Ravenheart by David Gemmell Page B

and then brought overland. It is, however, as effective as it is costly.”
    “I’ll take the one bottle,” said Kaelin. “But I’ll have to owe you.”
    “Not a problem, Master Ring. I trust you implicitly.” Ramus carefully gathered all the herbs and powders, then took up a swan feather quill and dipped it into a small pot of ink. In immaculate copperplate script he wrote out the details of the purchase and the sums required, sanded the finished receipt, and, when he was sure the ink had dried, folded the paper and handed it to Kaelin. The young man pocketed it, then heaved a large canvas shoulder bag to the worktop. It was already half-full. Ramus opened the flap at the top and packed his powders and potions among the contents. Thebottle of myrtle extract he placed within a wooden box half-filled with straw. “Be careful with this, Master Ring.”
    “I will, sir.”
    A commotion began outside, and Ramus could hear voices being raised.
    The outside door was thrust open, and a young man pushed inside. He was red-faced, his eyes wide with excitement. “There was an attempt on the Moidart’s life,” he said. “Assassins broke into his home last night. There are soldiers all over Eldacre, and there have been many arrests.”
    “Was the Moidart injured?” inquired Ramus.
    “No one is saying, sir.”
    “Thank you, Master Lane. Most kind of you to let me know.”
    The young man nodded excitedly, moved back to the street, and entered the bakery next door. His voice could just be heard through the thick walls, but only the occasional word sounded clearly. “Moidart … assassins … arrests …”
    “We live in perilous times, Master Ring,” Ramus said with a sigh.
    Kaelin Ring lifted the canvas bag to his shoulder, offered a short bow to the apothecary, and walked out to the cobbled street beyond.
    Ramus could see people gathering in the street and wandered back into his storeroom, sitting himself down in an old wicker chair. Leaning back against the embroidered cushions, he closed his eyes. So much violence in the world, he thought sadly.
    On the table beside his chair was a package of herbs and ointments he had prepared for the Moidart only that morning, soothing balms for the old burns on the skin of the lord’s arms and neck. Those wounds had come from yet another act of violence, when assassins had set fire to the old Winter House. Eleven people had died in the blaze—all of them servants. Before that, some fourteen years ago, there had been the murder attempt that had seen the Moidart’s wife strangled and the Moidart himself stabbed in the groin while trying tosave her. He had almost died from that wound. It had been the Moidart’s good fortune that Ramus had been summoned. There was much internal bleeding, but the apothecary had managed to stem the flow and halt the onset of infection. Even so, it was a full four months before the wounded man recovered sufficient strength to walk unaided. Years later the angry scar was still occasionally leaking pus and causing the Moidart bouts of fever.
    Ramus sighed. Acts of violence were beyond his imagination. Never in his life had he desired to hurt anyone.
    This latest attempt on the Moidart’s life would cause great anger among the Varlish. It was likely there would be riots and bloodshed in Eldacre, followed by more arrests and hangings.
    Ramus felt the weight of sadness heavy upon him.
    Thirty-two years earlier his own father had been hanged for stealing a sheep. He had not stolen the sheep, and the true culprit was discovered later. The lord of Goriasa had sent five pounds in gold coin as recompense for the mistake. The family had used part of the money to pay for Ramus’ tuition at the apothecary college. His mother had spent her remaining years hating the lord, her soul corroded by bitterness and resentment. Ramus’ brother, Aborain, had taken to the hills for a life of outlawry and murder, culminating in his execution on the same scaffold that