(no subject)

In Which Levande is a Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Thery died, of course.

Which is to say, she died a dozen and some times, and got dragged back to life each time. Which is rather a lot for a medical matter. It's a pretty high penalty for doorwaying, even.

(As an aside: The baby didn't die at all, which was the point. I imagine Thery could have gotten away with only two or three deaths if they didn't mind having the baby die once or twice too. But dying before you're properly born is, I gather, a very bad thing.)

Sometime an hour or three before the sun went out, Chrentothany came out of Thery's room. We were waiting in the lobby of the Pavilion of Splendor, trying not to look nervous, and trying not to look at the other gang of a dozen or so people waiting for the fate of their husband who was being eaten by yarthas, or, perhaps, being saved from the same.

We surmised that it was a bad sign when Chrentothany tried to slink past us without saying anything. He surely recognized Levande and me, if nothing else. We surely recognized him, too, and Levande arrested him by means partly verbal, partly physical, and partly moral.

Chrentothany:"No, the situation is not so good. I have done what a healer can do; I am out of cley. I have left her in the hands of a nurse, who will save the baby if she can be saved."

Levande:"You didn't use the ritual I bought you."

Chrentothany:"No -- " and lapsed into some incomprehensible medical jargon about why not.

Levande:"If you had more cley, could you do more?"

Chrentothany:"Well, I could do more of the same. It might suffice, it might not." More medical jargon followed.

The ensuing argument was rather bitter. Chrentothany's side was that Thery had used up an entire expert healer for an entire day, which is pretty much all that anyone short of greater nobility or greater wizardry gets. (Given that Chrentothany can typically save, oh, two dozen people in a day, or half that if he binds spells with the day's leftover cley, using a full day's power on one person is a poor economy; using several days' is even poorer.) Levande's was that more could be done to save Thery.

Levande:[finally]"It seems to me that you have two choices. You can get more cley, or you can get another healer to take over where you have failed."

Chrentothany:"Neither one is appropriate."

Levande:"Then I present a third choice. Sythyry and I will persecute and torment you to the fullest scope of my ability for so long as you are in Vheshrame Mene, or in those city-states where the word of the Duke of Vheshrame is heavy. And if you seek to escape more fully than that, I daresay the gentlebeast who attends on Sythyry will work a quicker and crueller punishment than any I could come up with."

I was a bit disconcerted to be added to the list of punishers, especially using Vae as a weapon. I couldn't argue with the sentiment though. Though it's really not a good idea to bully a healer. Even one in his despairs at being about to lose a patient.

Within the third part of an hour, a second healer -- Dathrynne something-or-other, a Herethroy co-lover -- was attending Thery.

Before the sun had entirely gone out:

1. Thery and Macropodia Elegans were definitively going to survive.
2. Thery's belly was thoroughly ripped apart.
3. Thery had died enough times so that ordinary belly-healing spells weren't going to help much, and she was going to need two or three weeks (!) of further medical attention.
4. Macropodia Elegans was a little tiny slip of a Rassimel girl, named Ficina. We got to see her for about a minute, wrapped in blankets, in Yarwain's arms.
5. Yarwain didn't look in much better shape than Thery, except that he was walking and intact and all the blood on him was hers. But he looked quite happy. He had been a tad worried, I gather, though not as berserkly worried as Thery.
6. I might admit that occasionally mammalian reproduction gets close to being as awful as Zi Ri reproduction. I would probably hurt more than Thery did, though I wouldn't be in nearly as bad shape afterwards.

Which was a distinct improvement over a few hours before.

The remaining problem: Thery wasn't going to be any good for anything except bleeding for nearly a month. Yarwain can't lactate. Not nearly as bad as the last problem, but, well, Ficina won't do well on just babywine for a month.

(no subject)

In Which Levande is a Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Thery died, of course.

Which is to say, she died a dozen and some times, and got dragged back to life each time. Which is rather a lot for a medical matter. It's a pretty high penalty for doorwaying, even.

