under the cover of the public scolding, she kept her eyes fixed on her ledger and drove her elbow hard into his ribs.
"Do not look at her," Mara hissed under her breath, her voice a razor-sharp command that cut through the red haze in his mind.
Callis gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw feathering as he forced his rigid arms to move, dragging the wet rag across the bar in a jerky, agonizingly forced rhythm. He swallowed the violence down, anchoring himself to the sharp, grounding pain in his ribs where Mara had struck him.
At the table, Vane opened his silver medical case. The pristine instruments gleamed in the firelight.
"Your husband is a wise man to seek premium care, Mistress Maeve," Vane said smoothly, his eyes lifting from the medical case to lock onto her flushed face. "The frontier is unpredictable. But I assure you, my hands are quite thorough. I would ask for a brief, private examination in a quiet room upstairs, just to ensure the child’s vitality."
Callis stopped scrubbing. The tavern seemed to hold its breath.
Maeve did not flinch. Her manicured fingers tapped once, deliberately, against the porcelain of her teacup. She offered the physician a beautiful, completely hollow smile of pampered entitlement.
"Of course," Maeve said smoothly. "Though I am sure a man of your profound education respects local spiritual custom. In Hartsgate, no examination of an expectant woman occurs without Sister Elowen of the Green March present."
Behind the bar, Mara Vell kept her eyes locked on the ledger, her expression perfectly composed as she quietly slid a six-inch iron boning knife off the cutting block and slipped it into the deep pocket of her apron.