DB Lazarus
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23. The Wager - II
🕑 Added 2024-11-16 23:00:06 +0000 UTCHe then went quiet and studied my face, paying extra close attention to my temple. I almost reached up to cover my Mark given the intensity of his gaze, though it helped that he approached with the same clinical detachment I had when looking at a skin lesion. Also, I would play fair even if he didn’t. He leaned back and smiled.
“You aren’t just going to blurt out a guess, right?”
“Of course not. Where would the fun be in that? Though I have to admit, I might have bit off more than I could chew. My experience has been with Oresian classes. Your pattern is quite different.”
“Then I am going to literally savor this victory.”
He scoffed. “I am not done yet.” He pointed to my face. “It is quite obvious your class favors Mind. While your Mark is basic, you have no hints of any other locations.”
I tried to give him a conniving smile. “So cocky. How exactly do you know that?”
“Fine. Fine. I can’t be sure, but come on. You have a set of hands that look like you have never picked up a pick in your life!” He didn’t know just how true that was. “So I doubt you would be a hybrid. I am glad we aren’t doing Potentials because yours would be tricky—the actual numbers, that is. It would be trivial to guess your strongest Potentials.
“Really? Why? Oh, because my Projection is that bad?”
He nodded. “Yeah, you either excel in Perception or Processing or both.”
Did I? It would be nice not to be dismal at everything in this world. Figuring out how to check my Potentials would need to be high on my list of things to learn. Of course, that didn’t explain why he was dismissing the physical Potentials.
“Nothing about my other Potentials?”
He waved away my question. “Nah. That is too hard with non-Prime Potentials. If they weren’t significantly lower than your Perception or Processing, then you could be a physical or hybrid class—”
“Which you can tell I am not because…of my hands?”
I turned them over, inspecting the raw palms. If I kept this up, I wouldn’t have “soft” hands for much longer, but he was right. I could never image myself doing a physical job—or class, as they would likely call it.
He continued, “so without Projection, that should remove classes such as a [Mage] and a [Healer], but you were a bit cagey about your Projection before. Still, with I know of your Projection, I doubt they were available to you.” He squinted, taking another look. “You really do have quite a unique Mark. It has elements that could suggest a [Scholar] or [Alchemist] or, strangely, a [Healer], though I have seen similar elements in [Caregivers]. So, am I close?”
I managed to hide my surprise. His guess was genuinely impressive. It hit on many of the traits I associated with a physician, but it begged the question. Just how closely were classes and Marks linked? Another to figure out, but since this was a game, I continued to play along. “A bit broad there. You fishing for hints?”
“Please,” he scoffed before continuing. “There could be some [Crafter] classes I would consider. You definitely don’t have the look of a combat class.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Even if this was a world with technology no better than the Middle Ages, I had to imagine that some non-physical jobs—classes—had to exist.
“You are not carrying nor have you ever tried to acquire a weapon.”
Oh. Still… “When—“
“You should’ve been given a cheap dagger as part of your initial kit.”
I thought back. The Quartermaster had given me one, though with everything that happened, I had lost track of it.
“Even if you didn’t, we had plenty of daggers just lying around in the stock room. You just didn’t notice them.”
He was, of course, right. The thought of even looking for one had never crossed my mind. “Fine. Then give me your guess.”
“Not yet, we haven’t done your level.”
Oh, this would be good. “Do you need me to spin around for a better look? Or, you going to stare at my face longer.”
“You’d be surprised what we ask people to do win these wagers, but that is more fun in mixed company. Don’t worry. You aren’t my type.” I just shook my head, imagining some mix of spin the bottle and strip poker. Despite saying all that, he still leaned in to take another look. His fingers tapped the table lightly as he squinted. “I take it back. I thought determining your class was hard, but your level is even harder.”
“And why’s that?”
“Your Mark is clearly Tier I, but it is underdeveloped. It is unique enough that I didn’t notice it until I really examined it, but there is no way you are close to the cusp. Plus, your ability to project Energy suggests that you either have a very low Projection or you haven’t progressed enough to manifest much of your Potential. I would guess you are below level 5, but you are here.”
I gave him a mocking smile. “Your observational skills astound me.”
He raised his hands in exasperation. “You just don’t get it. You shouldn’t be here. We are in a Tier IV area. It’s not like it is impossible. Tier I’s do join expeditions, just rarely. They tend to have unique skills, and they are always in a group with higher-tiered people. You have no group. How did you get here?”
Wouldn’t I love to know the answer to that as well.
Still, he had moved from hinting to direct questions. My time of dodging this topic was coming to an end. I was going to have to trust someone…but I could have some fun first.
I kept my face impassive. “No hints, right?”
He harrumphed. “I should be annoyed, but I appreciate a good challenge. However, don’t think this topic is closed.” I nodded in agreement, and he leaned back, arms crossed but still satisfied. “While it could be possible that you have a skill that conceals your actual level, I think that is unlikely. You were just too inep—“ he cleared his throat—“intolerant of the Aether levels here. Frankly, it would be insane for you to be here at anything less than the cusp of Tier II, but I can’t shake the feeling that you are way below Level 9. Way below based on your Mark and what I have seen.”
