The healer’s office was a storefront halfway down a narrow dead-end street off the market. The man had been a battlefield surgeon, and was expert at stitching up injuries. Thomas had been to see him once after a particularly embarrassing slip on the fencing floor had ended with a long a cut in his thigh. It had healed well, and left hardly any scar.
Thomas reached the healer’s office in short order and only slightly winded. He banged at the door. The pale, thin man who acted as the healer’s assistant opened it and glared at him. “Shh! He’s working!”
“I need his help,” said Thomas.
“Everyone needs his help.”
“The father of the girl I am courting has been stabbed in the back, while defending her life against five men who attacked us at my apartment.”
The thin man c****d his head. “I don