(As an aside: The baby didn't die at all, which was the point. I imagine Thery could have gotten away with only two or three deaths if they didn't mind having the baby die once or twice too. But dying before you're properly born is, I gather, a very bad thing.)

Sometime an hour or three before the sun went out, Chrentothany came out of Thery's room. We were waiting in the lobby of the Pavilion of Splendor, trying not to look nervous, and trying not to look at the other gang of a dozen or so people waiting for the fate of their husband who was being eaten by yarthas, or, perhaps, being saved from the same.

We surmised that it was a bad sign when Chrentothany tried to slink past us without saying anything. He surely recognized Levande and me, if nothing else. We surely recognized him, too, and Levande arrested him by means partly verbal, partly physical, and partly moral.

Chrentothany:"No, the situation is not so good. I have done what a healer can do; I am out of cley. I have left her in the hands of a nurse, who will save the baby if she can be saved."

Levande:"You didn't use the ritual I bought you."

Chrentothany:"No -- " and lapsed into some incomprehensible medical jargon about why not.

Levande:"If you had more cley, could you do more?"

Chrentothany:"Well, I could do more of the same. It might suffice, it might not." More medical jargon followed.

The ensuing argument was rather bitter. Chrentothany's side was that Thery had used up an entire expert healer for an entire day, which is pretty much all that anyone short of greater nobility or greater wizardry gets. (Given that Chrentothany can typically save, oh, two dozen people in a day, or half that if he binds spells with the day's leftover cley, using a full day's power on one person is a poor economy; using several days' is even poorer.) Levande's was that more could be done to save Thery.

Levande:[finally]"It seems to me that you have two choices. You can get more cley, or you can get another healer to take over where you have failed."

Chrentothany:"Neither one is appropriate."

Levande:"Then I present a third choice. Sythyry and I will persecute and torment you to the fullest scope of my ability for so long as you are in Vheshrame Mene, or in those city-states where the word of the Duke of Vheshrame is heavy. And if you seek to escape more fully than that, I daresay the gentlebeast who attends on Sythyry will work a quicker and crueller punishment than any I could come up with."

I was a bit disconcerted to be added to the list of punishers, especially using Vae as a weapon. I couldn't argue with the sentiment though. Though it's really not a good idea to bully a healer. Even one in his despairs at being about to lose a patient.

Within the third part of an hour, a second healer -- Dathrynne something-or-other, a Herethroy co-lover -- was attending Thery.

Before the sun had entirely gone out:

1. Thery and Macropodia Elegans were definitively going to survive.
2. Thery's belly was thoroughly ripped apart.
3. Thery had died enough times so that ordinary belly-healing spells weren't going to help much, and she was going to need two or three weeks (!) of further medical attention.
4. Macropodia Elegans was a little tiny slip of a Rassimel girl, named Ficina. We got to see her for about a minute, wrapped in blankets, in Yarwain's arms.
5. Yarwain didn't look in much better shape than Thery, except that he was walking and intact and all the blood on him was hers. But he looked quite happy. He had been a tad worried, I gather, though not as berserkly worried as Thery.
6. I might admit that occasionally mammalian reproduction gets close to being as awful as Zi Ri reproduction. I would probably hurt more than Thery did, though I wouldn't be in nearly as bad shape afterwards.

Which was a distinct improvement over a few hours before.

The remaining problem: Thery wasn't going to be any good for anything except bleeding for nearly a month. Yarwain can't lactate. Not nearly as bad as the last problem, but, well, Ficina won't do well on just babywine for a month.

(no subject)

Originally published at Sythyry. Please leave any comments there.

In Which Levande is a Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Thery died, of course.

Which is to say, she died a dozen and some times, and got
dragged back to life each time. Which is rather a lot for a
medical matter. It’s a pretty high penalty for
doorwaying, even.

(As an aside: The baby didn’t die at all, which was the
point. I imagine Thery could have gotten away with only two
or three deaths if they didn’t mind having the baby die once
or twice too. But dying before you’re properly born is, I
gather, a very bad thing.)

