Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [209]
“Yes, Bao.” The young man trotted away with alacrity.
When the fellow returned with the requested supplies, Bao cut Hasan’s tunic away from the deadly round quoit that protruded from it. Despite his efforts to be gentle, the commander gave a stifled groan.
Amrita winced in sympathy. “Will he live?”
“I hope so, my lady.” Bao pressed his ear to Hasan’s back, listening. “His lungs are clear, so that is good.” He met my eyes, looking worried. “I wish Master Lo were here. Or even your damned Raphael.”
“Do your best, Master Lo’s magpie,” I murmured. “There are others waiting.”
“I’ll need your help to sop the blood. And maybe others to hold him still. It’s going to hurt.” A thought came to him. “Sudhakar!”
“Yes, Bao?”
“Fetch a pipe and a lamp. And opium, lots of opium.”
“Yes, Bao!”
“He’s very obedient,” I observed as he trotted off again.
“He was trained to be,” Bao said in a flat voice.
When Sudhakar returned a second time, Bao filled the bowl of the long, slender pipe with sticky brown poppy resin, coaxing Hasan Dar to lean on one elbow and take the mouth-piece of the pipe between his lips. He then held the oil lamp beneath the bowl until a sweet-smelling smoke arose. Hasan Dar sucked gratefully on the pipe, while Bao watched with an expression somewhere between hunger and envy.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him. “I am not nursing you through that twice.”
“Not even a wife yet, and already you nag,” he retorted, drawing a pained chuckle from Hasan.
The opium took effect quickly. Seeing the commander’s limbs relax, Bao nodded in satisfaction and beckoned to Sudhakar. “Take the pipe, and see that it’s given to anyone who wants it.”
“Yes, Bao!”
The quoit was lodged in Hasan Dar’s ribcage, closer to his back than his front, three or four inches protruding and the rest sunk deep into his flesh. After washing his hands, Bao gave it a cautious tug, wary of the razor-sharp outer edge. Hasan hissed between gritted teeth, but the thing didn’t move.
“I think it struck bone,” Bao muttered. He glanced around. “Are any of the household servants here?”
I shook my head. “Pradeep has them busy.” He was in charge of rounding up food and bedding, not to mention a hundred horses left to stray.
“Sudhakar!” Bao called. “A change of plan. Do you know where his lordship keeps his hunting gear?” The lad came hurrying back, nodding. “Good. Fetch me a falconer’s glove.”
“Yes, Bao!”
“The Falconer really was a falconer?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“I did not know that,” Amrita remarked. She looked pale and anxious. “Is there anything I can do to help, Bao?”
“Can you sew?” he asked.
The Rani turned even paler. “Yes, but…” Her gaze skated over the quoit sticking out of Hasan Dar’s side, and her expression turned determined. “Yes, I can try.”
“Sorry, my lady,” Bao apologized. “I did not mean for you to sew the commander’s wound.” He nodded at the sewing kit, which contained curved needles and sturdy, waxed thread. “But if you could thread a needle for me, it would be a great help.”
“Of course.” Kneeling gracefully, Amrita bent to the task, glad to be of use, her hands calm and steady.
I rubbed Hasan Dar’s back in a circular motion and breathed the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves, the most calming of all the Five Styles. His breathing slowed to match mine, the jutting edge of the quoit rising and falling, glinting in the lamplight.
Sudhakar returned with a falconer’s glove, a thick padded affair made of tough leather. Bao donned it, flexing his fingers.
“Ready?” he asked the commander, who gave a dreamy grunt of assent. Bao took hold of the steel quoit and gave it a sharp yank.
Strong as he was, it still took three yanks to free it; and there was a sharp, cracking sound as the quoit came loose, along with a hoarse cry from Hasan Dar. The wound gaped, a white shard of bone jutting out of it, blood pulsing over the commander’s skin. Bao swore, tossed the quoit aside, and stripped off the glove, plucking out the bone-shard and probing the wound