The Mad Ship. Робин Хобб
bit of wood.
‘Get out,’ he repeated. ‘Leave the boy to me.’
Her back was very straight as she marched out. She shut the door firmly behind her, not quite slamming it. The moment she was outside, Kennit dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘Come here,’ he told Wintrow. As the boy approached the bed, Kennit seized the corner of the sheet and flung it aside. It exposed his shortened leg in all its putrescent glory. ‘There it is,’ Kennit told him in disgust. ‘What can you do for me?’
The boy blanched at the sight of it. Kennit knew he steeled himself to approach the bedside and look more closely at his leg. He wrinkled his nose against the smell. Then he lifted his dark eyes to Kennit’s and spoke simply and honestly. ‘I don’t know. It’s very bad.’ His glance darted back to Kennit’s leg then met his eyes again. ‘Let’s approach it this way. If we do not attempt to take off your leg, you will die. What have we to lose by trying?’
The pirate forced a stiff grin to his face. ‘I? Very little, it seems. You have still your own life and your father’s on the scale.’
Wintrow gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I well know that my life is forfeit if you die, with or without my efforts.’ He made a tiny motion with his head towards the door. ‘She would never suffer me to survive you.’
‘You fear the woman, do you?’ Kennit permitted his grin to widen. ‘You should. So. What do you propose?’ He tried to keep up his bravado with casual words.
The boy looked back at his leg. He furrowed his brow and pondered. The intensity of his concentration only made his youth more apparent.
Kennit glanced down once at his decaying stump. After that, he preferred to watch Wintrow’s face. The pirate winced involuntarily as the boy extended his hands towards his leg. ‘I won’t touch it,’ Wintrow promised. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘But I need to discover where the soundness stops and the foulness begins.’ He cupped his hands together, as if to capture something under them. He began at the injury and slowly moved his hands up towards Kennit’s thigh. Wintrow’s eyes were closed to slits and his head was cocked as if he listened intently to something. Kennit watched his moving hands. What did he sense? Warmth, or something subtler, like the slow working of poison? The boy’s hands were weathered from hard work, but retained the languid grace of an artisan’s.
‘You have only nine fingers,’ Kennit observed. ‘What happened to the other one?’
‘An accident,’ Wintrow told him distractedly, then bade him, ‘Hush.’
Kennit scowled, but did as he was bid. He became aware of the boy’s cupped hands moving above his flesh. Their ghostly pressure reawakened him to the pounding rhythm of the pain. Kennit clenched his teeth, swallowed against it, and managed to push it from his mind once more.
Midway up Kennit’s thigh, Wintrow’s hands halted and hovered. The lines in his brow grew deeper. The boy’s breathing deepened, steadied and his eyes closed completely. He appeared to sleep standing. Kennit studied his face. Long dark lashes curled against his cheeks. His cheeks and jaw had lost most of a child’s roundness, but showed not even the downy beginning of a beard. Beside his nose was the small green sigil that denoted he had once belonged to the Satrap. Next to that was a larger tattoo, a crude rendering that Kennit recognized as the Vivacia’s figurehead. Kennit’s first reaction was annoyance that someone had so compromised the boy’s beauty. Then he perceived that the very harshness of the tattoo contrasted his innocence. Etta had been like that when he first discovered her, a coltish girl in a whorehouse parlour…
‘Captain Kennit? Sir?’
He opened his eyes. When had he closed them?
Wintrow was nodding gently to himself. ‘Here,’ he said as soon as the pirate looked at him. ‘If we cut here, I think we’ll be in sound flesh.’
The boy’s hands indicated a spot frighteningly high on his thigh. Kennit took a breath. ‘In sound flesh, you say? Should not you cut below what is sound?’
‘No. We must cut a bit into what is still healthy, for healthy flesh heals faster than poisoned.’ Wintrow paused and used both hands to push his straying hair back from his face. ‘I cannot say that any part of the leg is completely without poison. But I think if we cut there, we would have our best chance.’ The boy’s face grew thoughtful. ‘First, I shall want to leech the lower leg, to draw off some of the swelling and foulness. Some of the monastery healers held with bleeding, and some with leeches. There is, of course, a place and a time for each of those things, but I believe that the thickened blood of infection is best drawn off by leeches.’
Kennit fought to keep his composed expression. The boy’s face was intense. He reminded Kennit of Sorcor attempting to plot strategy.
‘Then we shall place a ligature here, a wide one that will slow the flow of blood. It must bind the flesh tightly without crushing it. Below it, I shall cut. I shall try to preserve a flap of skin to close over the wound. The tools I shall need are a sharp knife and a fine-toothed saw for the bone. The blade of the knife must be long enough to slice cleanly, without a sawing motion.’ The boy’s fingers measured out the length. ‘For the stitching, some would use fine fish-gut thread, but at my monastery, it was said that the best stitches are made with hair from the man’s own head, for the body knows its own. You, sir, have fine hair, long. Your curls are loose enough that the hair can be pulled straight. It will serve admirably.’
Kennit wondered if the boy sought to unnerve him, or if he had completely forgotten that he was talking about Kennit’s flesh and bone. ‘And for the pain?’ he asked with false heartiness.
‘Your own courage, sir, will have to serve you best.’ The boy’s dark eyes met his squarely. ‘I shall not be quick, but I shall be careful. Brandy or rum, before we begin. Were it not so rare and expensive, I would say we should obtain the essence of the rind of a kwazi fruit. It numbs a wound wonderfully. Of course, it works only on fresh blood. It would only be effective after we had done the cutting.’ Wintrow shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should think well of what crewmen you shall want to hold you down. They should be large and strong, with the judgement to ignore you if you demand to be released or threaten them.’
Unwillingness washed over Kennit like a wave. He refused to consider the humiliation and indignity he must face. He thrust away the idea that this was inevitable. There had to be some other way, some alternative to vast pain and helplessness. How could he choose them, knowing that even if he endured it all, he might still die? How foolish he would look then!
‘…and each of those must be drawn out a little way, and closed off with a stitch or two.’ Wintrow paused as if waiting for his agreement. ‘I’ve never done this by myself,’ he admitted abruptly. ‘I want you to know that. I have seen it done twice. Once an infected leg was removed. Once it was a hopelessly smashed foot and ankle. Both times, I was there to help the healer, to pass tools and hold the bucket…’ His voice trailed off. He licked his lips and stared at Kennit, his eyes going wider and wider.
‘What is it?’ Kennit demanded.
‘I’ll have your life in my hands,’ he wondered aloud.
‘And I have yours in mine,’ the pirate pointed out. ‘And your father’s.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Wintrow replied. His voice sounded like a dreamer’s. ‘You are doubtless accustomed to such power. I have never even wished for it.’
HER FOOTFALLS RANG hollow in the cavernous corridor as Jani Khuprus hastened down it. As she strode along, she trailed her fingers down the long strip of jidzin set into the wall. Her touch triggered a faint light that moved with her down the dark hall that carried her ever deeper into the Elderlings’ labyrinthine palace. Twice she had to circle dark puddles of water on the stone floor. Each time, she routinely noted to herself the location.