Sometime an hour or three before the sun went out,
Chrentothany came out of Thery’s room. We were waiting in
the lobby of the Pavilion of Splendor, trying not to look
nervous, and trying not to look at the other gang of a dozen
or so people waiting for the fate of their husband who was
being eaten by yarthas, or, perhaps, being saved from the
same.

We surmised that it was a bad sign when Chrentothany tried
to slink past us without saying anything. He surely
recognized Levande and me, if nothing else. We surely
recognized him, too, and Levande arrested him by means
partly verbal, partly physical, and partly moral.

Chrentothany:“No, the situation is not so
good. I have done what a healer can do; I am out of cley.
I have left her in the hands of a nurse, who will save the
baby if she can be saved.”

Levande:“You didn’t use the ritual I bought
you.”

Chrentothany:“No — “ and lapsed into some
incomprehensible medical jargon about why not.

Levande:“If you had more cley, could you do
more?”

Chrentothany:“Well, I could do more of the
same. It might suffice, it might not.” More medical
jargon followed.

The ensuing argument was rather bitter. Chrentothany’s side
was that Thery had used up an entire expert healer for an
entire day, which is pretty much all that anyone short of
greater nobility or greater wizardry gets. (Given that
Chrentothany can typically save, oh, two dozen people in a
day, or half that if he binds spells with the day’s leftover
cley, using a full day’s power on one person is a poor
economy; using several days’ is even poorer.) Levande’s was
that more could be done to save Thery.

Levande:[finally]“It seems to me that you have
two choices. You can get more cley, or you can get another
healer to take over where you have failed.”

Chrentothany:“Neither one is
appropriate.”

Levande:“Then I present a third choice.
Sythyry and I will persecute and torment you to the fullest
scope of my ability for so long as you are in Vheshrame
Mene, or in those city-states where the word of the Duke of
Vheshrame is heavy. And if you seek to escape more fully
than that, I daresay the gentlebeast who attends on Sythyry
will work a quicker and crueller punishment than any I could
come up with.”

I was a bit disconcerted to be added to the list of
punishers, especially using Vae as a weapon. I couldn’t
argue with the sentiment though. Though it’s really not a
good idea to bully a healer. Even one in his despairs at
being about to lose a patient.

Within the third part of an hour, a second healer –
Dathrynne something-or-other, a Herethroy co-lover — was
attending Thery.

Before the sun had entirely gone out:

1. Thery and Macropodia Elegans were definitively going to survive.
2. Thery’s belly was thoroughly ripped apart.
3. Thery had died enough times so that ordinary
   belly-healing spells weren’t going to help much, and she was
   going to need two or three weeks (!) of further medical
   attention.
4. Macropodia Elegans was a little tiny slip of a Rassimel
   girl, named Ficina. We got to see her for about a
   minute, wrapped in blankets, in Yarwain’s arms.
5. Yarwain didn’t look in much better shape than Thery,
   except that he was walking and intact and all the blood on him was
   hers. But he looked quite happy. He had been a tad worried,
   I gather, though not as berserkly worried as Thery.
6. I might admit that occasionally mammalian reproduction
   gets close to being as awful as Zi Ri reproduction. I
   would probably hurt more than Thery did, though I wouldn’t
   be in nearly as bad shape afterwards.

Which was a distinct improvement over a few hours before.

The remaining problem: Thery wasn’t going to be any good for
anything except bleeding for nearly a month. Yarwain
can’t lactate. Not nearly as bad as the last problem, but,
well, Ficina won’t do well on just babywine for a month.

(no subject)

Originally published at Sythyry. Please leave any comments there.

In Which Levande is a Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Thery died, of course.

Which is to say, she died a dozen and some times, and got
dragged back to life each time. Which is rather a lot for a
medical matter. It’s a pretty high penalty for
doorwaying, even.

(As an aside: The baby didn’t die at all, which was the
point. I imagine Thery could have gotten away with only two
or three deaths if they didn’t mind having the baby die once
or twice too. But dying before you’re properly born is, I
gather, a very bad thing.)

