Skeen's Return (21 page)

Timka knelt by Skeen's head, held it up while Pegwai pried her mouth open and dropped a new concentrate on her tongue. He pinched her nose, held his hand over her mouth until he felt her swallow. He nodded to Timka, took his hand away. Timka lowered the head back onto the pillow. He moved down, bent over the bandaged hand; the strips of cloth were taut, the puffy flesh bulging, mounded up between them. He slipped a scalpel under a strip, began cutting the bandages off. Timka rubbed her hands up and down her thighs, chewed on her lip, distressed by what she saw. “Worse again, still worse,” she said.

Pegwai touched the red streaks climbing toward Skeen's shoulder. “We can't wait much longer.”

“I know.”

“She's not going to say anything more, too weak.”

“I know. Petro hasn't found anything she thinks could help. Which of us is going to do the thing?”

“I might as well.” He grimaced. “I've done rough surgery before when I was traveling around on my Seeker journeys. This one will be easier, we've got Skeen's cutter. Do a fast cut and cauterize at the same time.” He backed away to give Timka room to tend the hand. “That's a tool I wish she'd leave behind when she jumps the Gate.”

“First we get her across the Halijara. If she's alive when we reach Rood Saekol and Sikuro, then we can talk about the Gate. Bring me the bowl, will you.” She swallowed, rubbed at her nose. “Hai, it stinks.” She began swabbing at the slashes, washing loose the putrid matter. “Tomorrow for sure.” She took the scalpel from Pegwai and began cutting off the worst of the rot. “Should do it now; I don't know about you, me—I've got to work myself up to handling the idea. My stomach is saying forget it.”

Timka wrung out the cloth, folded it and laid it across Skeen's brow. Lipitero had finally fallen into a restless sleep. She was curled up in her flightskins on the bunk across the room, her head on a folded blanket.

Timka listened to the breathing of the two women, on one side light and fluttery on the other an increasing struggle; Skeen's labors made Timka's diaphragm ache as if she were using her own muscles to keep those lungs working. She hugged her arms across her breasts and began nerving herself to try reaching deep into Skeen's head. When she fled the mountains and Telka's spite what seemed centuries ago, she'd suppressed her inreach. It was dangerous among the Pallah to know too much about how they thought or felt; far better to let them feel sorry for her and pleased with themselves for helping her than to make them afraid of her because she knew too much and couldn't tell them how she knew it. So many years since she'd done the exercises, so many years since she'd tried to remember what Carema had been teaching her. She stroked her fingers down the side of Skeen's face. The fever was coming down again. Maybe this time it'd stay down. Once the hand was gone. Yes, Pegwai was right about that, it had to go. She sighed and wondered how Skeen was going to take losing her dominant hand. She was used to her body doing whatever she asked of it, that was obvious. She acted without having to think about how she was going to do what she wanted to do. It was going to be awkward, couldn't get away from that. Skeen's temper was chancy at the best of times; not that she meant to irritate other folk when she was in a fuss, it just happened. Too bad they were confined to the narrow quarters of the ship. Room to maneuver. Something Skeen said down in that cavern when Angelsin was getting ready to sell them all. No room to maneuver on a ship, you kept bumping into everyone you wanted, no, needed to avoid.

The window was open. She could smell the swamp, rotting vegetation, the acrid odors of the half-submerged trees. Overhead a Nagamar must have been leaning on the rail, one of their obligatory pilots; the hissing call came in clearly, the answering whistle from the raft drifting ahead of the ship. Pegwai had stretched a fine netting across the opening. They needed the air in here but not the flying biters that swarmed into every corner of the ship. Tomorrow morning they'd be out on the open sea. The Halijara. Three days, five days, somewhere in there, and they'd be dropping anchor at Sikuro. Not enough time for Skeen's stump to heal. Without understanding quite why, Timka suddenly and fervently wished Maggí would consent to take them straight to Oruda. No stopping for passengers and cargo, no.… She nodded. No stopping in ports where Skeen would be surrounded by all the things that were so very bad for her, things she'd be so vulnerable to with an itchy aching stump instead of a hand, when she was bound to be clumsy and uncertain and she was sure to hate being clumsy and … and dependent. Couldn't tie a knot, couldn't even get dressed without help, at least, not until she'd worked out how to do it and the stump had healed enough so she could use what was left of the arm.

