The inside of the medical wagon was cool and dim, shielded from the blistering midday glare by three heavy layers of bleached linen canvas. It smelled richly of steeped willow bark, vinegar compresses, crushed marigold salve. The sharp, pine-scented tang of pine pitch Paxa used to seal the splint bindings.
Outside, the camp was resting during the forced midday heat interval, the mules standing motionless in the shade of the wagons, their ears drooping toward the gravel. Inside the wagon cab, the only sounds were the quiet hum of desert flies against the canvas netting and the steady, measured breathing of the wounded driver.
Harn lay propped against two sacks of rolled barley, his heavy, muscular torso locked still in tight spirals of clean linen binding that Paxa had dusted with dried comfrey powder. His breathing was still shallow, guarded by the three cracked ribs beneath the canvas wrap. But his grey eyes were sharp, lucid, and intensely focused. Beside the bunk, Paxa had set a wooden bowl of strained mutton broth and a heavy clay mug of boiled spring water cooled with a wet cloth.
Kezra sat on a low wooden stool beside his cot, her field journal open on her knees, an ash straight-edge and a chunk of soft carpenter’s charcoal resting in her hand. At the foot of the bunk, Caravan Master Joric Thane stood with his thick arms crossed over his sheepskin vest. He listened with the quiet, skeptical attention of an old freighter who knew…