Sometime an hour or three before the sun went out,
Chrentothany came out of Thery’s room. We were waiting in
the lobby of the Pavilion of Splendor, trying not to look
nervous, and trying not to look at the other gang of a dozen
or so people waiting for the fate of their husband who was
being eaten by yarthas, or, perhaps, being saved from the
same.

We surmised that it was a bad sign when Chrentothany tried
to slink past us without saying anything. He surely
recognized Levande and me, if nothing else. We surely
recognized him, too, and Levande arrested him by means
partly verbal, partly physical, and partly moral.

Chrentothany:“No, the situation is not so
good. I have done what a healer can do; I am out of cley.
I have left her in the hands of a nurse, who will save the
baby if she can be saved.”

Levande:“You didn’t use the ritual I bought
you.”

Chrentothany:“No — “ and lapsed into some
incomprehensible medical jargon about why not.

Levande:“If you had more cley, could you do
more?”

Chrentothany:“Well, I could do more of the
same. It might suffice, it might not.” More medical
jargon followed.

The ensuing argument was rather bitter. Chrentothany’s side
was that Thery had used up an entire expert healer for an
entire day, which is pretty much all that anyone short of
greater nobility or greater wizardry gets. (Given that
Chrentothany can typically save, oh, two dozen people in a
day, or half that if he binds spells with the day’s leftover
cley, using a full day’s power on one person is a poor
economy; using several days’ is even poorer.) Levande’s was
that more could be done to save Thery.

Levande:[finally]“It seems to me that you have
two choices. You can get more cley, or you can get another
healer to take over where you have failed.”

Chrentothany:“Neither one is
appropriate.”

Levande:“Then I present a third choice.
Sythyry and I will persecute and torment you to the fullest
scope of my ability for so long as you are in Vheshrame
Mene, or in those city-states where the word of the Duke of
Vheshrame is heavy. And if you seek to escape more fully
than that, I daresay the gentlebeast who attends on Sythyry
will work a quicker and crueller punishment than any I could
come up with.”

I was a bit disconcerted to be added to the list of
punishers, especially using Vae as a weapon. I couldn’t
argue with the sentiment though. Though it’s really not a
good idea to bully a healer. Even one in his despairs at
being about to lose a patient.

Within the third part of an hour, a second healer –
Dathrynne something-or-other, a Herethroy co-lover — was
attending Thery.

Before the sun had entirely gone out:

1. Thery and Macropodia Elegans were definitively going to survive.
2. Thery’s belly was thoroughly ripped apart.
3. Thery had died enough times so that ordinary
   belly-healing spells weren’t going to help much, and she was
   going to need two or three weeks (!) of further medical
   attention.
4. Macropodia Elegans was a little tiny slip of a Rassimel
   girl, named Ficina. We got to see her for about a
   minute, wrapped in blankets, in Yarwain’s arms.
5. Yarwain didn’t look in much better shape than Thery,
   except that he was walking and intact and all the blood on him was
   hers. But he looked quite happy. He had been a tad worried,
   I gather, though not as berserkly worried as Thery.
6. I might admit that occasionally mammalian reproduction
   gets close to being as awful as Zi Ri reproduction. I
   would probably hurt more than Thery did, though I wouldn’t
   be in nearly as bad shape afterwards.

Which was a distinct improvement over a few hours before.

The remaining problem: Thery wasn’t going to be any good for
anything except bleeding for nearly a month. Yarwain
can’t lactate. Not nearly as bad as the last problem, but,
well, Ficina won’t do well on just babywine for a month.

(no subject)

In Which Levande is a Worse Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Yarwain was asleep on a couch, with Ficina cradled in his hands as though she were the most precious thing in the universe. Which she may or may not have been, to him, but the other candidate for that honor was held together by thread and Sustenoc, and probably wouldn't be safely holdable for some time.

So the rest of us arranged their life for them, of course.

Dathrynne:"We'll have to find a wet-nurse for Ficina."

Levande:"Is that hard?"

