"They're in progress. We can't let you go out in just bandages and trousers. I'll lend you a shirt and tunic," she says, resigned. "Your footwear's in better shape, thank the Twins. Look there."

She indicates a cubby with her cane. He's too big for the shoes or sandals of anyone here, her included. Childrens' hands and feet tend to grow in and leave their limbs to catch up - if this boy can survive and get enough to eat, he's going to be a monster one day.

The clothing is a little long in the sleeve and hem, just as the trousers are, but big enough around. It's all well-mended and soft from extensive use. There are places, especially at those hems, with tiny holes and little long threads where stretches of embroidered cloth had been sewed on, rather like the geometric patterns at the hems of what Lashan's wearing. Very little embroidery remains, just a square knot design at the lowest point of the plunging neckline.

"I'm the Sister Swordsmith. Or Lashan. This's a heathen cult from the Plains that your midland religion doesn't like, by the way." The apothecary has excused herself for the moment, having been satisfied that the boy is not going to turn around and raise hell this very instant.