The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(90)
“I’m . . . working to fix it,” Kiva said cautiously.
“To fix what?” Cresta shoved her matted red hair over her shoulder. “This stomach virus?”
“Yes,” Kiva said, not offering any more, and wondering when Naari was going to step in and stop this.
Cresta’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”
Kiva raised her hands. “I’m not. Why do you think I was at the quarry? I was collecting samples for testing, just like I am today.” She patted the bag on her shoulder.
“That was over a fortnight ago,” Cresta exclaimed. “More and more people are dying every day. Hell, everyone who comes to see you for the smallest thing ends up getting sick—explain that, healer! Are you telling me you’re still trying to figure out why??”
Kiva didn’t have a response, unsure what she was allowed to say, especially to someone as volatile as Cresta. If the rebel leader used this to stir up more dissent among the prisoners, if she tried to create a panic . . . Things were already brewing too close to the surface, with whispers circulating about what had happened nine years earlier, the same spreading sickness, the same mass deaths. The murmurs were growing, the fears deepening. If something didn’t calm the inmates soon . . .
“I think you should be getting back to the quarry now,” Naari said, clearly thinking along the same lines. “Where’s Harlow?”
“Where do you think?” Cresta asked, one hand on her hip. “He’s in the kitchens, stealing from our rations. Like you lot don’t get enough of our food as it is.” Her face darkened. “He’s probably getting handsy with the workers there at the same time, so trust me, he’ll be in no rush to leave.”
Naari’s expression tightened, her eyes blazing as she turned to Kiva. “I’ll meet you at the tunnel entrance. Don’t go down without me.” To Cresta, Naari said, “Come with me.”
And without another word, she strode off in the direction of the kitchens, not waiting to see if Cresta would obey.
“If she weren’t a guard, I think I’d like her,” the angry woman mused. But then she remembered who she was standing with, and she sneered at Kiva. “Fix this, healer whore. Before we all die. Our blood is on your hands.”
With that parting line, she turned and began marching away.
“Wait!” Kiva called.
Cresta paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “What?”
Aware that she had mere seconds before Naari became suspicious of the delay, Kiva closed the distance between them and whispered, “Have you heard anything? About Tilda? About another rescue attempt?”
Cresta’s features were like granite as she forced out a single word. “No.”
Kiva’s shoulders slumped, even if she’d already assumed as much. “What does that mean?”
“It means we wait,” Cresta said. “And you do what you’re supposed to—keep her alive until the time comes.”
With a sharp, warning look, Cresta took off again, leaving Kiva alone.
“That’s easier said than done,” she muttered to herself. Not only did she have to survive tomorrow’s Trial, she also had to keep both herself and Tilda from catching the stomach illness—without knowing how it spread to begin with—and if she somehow managed those, she then would have to face yet another Ordeal in a fortnight.
Kiva sighed and rubbed her temples. As far as confrontations with Cresta went, that one hadn’t been so bad. She felt a niggling of concern in the pit of her stomach, wondering what the rebel leader might do with the information she’d learned about the sickness, limited as it had been. Anyone else, and Kiva wouldn’t have been so worried. But Cresta . . . she was a wildcard. It was possible that she would do nothing, keeping her head down and focusing her energy on what was happening with the rebels both inside and outside the walls. Or she could use what she’d heard to add to the fear spreading among the prisoners, creating a dangerous environment where everyone was even more on edge, guards included.
Sighing again, Kiva knew it was out of her hands, so she hitched her bag further up her shoulder and continued her journey to the tunnel entrance, refocusing on her mission. Both the aquifer and the pumping station were accessed via the same shaft that led down to the tunnels, so once she reached the domed stone building, she stepped inside to wait for Naari. There was nothing to look at, only a set of ladders poking out from the large rectangular hole in the ground.
The guard arrived minutes later, her face stormy. “Please tell me Harlow’s rash is painful as well as itchy.”
Kiva swallowed her laugh and said, “Judging by how he winces when he walks, I’m guessing so.”
“Good,” Naari said, sounding satisfied. She jerked her head toward the ladders descending into the shaft. “Let’s get this over with.”
* * *
They headed to the pumping station first, but only for convenience reasons, since it was located nearest to the bottom of the ladder—or ladders, really, since there were a number of them to climb down before reaching the tunnel floor, all connected by platforms narrow enough that Kiva felt her stomach jump to her throat every time she transferred from one to the next.
She’d ventured beneath Zalindov only twice before, both times to test the water in the aquifer for algae and other natural contaminants, and both journeys had been just as harrowing as today’s. Her legs felt like custard when she finally touched the earth at the base of the shaft, perspiration dotting her forehead from both exertion and the humidity that clung to her skin. She’d once believed the tunnels would be much colder than the outside temperature, but she’d learned during her first underground venture that hot air became trapped more easily, keeping the environment almost balmy in winter, and downright uncomfortable in summer. Many of the prisoners who worked belowground suffered from heat-related ailments and dehydration, especially in the warmer months. Not to mention, it was a stink factory, with all those bodies pressed together and laboring side by side with little ventilation.