Dathrynne:"Well, it might take three or four days. Which isn't terrible: Ficina can survive on babywine and boiled guntry's milk cut with fish stock 'til then. I do wish she weren't so premature and fragile though."

Levande:"Hmm. Can a woman be caused to lactate, in a hurry?"

Dathrynne:"Oh, certainly. It's a serious spell, though. I don't know of anyone in town who has it grafted. And it's Mutoc, of course; it's not pleasant. Not that many people will accept it. We'll just find a wet-nurse, someone who's already lactating and has milk to spare; that's much easier. I'm sure there is someone -- these things happen every week, and there's never much trouble for Rassimel."

Levande:"I shall find someone who will accept it. Can you get a copy and a person to cast it?"

Dathrynne expressed indignation at how Levande was bullying the Healers' Guild. "And bullying some poor Rassimel woman with your full power as a countess to nurse this child! No, no. Find a wet-nurse the proper way. Ficina will not suffer for it, or not much.

Levande:"I have a volunteer."

Iska tried to say something, but she didn't stand a chance against Levande's mild expression of disapproval.

Dathrynne:"Within a ninth of an hour, since the matter came to light, and you haven't sent a message? I doubt that! You've a servant girl you don't mind ordering to great indignities, I daresay, or even a slave."

Levande:"I am a Rassimel woman, in case you have not noticed."

And Dathrynne had very little to say after that. Yarwain might have, but he was asleep. Iska tried, but nobody paid her any attention.

Levande:"Now we need the spell, and the caster of it."

Dathrynne:"Draught of the Rassimel Mother, is the one I recommend. It is a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20."

Me:"It's Mutoc. Could the nendrai do it?"

Dathrynne:"If the nendrai knows her Rassimel biology, she could. There are two hundred and eighty-eight ways to do it, if I remember that class. Three of them will cause no harm to anyone, and Draught uses one of the three."

Everyone:"Let's not mention this to the nendrai."

Arrangements were made. A copy of the spell would come to the Pavilion of Splendor within the hour.

Levande:"And who can cast a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20?"

Everyone else looked at me. Cloak of Another God, which I seem to cast twice a day or so and only my boyfriend pretends nobody knows I do, is a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20.

Levande:"Excellent. Sythyry, you shall graft the spell immediately."

I expressed various forms of hesitation and delay and inconvenience and thinking-we-should-check-with-Yarwain and such as that.

Levande:"Sythyry, you shall graft the spell immediately."

As a connoisseur-in-training of menace, I find that an inexperienced countess far outclasses an inexperienced nendrai at unstated or understated threats. Though I should imagine that an inexperienced nendrai outclasses an inexperienced countess at blatant shows of force.

Me:"It'll take all night and more!"

Levande:"You are a student. You can stay up all night now and then."

Well ... Yes, I can. I did. In the cloakroom of the Pavilion of Splendor. Levande was waiting outside, and brought me pots of kathia every two hours. She had to give me the cley to cast the spell, but I am traff and presumably don't really mind embracing a countess of another species in public. I distinctly prefer a Orren count's sixth son to a full countess though.

She cried from the pain of it. Still, she got off the easiest of anyone involved. (Though she'll need to put up with it every few days -- the spell doesn't last that long.)

And Yarwain awoke somewhat later to the sight of his protectress or archrival or whatever she is, nursing his daughter, very clumsily, with help from a midwife or something who knew how to trick a baby into nursing. By all reports he was not delighted.

(no subject)

In Which Levande is a Worse Monster [12 Chirreb 4261]

Yarwain was asleep on a couch, with Ficina cradled in his hands as though she were the most precious thing in the universe. Which she may or may not have been, to him, but the other candidate for that honor was held together by thread and Sustenoc, and probably wouldn't be safely holdable for some time.

So the rest of us arranged their life for them, of course.

Dathrynne:"We'll have to find a wet-nurse for Ficina."

Levande:"Is that hard?"

Dathrynne:"Well, it might take three or four days. Which isn't terrible: Ficina can survive on babywine and boiled guntry's milk cut with fish stock 'til then. I do wish she weren't so premature and fragile though."

