(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

itual, though."
She took the stacks of starched-green rags from me, and she examined them
critically. "At least they won't tear." She sighed. "Or bend."
"What was with that cloth-merchant, Giscorl? His hands were all scarred.
and he seemed... slow." I tapped the side of my head.
Mebbeth was still turning the cloth over in her hands, tapping it with her
finger. "Well, child, sometimes one burns with the Art, and other times, the
Art burns ye."
"Is that what happened to him?"
Mebbeth clicked her tongue. "Mayhap. There's somes for who usin' the Art
is like breathing. They strolls about with pointy hats and stinkweed pipes...
then there's hedge-wizards n' plane-touched gypsies n' fortune-casters n'
half-seers n' midwives who flicker with the Art... them have a harder time of
it."
"And Giscorl was one of them?"
Mebbeth nodded. "Aye... so to speak. In some ways, he's no different now
than he was. Addicted to habit and ritual, he was." She set down the stiff
rags; they clunked as she placed them on the floor. "Aye, now, there's one
last thing I need from ye, child..."
I bit off the smart comment I had lined up and schooled my voice so that I
sounded serious. Morte's cheekiness was brushing off on me, "Of course.
What do you need?"
"Only this: I need some inks fer scribin' some ingredients in one of me
cookery books. I'll need ye to fetch some from one of the merchants --
Kossah-Jai, be her name."
I nodded, only heaving a sigh when I was out the door.
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