Arthur's body presented its full bill two days after the festival. He had expected soreness. He had not expected to wake on the second morning genuinely unable to descend the dormitory stairs without gripping the railing with both hands, every muscle from his calves to his shoulders locked into a deep, protesting stiffness that made even ordinary movement a considered negotiation.
YSE: You look like you've been struck by a cart.
ART: I feel like I've been struck by a cart.
YSE: Twice, perhaps. From different directions.
ART: Thank you, Yseult, that's genuinely helpful.
YSE: I'm simply providing accurate observation. Go to the infirmary before you damage something permanently.
She said it with the particular firmness that suggested further argument would be both unwelcome and unsuccessful, and Arthur, recognizing a losing position when he occupied one, made his slow, undignified way across the grounds toward the academy's medical wing. The infirmary occupied a bright, well-ordered corner of the academy's eastern wing, and Arthur found it considerably calmer than he'd anticipated, only two other students present, both apparently recovering from their own festival-related overexertions. The physician looked up from a set of notes as Arthur entered.
JUL: You'd be Lyerm.
ART: How did you know?
JUL: Twenty-seven circuits. Everyone in this academy knows who you are as of two days ago, and you're currently walking like a man twice your age, which narrows the field considerably.
He set his notes aside and gestured toward the nearest examination bench, and Arthur, lowering himself onto it with considerable care, got his first proper look at the man. He was perhaps forty, unremarkable in build and dress, with the particular economical stillness of someone who moved only when movement served a purpose, and his attention, once it settled on Arthur, carried a focused, methodical quality that felt considerably more thorough than the situation strictly required.
JUL: Julian.
ART: Just Julian?
JUL: Just Julian. Saves everyone the trouble of remembering a surname nobody's going to use anyway.
He began his examination without further preamble, working through Arthur's shoulders and back with careful, practiced pressure, his questions arriving in a steady, efficient rhythm.
JUL: Any sharp pain, as opposed to general soreness?
ART: No sharp pain.
JUL: Numbness anywhere? Tingling in the fingers or toes?
ART: No.
JUL: Blood in anything it shouldn't be in?
ART: ...No.
JUL: Good. That's the one that would have concerned me.
He moved to Arthur's legs, working through the calves and thighs with the same methodical care, and Arthur, wincing at several points, found himself, despite the discomfort, appreciating the sheer unfussy competence of the whole process.
JUL: Severe muscular strain. Nothing torn, nothing structurally damaged, which frankly surprises me given what you put yourself through. You'll be miserable for another four or five days and entirely recovered inside two weeks, provided you don't do anything ambitious in the meantime.
ART: That's it?
JUL: Were you hoping for something more dramatic?
ART: I suppose I expected worse.
JUL: So did I, honestly. Twenty-seven circuits should have done considerably more damage than this.
He said it plainly, an observation rather than a question, and Arthur, uncertain how to respond to it, said nothing at all. Julian did not press further. He prepared a salve while Arthur rested on the bench, working at a side counter with the same economical precision he brought to everything, and the conversation drifted, as conversations in quiet rooms often did, toward nothing in particular.
ART: How long have you been at Solmere?
JUL: Coming up on eleven years now.
ART: That's a long time.
JUL: It is. Though it hardly feels it. Academy years compress considerably once you've watched enough students cycle through.
ART: Where were you before?
JUL: Field medicine, mostly. Various postings. I spent a stretch in Drennick, which I'd recommend to absolutely nobody, and a longer stretch working the coastal routes out of Lassiter.
ART: Lassiter's the merchant republic, isn't it? Both continents?
JUL: That's the one. Considerably more interesting work than academy medicine, though considerably less pleasant. You see things on the trade routes that you don't see in a place like this.
He finished the salve and returned to the bench, applying it with careful, efficient movements.
JUL: Apply this twice daily. Morning and evening. It'll help considerably with the stiffness.
ART: Thank you.
JUL: You're welcome. Try not to require my services again quite so dramatically next time.
Arthur, gathering himself carefully off the bench, paused at the door as something small and entirely inconsequential surfaced in his mind.
ART: You said eleven years at Solmere.
JUL: I did.
ART: And before that, the coastal routes out of Lassiter.
JUL: For about six years, yes.
Arthur considered this, and then dismissed it, because the arithmetic was almost certainly his own error rather than anything worth remarking on, and because his entire body currently hurt considerably more than any minor discrepancy in a stranger's employment history warranted his attention.
He had read Julian's posted credentials on the infirmary wall while waiting. He was reasonably certain they'd listed a full decade of service in Eskandar's southern provinces, which, combined with eleven years at Solmere and six on the Lassiter routes, produced a total considerably longer than the man in front of him appeared to have been alive. He had probably misread it.
ART: Never mind. Thank you again.
JUL: Of course. Rest properly, Lyerm. Twenty-seven circuits earns you at least a week of taking things gently.
Arthur made his slow way back across the grounds toward his dormitory, the salve already beginning to ease the worst of the stiffness, and thought nothing further about the credentials on the infirmary wall.