The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(11)
Jaren’s humor dissolved, his eyes flicking to Naari, then back to Kiva. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I guess—I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act in here.”
Kiva inhaled deeply, then shook the tension from her shoulders. People dealt with fear and uncertainty in different ways, she reminded herself. Humor was a coping mechanism, and certainly not the worst of them. She needed to have more patience with him.
“That’s what I’m here for,” she told him, more gently. “To tell you what you need to know. To help you survive this place.”
“And how long have you been surviving this place?”
She held his gaze. “Long enough to be a good teacher.”
That seemed to satisfy him, since he followed without argument when she started forward again. At least until she stopped them at the entrance to the next building over and said, “I figure the first place you visit should also be the last.”
When Jaren looked at her in puzzlement, she nodded to the dark doorway and finished, “Welcome to the morgue.”
Chapter Five
Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors. Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.
A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown. Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death. The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.
Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full. The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.
“Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”
From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.
“I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man. He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago. Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help. More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch. It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere. That turned out to be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months. Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.
Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths. But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls. In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.
“Two, yeh say?” Mot said, shuffling some parchment. “Tunnel fever still takin’ ’em?”
Kiva shook her head. “New arrivals. They didn’t survive the journey.”
Mot’s cloudy eyes shifted to Jaren. Naari had remained at the doorway, and Kiva envied her the fresh air.
“Yeh’re new today, boy?” Mot asked, his joints cracking as he stood.
Jaren looked at Kiva, as if seeking her permission to speak. Perhaps he did understand the gravity of being at Zalindov. But she wasn’t the one he needed to defer to. Regardless, she gave a quick nod, and he answered Mot with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
“Ha!” Mot cried with a beaming grin, his brown teeth revealed by the luminium beacons affixed to the stone walls. “Yeh hear that, Kiva? ‘Sir.’ That’s respect.” He winked at her. “I like this one.”
“Mot—”
“Stay close to yer healer, boy.” Mot spoke over Kiva. “She’ll take good care of yeh. Mark my words.”
Kiva pressed her lips into a firm line. She wasn’t Jaren’s healer. She was the prison healer—everyone’s healer.
“Will you collect them before you finish up tonight, Mot?” Kiva said after unclenching her jaw.
Mot waved a dismissive hand. “O’ course, o’ course. But they’ll ’ave to wait for burnin’. Grendel’s already put a load through today.”
Kiva didn’t care when the two men were cremated, as long as they weren’t decaying in her infirmary. “Fine. Tipp’s checking on my quarantined patients at the moment, but just call out to him if you need any help.”
Mot’s eyes narrowed. “Tipp?”
Belatedly, Kiva remembered why she was in the morgue, rather than her assistant. Still unsure what had happened, she hedged, “He’ll stay out of your way unless you ask.”