Bitter sulfur tea and dried leech shells filled the low-ceilinged medicine room with a sharp, healing stench.
Doctor Meng leaned over a wooden mortar, grinding dried calamus root with an iron pestle. Clack, clack, clack.
His face was gaunt, lined with the same stubborn, gravelly creases that marked Old Meng back in Black Water County. Even so, his eyes were clouded with river waterfalls.
Behind the counter, four heavy oak barrels of beef animal fat were wedged securely beneath the floorboards, covered by a tarp of salted kelp.
“You smell like my brother,” Doctor Meng said without looking up from his mortar. “He always smelled of blood and bad decisions.”
“Your brother sent me,” Lu Chen said.
He adjusted the leather cord tying a small jar of clarified mutton grease to his belt.
“The outer canal is boiling with famine,” Doctor Meng muttered, setting down the pestle. “The Water Freight Guild closed the water gate gates to double the price of stored rice.”
