Page 179 of Vasmora

“How long does it take?” I whispered to Zevander, who stood at my side, while Corwin, Adira and Gavroche kept watch outside.

“Not long.”

“You’ve done this before?” I glanced up toward the sachets and bones that hung from the ceiling above Lothare, spying the stanchweed and calendula.

“A few times.” The clipped tone of his voice told me he didn’t care to elaborate.

Even so, I continued to prod. “When was the first time you used it?”

He huffed, clearly growing annoyed. “During my time with the general. Theron supplied it then.”

“Theron,” I echoed. “Her prisoner.”

His brows tightened. “You saw him?”

I nodded. “I found one of his ampoules. He offered it to me.” I turned in time to see his eye wrinkle with a wince. I wanted to ask him more about Theron, but the sound of sputtering coughs yanked my attention back to Lothare.

Curled into himself, Lothare heaved over the edge of the table into an awaiting bucket. Green, foamy fluids poured from his mouth, and I looked away as the sounds of his retching turned my stomach. He groaned in between bouts of vomiting, but it was the gurgling and gagging that sent a tickle of nausea to my own chest.

“Fucking hell,” he rasped. “My throat feels like I swallowed blades.”

“It’ll pass.” The old woman swiped up the bucket, sloshing the fluids inside, and chucked his vomit out of the open window beside her. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Any chance it might’ve been Faolan who poisoned you?” Zevander asked, crossing his arms.

Propped up on his elbow, Lothare dragged a hand across his face and huffed. “Could, I suppose. Not sure what the kid had against me, though. Guess we’ll never know now.”

“Here.” The old woman handed over a sliver of meat, her fingers greasy. “Helps to absorb the antidote.”

Her husband stroked his long, gray beard, eyes stern. “Whole city is going to shit, and you offer meat like our larders aren’t empty.”

Lothare yanked a blade from a holster at his thigh and slammed it onto the table. “Weapons are more valuable than coin at the moment,” he said, before tearing away a bite of the offering. “Payment for the meat.”

The old man grumbled. “Your little blade isn’t going to fend off anything. Three hundred thousand in this city alone will become infected. If it spreads? We don’t stand a chance.”

Even worse, each time the infection claimed a body, hundreds more spiders poured free. The magnitude of what the plague might be was nothing more than a peripheral thought, one I didn’t want to ponder too deeply for fear of losing hope, but as I swallowed back the numbers he’d thrown out, my chest clenched.

“I’ll send for my men,” Lothare offered, kicking his feet over the edge of the table as he sat upright. “Nearly thirty thousand posted in Kestellias, plus bannermen, and over a thousand razorwolves.”

“Razorwolves?” The old man scoffed and shook his head. “Even with the odds in your favor with the wolves, each of your men would be grossly outnumbered.”

Lothare snorted and hopped off the table. “You are a depressing cunt, you know that?”

“I know that,” the old woman said, hunching over a steaming pot at the stove.

“Stuff it, woman.” The older man plopped down on one of the chairs, and she twisted around, setting a tankard in front of him. “We’re fucked. Doesn’t matter how many men you rally. Every man that falls joins their side. Like an army that constantly replenishes.”

“How do you know so much about this plague?” Zevander asked.

“My ancestors fought centuries ago, in the first plague. Bannermen to the king, brought to heel by a pestilent pall.” He swirled the tankard and threw back a swill.

“But they survived,” I countered. “Aethyria persisted and conquered the plague.”

“I suspect that was the gods doing, not men. We were just fortunate to be on the winning side.” As he threw back a swill of his drink, the very thought of water sent an ache across my parched throat. “Only a god can defeat another god.”

Or a goddess. His words brought to mind my last conversation with Morsana. How she’d been instrumental in defeating Pestilios. Which meant freeing her was not a choice.

It was a necessity.