Levande:"Hmm. Can a woman be caused to lactate, in a hurry?"

Dathrynne:"Oh, certainly. It's a serious spell, though. I don't know of anyone in town who has it grafted. And it's Mutoc, of course; it's not pleasant. Not that many people will accept it. We'll just find a wet-nurse, someone who's already lactating and has milk to spare; that's much easier. I'm sure there is someone -- these things happen every week, and there's never much trouble for Rassimel."

Levande:"I shall find someone who will accept it. Can you get a copy and a person to cast it?"

Dathrynne expressed indignation at how Levande was bullying the Healers' Guild. "And bullying some poor Rassimel woman with your full power as a countess to nurse this child! No, no. Find a wet-nurse the proper way. Ficina will not suffer for it, or not much.

Levande:"I have a volunteer."

Iska tried to say something, but she didn't stand a chance against Levande's mild expression of disapproval.

Dathrynne:"Within a ninth of an hour, since the matter came to light, and you haven't sent a message? I doubt that! You've a servant girl you don't mind ordering to great indignities, I daresay, or even a slave."

Levande:"I am a Rassimel woman, in case you have not noticed."

And Dathrynne had very little to say after that. Yarwain might have, but he was asleep. Iska tried, but nobody paid her any attention.

Levande:"Now we need the spell, and the caster of it."

Dathrynne:"Draught of the Rassimel Mother, is the one I recommend. It is a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20."

Me:"It's Mutoc. Could the nendrai do it?"

Dathrynne:"If the nendrai knows her Rassimel biology, she could. There are two hundred and eighty-eight ways to do it, if I remember that class. Three of them will cause no harm to anyone, and Draught uses one of the three."

Everyone:"Let's not mention this to the nendrai."

Arrangements were made. A copy of the spell would come to the Pavilion of Splendor within the hour.

Levande:"And who can cast a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20?"

Everyone else looked at me. Cloak of Another God, which I seem to cast twice a day or so and only my boyfriend pretends nobody knows I do, is a Mutoc Corpador spell of complexity 20.

Levande:"Excellent. Sythyry, you shall graft the spell immediately."

I expressed various forms of hesitation and delay and inconvenience and thinking-we-should-check-with-Yarwain and such as that.

Levande:"Sythyry, you shall graft the spell immediately."

As a connoisseur-in-training of menace, I find that an inexperienced countess far outclasses an inexperienced nendrai at unstated or understated threats. Though I should imagine that an inexperienced nendrai outclasses an inexperienced countess at blatant shows of force.

Me:"It'll take all night and more!"

Levande:"You are a student. You can stay up all night now and then."

Well ... Yes, I can. I did. In the cloakroom of the Pavilion of Splendor. Levande was waiting outside, and brought me pots of kathia every two hours. She had to give me the cley to cast the spell, but I am traff and presumably don't really mind embracing a countess of another species in public. I distinctly prefer a Orren count's sixth son to a full countess though.

She cried from the pain of it. Still, she got off the easiest of anyone involved. (Though she'll need to put up with it every few days -- the spell doesn't last that long.)

And Yarwain awoke somewhat later to the sight of his protectress or archrival or whatever she is, nursing his daughter, very clumsily, with help from a midwife or something who knew how to trick a baby into nursing. By all reports he was not delighted.

(no subject)

Originally published at Sythyry. Please leave any comments there.

In Which Levande is a Worse Monster [12 Chirreb
4261]

Yarwain was asleep on a couch, with Ficina cradled in his
hands as though she were the most precious thing in the
universe. Which she may or may not have been, to him, but
the other candidate for that honor was held together by
thread and Sustenoc, and probably wouldn’t be safely
holdable for some time.

So the rest of us arranged their life for them, of course.

Dathrynne:“We’ll have to find a wet-nurse for
Ficina.”

Levande:“Is that hard?”

