Free An Embarrassment of Riches by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

She took a step toward Csenge. “You should lie down,” she said, trying to stop her tears. “Truly, cousin, you are not well.”
    “No, I shouldn’t lie down; I should go and help Rozsa with Kinga. It is time.” Csenge got unsteadily to her feet, one arm extended to secure her balance. After an attempt at walking, she gave up. “But I’m going to send you in my stead. Since you are worried that I might have a fever, it would be best if I didn’t venture near the child, or the mother.” She tottered over to her bed. “There. Are you satisfied? Do you want anything more of me?”
    “Shall I help you to undress?” Imbolya asked.
    “I can manage for myself,” said Csenge firmly. “Tell dear Royal that I’m overheated and need to lie down. Then go to—”
    “Rozsa of Borsod,” said Imbolya, accepting her task.
    “Tell her you’ll remain with Kinga through supper and see her to Teca and Betrica’s care for the night.” Csenge resisted another urge to throw up, and wondered briefly if her dislike of Rozsa was the cause.
    “I will,” Imbolya promised her.
    Bile rose on the back of Csenge’s tongue, and this time she noticed a second taste in its acridity. “Did you eat the fish-stew at dinner?” she asked.
    “No,” said Imbolya. “I had the lamb-ribs. And the pheasant with chestnuts; it was dry.”
    “Ask if others who had the fish-stew have felt unwell,” said Csenge. “I keep tasting fish.” Very carefully she sat on her bed, doing nothing hurriedly; she felt her insides roil.
    “Do you think that it was tainted?” Imbolya’s shock was tempered with relief.
    “Fish taints quickly, and in this heat…” She left the rest unsaid.
    “It would be a bad thing, of course, and many may have suffered from it, but better tainted fish than fever,” Imbolya said, and dared to touch Csenge’s arm. “Shall I ask before or after I watch the dear Little Royal?”
    It was tempting to lash out at the girl, but Csenge decided she needed Imbolya’s help just now too much to berate her. “Before, of course. If the fish was tainted, then there’s no need to alarm the Konige with rumors of fevers, is there?” This last was pointed and underscored by a single, hard stare.
    “N … no,” said Imbolya, keenly aware of her cousin’s intent. “I wouldn’t want to add to dear Royal’s upset, considering how wretched the heat has already made her. But if there is another cause for your—”
    Csenge nodded. “If it isn’t the fish, you may tell the Konige that I am prostrated by the heat, but say nothing about a fever. Nothing.”
    “If Rozsa asks? What am I to tell her?”
    “The same thing,” said Csenge. “You have to make it plain that I am not ill, just struck by the weather. I’m not the only one, by the Virgin, I’m not.”
    “They say the Devil revels in the heat,” Imbolya remarked, crossing herself. “He could summon up a plague, couldn’t he?”
    “If God allows it,” Csenge said darkly. “If we have strayed from Him, God will chastise us for our failure.” This time, when she crossed herself, she longed for the comfort of Pader Lupu, her old Confessor, who always made her see God’s Plan in every misfortune. Here at Court, she knew better than to rely on the priests to support her. “Go on. Find out about the fish and then take up my post with Kinga.”
    “Of course. Of course, cousin; at once,” said Imbolya, and hurried out of the room, closing the door before she went off down the hall that led to the great hall and the kitchens.
    Satisfied that she finally would be left alone, Csenge reached out with her foot, snagged the chamber-pot, and pulled it toward her; she could tell she would need it again before long.
    *   *   *
     
    Text of a letter from Counselor Smiricti Detrich of Praha to the apothecary Huon of Paris at his shop in Praha, written by Frater Ulric and delivered by messenger.
     
    To the accomplished French apothecary, Huon of Paris, the greetings of