Qinghe opened Han’s field kit on the clinic table. The leather flap had been darkened by rain, but the inside was dry. Under the wraps and forceps lay three small sealed doses, each tied with a paper label.
“For the militia scouts exposed to blade oil,” Qinghe read. “Treat them at the west shelter.”
She called Oren over. “Do you know which scouts she meant?”
Oren looked at the labels, then at the people gathered outside the shelter. “The three who watched the east road after the first skirmish. They’re here, but they’ve started to leave for the mill.”
“Call them back before they go.”
Oren sent a runner. Yan held the kit open while Qinghe checked the seals and read the instructions. The doses were small enough to fit into a palm, each wrapped in waxed paper. She placed them in a row and set a cup of water beside them.
The scouts arrived together. The first had a shallow cut across his hand, covered by a strip of cloth. He looked at the doses and frowned.
“I feel fine,” he said. “The cut came from a broken buckle.”