Dathrynne:“Well, it might take three or four
days. Which isn’t terrible: Ficina can survive on babywine
and boiled guntry’s milk cut with fish stock ’til then. I
do wish she weren’t so premature and fragile
though.”

Levande:“Hmm. Can a woman be caused to
lactate, in a hurry?”

Dathrynne:“Oh, certainly. It’s a serious
spell, though. I don’t know of anyone in town who
has it grafted. And it’s Mutoc, of course; it’s not
pleasant. Not that many people will accept it. We’ll just
find a wet-nurse, someone who’s already lactating and has
milk to spare; that’s much easier. I’m sure there is
someone — these things happen every week, and there’s never
much trouble for Rassimel.”

Levande:“I shall find someone who will accept
it. Can you get a copy and a person to cast it?”

Dathrynne expressed indignation at how Levande was bullying
the Healers’ Guild. “And bullying some poor Rassimel woman
with your full power as a countess to nurse this child! No,
no. Find a wet-nurse the proper way. Ficina will not
suffer for it, or not much.

Levande:“I have a volunteer.”

Iska tried to say something, but she didn’t stand a chance
against Levande’s mild expression of disapproval.

Dathrynne:“Within a ninth of an hour, since the
matter came to light, and you haven’t sent a message? I
doubt that! You’ve a servant girl you don’t mind ordering
to great indignities, I daresay, or even a slave.”

Levande:“I am a Rassimel woman, in case you
have not noticed.”

And Dathrynne had very little to say after that. Yarwain
might have, but he was asleep. Iska tried, but nobody paid
her any attention.

Levande:“Now we need the spell, and the caster
of it.”

Dathrynne:“Draught of the Rassimel
Mother, is the one I recommend. It is a Mutoc Corpador
spell of complexity 20.”

Me:“It’s Mutoc. Could the nendrai do
it?”

Dathrynne:“If the nendrai knows her Rassimel
biology, she could. There are two hundred and eighty-eight
ways to do it, if I remember that class. Three of
them will cause no harm to anyone, and Draught uses
one of the three.”

Everyone:“Let’s not mention this to the
nendrai.”

Arrangements were made. A copy of the spell would come to
the Pavilion of Splendor within the hour.

Levande:“And who can cast a Mutoc Corpador
spell of complexity 20?”

Everyone else looked at me. Cloak of Another God,
which I seem to cast twice a day or so and only my boyfriend
pretends nobody knows I do, is a Mutoc Corpador spell of
complexity 20.

Levande:“Excellent. Sythyry, you shall graft
the spell immediately.”

I expressed various forms of hesitation and delay and
inconvenience and thinking-we-should-check-with-Yarwain and
such as that.

Levande:“Sythyry, you shall graft the spell
immediately.”

As a connoisseur-in-training of menace, I find that an
inexperienced countess far outclasses an inexperienced
nendrai at unstated or understated threats. Though I should
imagine that an inexperienced nendrai outclasses an
inexperienced countess at blatant shows of force.

Me:“It’ll take all night and more!”

Levande:“You are a student. You can stay up
all night now and then.”

Well … Yes, I can. I did. In the cloakroom of the
Pavilion of Splendor. Levande was waiting outside, and
brought me pots of kathia every two hours. She had to give
me the cley to cast the spell, but I am traff and presumably
don’t really mind embracing a countess of another species in
public. I distinctly prefer a Orren count’s sixth son to a
full countess though.

She cried from the pain of it. Still, she got off the
easiest of anyone involved. (Though she’ll need to put up
with it every few days — the spell doesn’t last that long.)

And Yarwain awoke somewhat later to the sight of his
protectress or archrival or whatever she is, nursing his
daughter, very clumsily, with help from a midwife or
something who knew how to trick a baby into nursing.
By all reports he was not delighted.

(no subject)

Originally published at Sythyry. Please leave any comments there.

In Which Levande is a Worse Monster [12 Chirreb
4261]

Yarwain was asleep on a couch, with Ficina cradled in his
hands as though she were the most precious thing in the
universe. Which she may or may not have been, to him, but
the other candidate for that honor was held together by
thread and Sustenoc, and probably wouldn’t be safely
holdable for some time.