I smiled. This had worked out better than expected. I had learned that Tier I and II included levels 1-9, this area was Tier IV, and hitting Tier II should let me tolerate the Aether levels in this area better.
“You ready to guess?”
“Yes. Though I can’t shake the feeling you are some hybrid, I am going with a level 5 [Scholar] derivative, most likely applied in some way.”
“Huh.”
“Was I close?”
Where did a doctor fall? I would have said [Healer], but if the Vísir was a prime example, then I was nothing close to that. I could throw him a bone, especially when he missed my level by so much.
“At home, I would not be considered a [Scholar], but I did study for years. I think I am going to give it to you. You were pretty close with your musing. Technically, I am a [Physician]. Based on that look, you haven’t heard of it either. It is the opposite of a combat class, and I consider it a mix of a [Scholar], pharm...[Apothecary]? Do you have those?”
“Yes. They are a variant of an [Alchemist]. Many would say inferior, but they have their uses especially in low-tier areas or smaller towns without a ready supply of rarer magical compounds.”
“Right. So [Scholar], [Apothecary], and a medic.” The word twisted in my mouth. Shoot. “A corpsman.” Again. “A nurse?” Even that? Were [Healers] the only type of medical professionals? “Oh, a [Barber]!”
“You cut hair?”
“No! Do your [Barbers] not extract teeth because of cavities?”
Had I remembered that correctly? [Eidetic Memory] flashed up a snippet from a medical history book I had read in college.
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Cavities?”
“When your teeth hurt or get rotten?”
He gave me a confused look. Thinking back, I couldn’t recall a single person with bad teeth. “Where the hell are you from? Why remove teeth when you could just go to a [Healer] to fix them?”
“Maybe not the best example,” I mumbled. I sighed. “If I was home…” I gave it another shot, again trying and failing to keep the regret from my voice. “If I was home, I would be considered a type of [Healer], but not here.” I didn’t elaborate further. I was not a [Healer], at least not in this world. Better not to raise expectations.
He gained a serious look. “So are you [Healer]?”
“Not in the way you are thinking.” This world had people who could truly heal—actual miracle healing. It would have been a godsend back at home, but I couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. I tried not to entertain the other distinct possibility. “It seems like you don’t have medics. What about surgeons?” I didn’t need his response; the telltale twist of my tongue told me everything.
I tried a different tactic. “When there is a war or a battle, who helps take care of the wounded?”
“[Healers].”
“No one else?” He shook his head. “What if the [Healers] are overwhelmed? Who gives them med—I mean potions—or bandages them or cuts off a limb if—”
“Cuts off a limb?”
His horror was as amusing as it was infuriating. Did they not need to cut off limbs here because they could just heal them? “Yes, amputate a finger or limb because the part was too damaged to heal.”
“Oh. I guess it isn’t unheard of in war.[Healers] tend to be rare. Ones that can regenerate a limb even rarer. Still, it isn’t something I am familiar with, though my clan hasn’t been to war in a long time. Hmm…now that you say it, I do recall my ma talking about [Cutters] for,” he failed to suppress a shudder, “amputations. I really can’t imagine. Potions take care of most things.”
“Where I am from, a [Physician] figures out the problem, dispenses potions, bandages wounds, or does surgery—cutting.” Cutting. The term was barbaric. It diminished the surgeon’s skill, implying that he was nothing more than a lumberjack chopping at a log of flesh and bone. Yet, in this world, wasn’t I the barbarian? What therapy had I ever employed that did not have a risk that went with the benefit?
“So you are a type a [Healer].”
I fought against exasperation. Why was he so serious? “No. I can’t do what the Vísir and Esper do. Without a potion, if you cut yourself, all I can do is clean the wound and bandage you up. I don’t have the ability to mend a wound with…magic!”
He didn’t seem to even register my response. “But where you’re from, are you considered a [Healer]?”
I sighed. “I would like to think so.”
“Please tell me I was wrong about your level.”
I snorted. “You were, but you weren’t that far off. I am Level 1.”
“Gods!” He stood up suddenly, knocking the chair back. “That’s not what I meant. Does she know?”
“Dorian, what is going on?”
“Does she know your level?” He yelled.
“The Vísir? No.”
“Not her. The Quartermaster. Does she know?”
“No. No one does, but I think they all know I am in the first Tier.”
“How much does she know about your class?”
“Less than you. I was not deemed a [Healer] by the Vísir, and that ended the conversation.”
“But you are trained?”
I almost laughed out loud. Was I trained? How did you explain four years of college, seven more years of medical school to get an MD-PhD, and then seven years of bouncing around one too many residencies? And now that was all worth what?
I just sighed. “You could say that. It has been at least seven, though some would say fourteen years.”
“How…? That is so young for formal training…. Are you a noble too?” He shook away the confusion. “It doesn’t matter. What is important is that you still have room to grow. I need to talk to her about this.”
He stalked towards the door.
“Dorian, wait!” He did stop and turn around. “What has gotten you all riled up?”
“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“No time to explain. I doubt I will be back tonight, but you need to stay here. Bar the door after me. Don’t you dare leave in the middle of the night.”
He left without waiting for my reply.
