"A good arrangement," he says to both of them. "Learning about the herbs, Ekhart?"
“I like workin’ in the garden,” replied Eckhart. “Mother Yilese lets me have stew.”

There was one in every village. Mother Yilese put a wizened hand on his arm to let him know his conversational duties had been met, and met Sigurd’s eyes.

"Seemed like a fair treatment of Talberg earlier. You have only one setting, don't you, but my you can turn it on and off."
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” said Yilese, with a brisk, businesslike manner. “I’m just glad that young master Talberg’s conscience took a hand with his pride. I ‘spect you are too.”

Hearing Pieter’s call, she turned and walked over to the side of the wounded man. Whether she felt no sense of urgency, or whether her old bones simply did not hurry where it was not absolutely necessary, it wasn’t clear.

Doctor Reifennen looked quite stunned by Pieter’s refusal. Seeing Mother Yilese crouch down beside them, he stood up straight.

“Well now, see here – you can’t be serious!” he said, suppressing indignant gesticulations with an odd little twitching dance of his hands. “I am a physician, trained and certified in the Altdorf school, this requires delicate surgery, the man is clearly out of his head with pain, you cannot suggest that you would entrust his care to, to...”

Mother Yilese, who was kneeling and inspecting Leopold’s wound with her thin, crabbed fingers, looked coolly up at Reifennen. He faltered as he failed to avoid the old woman’s pinioning stare.

“...to a village elder,” he finished, weakly.

Can he be healed? Illiiya asked, her voice shaking with restraint.
“He’ll be fine,” said Yilese.
“He’ll be fine!” snapped Reifennen, his words mingling with hers. The doctor’s eyes swung back to Pieter. “Mr Faulebrand would not want his son being ministered to with hedge medicine,” he said, in a terse undertone.

“Seems to me the lad’s perfectly clear in the head,” said Yilese, straightening up with an almost audible creak and dusting off her knees. Her voice was totally calm “The important thing is that he’s seen to quick. I’ll take him with me now, and you can tell his father what’s happened. If the old man makes a fuss, they can sort it out between themselves, hm?”

She looked around.

“Besides, Master Talberg’s gone and left his pretty guns behind. I’d expect you’d be wantin’ to return them, doctor? As a friend of the family.” Her eyes alighted briefly but significantly on Ithelus, and she raised her voice conspicuously. “They’re over there.”

Almost caught in the act, the elf made as if he had always been planning to collect the pistols for return. He held the one he had taken out towards Reifennen, butt-first.

“Right,” said Reifennen, scanning the circle of unsympathetic faces to look for one single ally. Finding none, he seemed to decide to salvage his pride. “Well. That’s what I’ll do.”

Walking over to Ithelus, he took the pistol rather more forcefully than was necessary, then walked over to where the other was lying. “You would do well to keep the patient warm, but not too hot,” he said. “Examine his clothes to determine whether any material was carried into the wound, and if not, clean the wound with hot wine or cold spirits.” He paused, trying to discern whether Yilese was listening at all. “It is my considered opinion that any unnecessary exertion would be very bad for this wound, very bad indeed, and the young man should be confined to his bed.”

No reaction. Reifennen scowled.

“I am sure I will be along to collect him very shortly.”

With that parting shot, he stomped off down the slope, his angry stride rather spoiled by the way he had to step around the muddier sections of the common to avoid fouling his buckled city-dweller’s shoes. Yilese watched him go with complete equanimity.

“Alright,” she said, quietly. “Eckhart, Master Faulebrand needs carryin’ to the cottage. Mind his shoulder, there.” The huge simpleton hefted the wounded miller’s son over his shoulder as easily as a sack of wheat. Nodding in acknowledgement, Yilese turned to Pieter with a look that was one infinitesimal step along the hard, shriving road to approval.

“Seems young Leopold trusts you. You’d be welcome to come with, if’n you want.” She glanced back in Sigurd’s direction. “But I ‘spect you’ve got more important things to be doin’.”

Turning, she waved her stick at the gawping onlookers. They parted like waves before a prophet, suddenly finding all sorts of interesting things to occupy their attention.

“Come along, Eckhart. The lad wants seein’ to.”