Qinghe turned a tiled bathhouse near the east gate into an infirmary. The hot pools had been drained, and screens divided the floor into work spaces. Civilians lay on bedrolls near the entrance. Captured soldiers rested on the other side of a waist-high screen, close enough for the assistants to reach them quickly.
Mara brought the city herbalist before the first patients arrived. The woman kept her own chest of dried roots under one arm.
“I can spare willow bark and linen,” she said. “The fever root stays for our people.”
“That is fair,” Bai said. “We’ll exchange for the supplies we use.”
The herbalist nodded and put her chest on the table. “Then I’ll work beside your assistants. If you tell me a name, I’ll keep the bundle separate.”
The first patient Qinghe checked was a Registry soldier with failing channels. His breathing came in short, uneven pulls, and sweat darkened his collar. A battlefield art had left his body unable to circulate strength through his arms. Qinghe listened to his chest and checked his pulse, then pressed two fingers below his collarbone.
“Use Returning Spring Palm here and here,” she told Yan. “Keep the pressure gentle until the channels respond.”
