“It’s an operating theater,” said Odette. “Not terribly remarkable. I’d shrug, but I don’t want to loosen my grip on David here.”
An Indian gentleman in a suit and tie came in and peered carefully at the patient for a few moments.
“Fractured radius and ulna on the right,” he said, “although I expect you know that, since the young lady has her hands clamped around the injury. Nice little blades you have tucked away in there, by the way, miss,” he said to Odette, who smiled at him tightly. “And, of course, there’s the severed leg. Apart from those two things, several of the ribs on the left side are cracked, and his left scapula is fractured. No major organ damage that I can see.”
“Thank you very much, Pawn Motha,” said a nurse. “We appreciate your coming out of your meeting for this.”
“Always glad to help,” said Pawn Motha, “and always glad to get out of a budget meeting.” He sauntered out and a careful piece of choreography ensued in which Odette and the patient were transferred to a fresh, nonmobile operating table. Odette clambered down awkwardly, still keeping pressure on the man’s arm. Bags of blood were hung and began to percolate down into his body. Special foam braces were secured around him to prevent him from making any more sudden moves.
“Okay, Pawn Baxter,” said the surgeon, who had reappeared, scrubbed and gowned. “I’ve been reviewing your records, and I’m afraid that we won’t be able to sedate you. And I see that you don’t ever sleep or lose consciousness, which means that you’re going to have to tough it out.”
“I knew that would happen,” said David weakly. “It alwayth doth. Getting my withdom teeth out wath a bitch. Do you think I’m going to...” He trailed off and looked at Odette with frightened eyes. She smiled reassuringly.
“We’re going to do everything we can,” said the surgeon. “In a few moments, I’m going to ask this young lady to remove her hands from your injuries. I will immediately clamp the severed arteries, and then we shall set about repairing the wounds to your arm. Meanwhile, Dr. Jurwich and her team will tend to your leg.” He nodded toward the foot of the table, where a voluminous woman swathed in an equally voluminous operating gown was peering dubiously at the leg in the bag. “These restraints should prevent you from moving, but do try to keep as still as possible. Do you understand?”
“Yeth, thir,” said Baxter.
“Do you understand?” the doctor asked Odette.
“When you give the word, I’ll move back and out of the way as quickly as possible,” she assured him, and he nodded in approval.
“Pawn Baxter?” said Dr. Jurwich from the foot of the table. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid that we won’t be able to reattach your leg.” David closed his eyes, and Odette saw tears seeping out. “I’m very sorry, but the damage is just too severe.”
“I can probably get it back on,” said Odette.
I have simply got to stop doing things without thinking them through first, she thought. Everyone was staring at her incredulously. But I could do it; I know I could. She could gather up the gory trailing wounds and connect everything meticulously, and even without the equipment back in her hotel room, she could reattach this man’s leg. She could have him walking in a month, running in three, and the scars would completely vanish within a few weeks.
“I... beg your pardon?” said Dr. Jurwich.
“Well, I mean, I can’t guarantee it,” said Odette awkwardly, “but provided he doesn’t have any unorthodox anatomy and the ends aren’t contaminated by anything... um... supernatural, I think I could probably do it.”
“Wait a minute, who are you?” asked the head surgeon. He peered at her and noticed the visitor’s pass slung around her neck, and for a second she was afraid that he was going to have a heart attack.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a civilian. I’m Odette Leliefeld,” she said shyly. This revelation failed to have any impact. Some people haven’t been reading the flyers in their kitchens. “I’m an apprentice with the Broedersch — with the Grafters.”
Odette suddenly felt unsafe. The abrupt silence was profound — even the various hospital machines seemed to have halted. Several of the nurses stepped back. Both doctors were holding scalpels, not in the surgeon-approved palmar or pencil grip, but rather in a grasp that lent itself to briskly stabbing someone in the trachea.
David Baxter was staring at her with a look of utter revulsion.
“Y’rra Grafter?” he slurred, and on the last word, his voice took on that pain-inducing pitch from before. Odette flinched.
“Yes, but I’m a guest,” she said. She would have held up her visitor’s pass, but both hands were occupied on David’s arm.
“Get ’er off me,” said Baxter, his teeth clenched.
“David,” began Odette, “I can —”
“Get it off me!” he shouted, and this time his voice reverberated through the room like a thunderclap. Odette felt the sound punch through her bones. One of the monitors cracked and shattered.
“I think you’d better go,” said the doctor quietly. Odette nodded. She was shaking, but her hands were dead still.
“Are you ready?” she asked. The doctor wordlessly held up the equipment he would need. “Okay, then. On three?”
He nodded. “One. Two...”
She had to give the doctor credit — he had fast hands. By the time she took her hands off the wound and scrambled off the bed, he had already clamped the arteries. She turned and the nurses and attendants parted before her, opening a path to the door.
Stand tall, Odette told herself. Do not show weakness. Do not cry. Do not bring shame upon your family and your people. She walked out of the room, her head held high as, behind her, the Checquy surgeons began to save David’s life but not his leg.
Odette stood in the hallway, her hands clenched. This is never going to work, she thought. They hate us. They hate us even more than we hate them. She realized that she was garnering curious looks from passersby and glanced down at herself. From her elbows down, she was dripping with Baxter-blood. It was splashed liberally across her blouse and blazer, and she had a distressing conviction that there was more in her hair. Plus, despite her best efforts, her eyes were burning and her nose was running.
I look like I just helped deliver a baby walrus, she thought grimly. I should find a bathroom and at least wash my hands.
But first, she would find Pawn Bannister. If she was lucky, maybe the sight of her would completely ruin his day.
14
Felicity had been standing in the lobby of the Rookery in her hospital scrubs and sodden socks for almost ten minutes when one of the receptionists at the central desk waved her over.
“There’s a call for you, Pawn Clements,” said the receptionist. “From the office of Rook Thomas.” Felicity took the phone.
“H-hello?”
“Pawn Clements?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ingrid Woodhouse; do you know who I am?”
“Um, yes.”
“Rook Thomas would like to speak with you. Can you come up to her office?”
“I’m, uh, not really dressed for a meeting with the Rook,” said Felicity. “I don’t even have any shoes on.” She realized that her feet were freezing, and that she’d left wet footprints across the floor of the lobby. Then she remembered that she’d changed into street clothes before going to meet with Pawn Odgers. It seemed like something a different person had done, years ago. “I have a suit at my cubicle, though, if she can wait a few minutes.”
“Really, it would be better if you came immediately,” said Mrs. Woodhouse. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”
“All right,” said Felicity uncertainly. “I’ll come right up.”
“I’m sending someone down in the executive lift to fetch you,” said the EA. “And Pawn Clements?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t talk to anyone until you’ve spoken with the Rook.”