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“It won’t cost you anything,” said Piper. “You give her this note. And if you can’t afford an inn, go to the Temple of the White Rat and tell them Piper sent you. They’ll put you up for a few days in the petitioners’ lodging.”

The older woman looked up at him with too-bright eyes. “The gods take care of you, son.”

The corner of Piper’s lip twisted up. “I hope so,” he said, “but until then, we’ve got to take care of each other.”

“What was that all about?” asked Galen in an undertone, as they met up with Earstripe and left the village.

“A damned mess. After childbirth, some women suffer a tear or a hole down there and it’s in the worst possible place to heal cleanly. Turns into a fistula. It’s…not good.”

“Not something you can treat, I take it.”

Piper snorted. “If I had enough poppy milk to put her in a stupor, and some specialized equipment so that I could see what the hell I was doing, and about three more sets of hands…and even then, Lizbet would do it better. A lot better. I’ve done it once, and that was on a corpse.”

Galen had no idea how to respond to that. “Will she be all right?”

“I don’t know,” said Piper honestly. “Even with the best care in the world, it’s barely an even chance. Maybe not even that. But she’s willing to try, because the alternative is worse.”

“Worse?”

“A lot of smell, a lot of discharge, a lot of pain, a lot of mess. Forever. No more children, if she wants more. Probably no more husband, whether she wants him or not.” Piper lifted his hands, let them fall again.

“Poor girl.”

“Indeed.” He sounded exasperated. “If they’d just get better care immediately afterward…but no, everybody gets it in their head that childbirth is natural and any fool could do it. Cows give birth, so why not people? And so I see more new mothers on the slab, or old women who have been living with something like this for years…” He shook his head, lip curling. “Sorry, I’ll stop. Nobody wants to hear me ranting about this, least of all me.”

And that was the bit that troubled Galen. Piper clearly felt passionately about this, but he seemed annoyed by his own passion. As if his own emotions were an imposition. On the other hand, he’s probably right that most people aren’t quite pleased to hear sudden diatribes about fistulas. Still.

“The Rat’s healers can’t treat things like that?” he asked, hoping to draw the doctor out a little.

“The Rat’s healers are stretched thin.” Piper frowned. “Not as thin as they are in other places, perhaps, but for extremely specialized surgeries, it’s still hard.”

“And this doctor can treat her for free?” Galen had a suspicion, but couldn’t resist confirming.

“Not exactly, but she owes me a favor.” Piper gave him a sidelong look, as if not certain how he’d react. “That is…”

“You might as well tell me,” said Galen. “I’ve probably heard worse.”

“I found cadavers for her to practice her technique on.”

Galen frowned. “You can’t possibly be a resurrectionist. Beartongue would have your balls.” While the White Rat was occasionally remarkably flexible, not many priests approved of the illicit trade in grave-robbing to provide doctors with cadavers.

“I most certainly am not,” said Piper. “But if I got someone in on the slab who had a fistula…well, I sent a discreet word round to Lizbet. The family got the body back, with no visible changes and she got the practice in. Did get the practice in, anyway. It only took a few. And because of that, there’s a lot of women she can help.”

“That seems fair,” said Galen. “It’s not as if you’re selling organs to black-market charm-makers.”

“Yes, well. It’s not ethical, and I know it, and god help me, it genuinely is a slippery slope. Start thinking you have the right to do things to people’s bodies in a good cause, and you’re halfway to hell and picking up speed. But I also don’t know what I could have done any differently.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’ve asked the Bishop about how we could do it, if we could offer financial compensation in return, but that ends up with poor families selling their loved one’s cadavers or even more people stealing them for money, and it’s just…really not a good idea.”

Earstripe, who had listened to this in silence, shook his head. “A gnole thinks humans worry too much about dead humans, not enough about live ones.”

“You’re not wrong there,” said Piper. “One more thing we’re peculiar about. Any luck with tracking down our particular dead humans?”

The gnole shook his head. “No bodies. No humans acting strange.” He paused, then added, “No more than usual, for humans.” Brindle snorted.

“Well, it’s only the first stop,” said Galen. “And murders like this seem like they’d be done in isolation.”

“Most of the fisherfolk wear heavy boots everywhere,” said Piper. “No leather soles.” The definition of inside and outside had been rather fluid as well, and by Piper’s standards, damned cold.

Earstripe nodded to him. “A gnole noticed that, too.”