Free The Broken Jar by D.K. Holmberg

The Broken Jar

    I stared at the dusty shelves, sweet arren spice and bitterroot mingling from unstopped bottles nearby leaving my mouth dry, and carefully rummaged as I waited for the apothecary. The jar of raglan berries was left carelessly open and I set the cap atop firmly, else they rot too fast. Other jars and bottles were left just as sloppy. Restless energy kept me moving, fixing as I went, unable to help myself as I tapped my feet on the wooden floor, my heavy satchel clutched on my arm.  
    I dared not leave Ana for long, not in this land, not with these people – once, my people – but had no other way to earn the coin needed for us to get away.  
    The shop seemed otherwise empty. Shuttered windows lined the upper walls and the dirty light filtering in shifted slowly, casting an irregular line into the store. Soft murmuring drifted toward me from the back room, but I could hear nothing of the conversation.  
    Where was Baldon?
    Finally he fluttered past the curtain dividing this room from his sleeping quarters. In the moment he pressed through the curtain, I saw a naked whore lurching to her feet, flabby arms bruised and eye blackened darker than the rest of the paint on her face. As she clutched a hand to her cheek, our eyes connected for a split second. Then the curtain closed.
    Baldon straightened his tunic, appearing not to notice. His eyes moved to my satchel as he stopped behind a tall olivewood counter. He splayed his hands across the smooth surface, stretching fingers knotted with arthritis.  
    “Early visit this morn, Carter,” he said. His voice was nasally and he sniffed as he spoke from too many years around ground cocal. An effective hemostatic agent, but addictive too.
    “Morning, Baldon,” I said, turning from the curtains to his gaunt face. Dark patches marred his cheeks and thin hair receded from a long face as if chased by the chemicals he inhaled. “Can you use supplies?” I asked.
    I opened the satchel, pulling the flap back with delicate care, mindful not to inhale the fumes that wafted suddenly free. Baldon leaned forward, not nearly as wary. Eager eyes scanned the contents and he sniffed again, directly over the bag.  
    Sliding the satchel sideways, I removed my collection. The elanand stems could not be crushed – not and still be useful for stomach pains or nausea – but I doubted that Baldon cared much. Crushed elanand had a different purpose, more sinister, and I suspected there were a few who sought it for that reason. Other herbs I packed carefully in paper handmade by Ana, my notes quickly scratched atop as I collected. Berries I stuffed into the handful of jars I owned, paper wrapped protectively around them as well. A few of the long noley grasses I simply rolled together and stuffed alongside the rest.
    “Always so well preserved,” he commented. Practiced fingers slid across the collection, unwrapping the packets of herbs as he glanced into each. At least in this, his experience showed. He looked at me as if waiting for an explanation.
    I said nothing. None in Nys knew of Ana. None would understand, seeing her as only a barbarian. We needed money to leave, travel to Telahn or Ecor, anywhere but Ashon. “Any you need?”
    Baldon set the cocal aside, a tight smile on his face as he did. Then he sniffed again and I wondered how much of the inside of his nostrils remained. He tottered around the counter toward the shelves. I noted that the arthritis in his joints seemed worse and I considered suggesting a few herbs that might help but knew that would only inflame him. In spite of evidence to the contrary, Baldon thought highly of his knowledge.  
    He glanced along the shelves, occasionally turning and looking at me with an amused expression as he realized the arranging I had done, before returning to the counter.  
    “Not as much as I once would have,” he said. “Not as much demand since the fighting with the barbarians eased,” he explained.
    Barbarians? I bit