So the rest of us arranged their life for them, of course.

Dathrynne:“We’ll have to find a wet-nurse for
Ficina.”

Levande:“Is that hard?”

Dathrynne:“Well, it might take three or four
days. Which isn’t terrible: Ficina can survive on babywine
and boiled guntry’s milk cut with fish stock ’til then. I
do wish she weren’t so premature and fragile
though.”

Levande:“Hmm. Can a woman be caused to
lactate, in a hurry?”

Dathrynne:“Oh, certainly. It’s a serious
spell, though. I don’t know of anyone in town who
has it grafted. And it’s Mutoc, of course; it’s not
pleasant. Not that many people will accept it. We’ll just
find a wet-nurse, someone who’s already lactating and has
milk to spare; that’s much easier. I’m sure there is
someone — these things happen every week, and there’s never
much trouble for Rassimel.”

Levande:“I shall find someone who will accept
it. Can you get a copy and a person to cast it?”

Dathrynne expressed indignation at how Levande was bullying
the Healers’ Guild. “And bullying some poor Rassimel woman
with your full power as a countess to nurse this child! No,
no. Find a wet-nurse the proper way. Ficina will not
suffer for it, or not much.

Levande:“I have a volunteer.”

Iska tried to say something, but she didn’t stand a chance
against Levande’s mild expression of disapproval.

Dathrynne:“Within a ninth of an hour, since the
matter came to light, and you haven’t sent a message? I
doubt that! You’ve a servant girl you don’t mind ordering
to great indignities, I daresay, or even a slave.”

Levande:“I am a Rassimel woman, in case you
have not noticed.”

And Dathrynne had very little to say after that. Yarwain
might have, but he was asleep. Iska tried, but nobody paid
her any attention.

Levande:“Now we need the spell, and the caster
of it.”

Dathrynne:“Draught of the Rassimel
Mother, is the one I recommend. It is a Mutoc Corpador
spell of complexity 20.”

Me:“It’s Mutoc. Could the nendrai do
it?”

Dathrynne:“If the nendrai knows her Rassimel
biology, she could. There are two hundred and eighty-eight
ways to do it, if I remember that class. Three of
them will cause no harm to anyone, and Draught uses
one of the three.”

Everyone:“Let’s not mention this to the
nendrai.”

Arrangements were made. A copy of the spell would come to
the Pavilion of Splendor within the hour.

Levande:“And who can cast a Mutoc Corpador
spell of complexity 20?”

Everyone else looked at me. Cloak of Another God,
which I seem to cast twice a day or so and only my boyfriend
pretends nobody knows I do, is a Mutoc Corpador spell of
complexity 20.

Levande:“Excellent. Sythyry, you shall graft
the spell immediately.”

I expressed various forms of hesitation and delay and
inconvenience and thinking-we-should-check-with-Yarwain and
such as that.

Levande:“Sythyry, you shall graft the spell
immediately.”

As a connoisseur-in-training of menace, I find that an
inexperienced countess far outclasses an inexperienced
nendrai at unstated or understated threats. Though I should
imagine that an inexperienced nendrai outclasses an
inexperienced countess at blatant shows of force.

Me:“It’ll take all night and more!”

Levande:“You are a student. You can stay up
all night now and then.”

Well … Yes, I can. I did. In the cloakroom of the
Pavilion of Splendor. Levande was waiting outside, and
brought me pots of kathia every two hours. She had to give
me the cley to cast the spell, but I am traff and presumably
don’t really mind embracing a countess of another species in
public. I distinctly prefer a Orren count’s sixth son to a
full countess though.

She cried from the pain of it. Still, she got off the
easiest of anyone involved. (Though she’ll need to put up
with it every few days — the spell doesn’t last that long.)

And Yarwain awoke somewhat later to the sight of his
protectress or archrival or whatever she is, nursing his
daughter, very clumsily, with help from a midwife or
something who knew how to trick a baby into nursing.
By all reports he was not delighted.