Timka touched the cloth, turned it over, patted at Skeen's face. She dropped the cloth into the waste bucket, took a fresh one, squeezed it out, folded it and smoothed it onto Skeen's brow. Maggí would have to throw the bedding out when the ship got to Sikuro. It was already starting to grow mold, the drippings from the damp cloths and the sweat off Skeen whenever the fever broke enough to let her sweat were keeping the mattress and pillow continually damp. Timka leaned against the wall, pulled her legs up and draped her arms over her knees. Face it, Ti, you're just putting off failure, yes, admit it; Skeen knows what should be done for her, she just can't tell us. It's up to you to go in and pull it out of her. It's possible; remember what she said about how Telka gave her the Trade-Min. If Telka could reach her, so can you. Or you could have if you hadn't let that part of your brain atrophy. Like trying to walk after staying in bed a decade or two. You were right to run. Telka would slaughter you. Without Skeen's help. Lifefire, I can't face her now. My twin sister, a match in everything but temperament. We were a match, but not now, no more. She kept driving, studying, practicing and I rooted out, I am no more fit to face her now than a fledgling for flying. She contemplated her situation for some minutes more but broke off when she heard a moan. She swung swiftly onto her knees and bent over Skeen. The Pass-Through was moving weakly, drenched with sweat. The cloth had fallen to one side. Timka shook it out and patted gently at Skeen's face, hair, pulled the blanket down, wiped her body dry; a futile operation, by the time she'd finished more sweat had beaded up. Skeen's eyes cracked open and she started muttering. Timka tucked the blanket around her and got a new cloth. She bathed Skeen's face again, spoke soft soothing words, hoping her voice would pull the other out of her haze, at least for a short while. “Skeen, ah, Skeen,” she murmured, “listen to me, we can't help you, tell us … tell me how to help you.” The coated, flaking lips moved, but Timka couldn't persuade herself Skeen had heard her. She bent closer, tried to make out the mumbled words, but after a moment she sighed and went back to patting at Skeen's face, washing the crust from the corners of her mouth, the cracklings from her eyes. Never the easy way, she told herself, always complications. I'm going to have to try. You won't help me, will you. Stand on your own feet, decide for yourself what you want to do. Hah! I remember once … yes, back in Oruda, you asked me what I wanted out of life. Remember what I said? Someone to take care of me, I said, someone who'd provide silk sheets and scented baths and day after day of ordinary days. You didn't like that, did you? I remember how your face looked then, Skeen my friend. You listened to my tirade, you didn't say anything but I knew what you were thinking. I was scared then, Skeen, I'm scared now. Scared? No. Terrified. Ashamed of myself for being so lazy, so.… Well, there's no point in beating myself for what can't be helped. She set the cloth aside, flattened her hands on the sides of Skeen's face, slid her fingers up until the tips were pressed against Skeen's temples. She closed her eyes and tried to feel into the brain beneath the bone. Her own brain creaked, it felt like an ancient wooden clock, nothing broken but all the gears frozen into immobility by an accumulation of grease and dust and disuse. The gears moved a little as she applied pressure. She began to see/feel ghost fragments, no doubt fever dreams too pale and broken to recognize, whispers tickled her ears but she couldn't bring them clear enough to understand them. Even if I could, she thought, I probably couldn't understand them … ay! maybe I could, maybe.… Telka gave her Trade-Min, why wouldn't that work the other way? Her head began throbbing, lines of pain shot up from heels and hands through her spine and exploded at the base of her brain, exploded again and again. Gradually, as she persisted, the force of those explosions lessened, she got closer to her fingertips, finally felt as if she resided in those fingertips; still she persisted. She battered against the barrier as strong as bone that tried to deny her. The heat and drive grew stronger, she grew frightened at what she'd started, tried to pull back, but the thing that throbbed in her wouldn't yield; the barrier shattered, she was in Skeen, she was Skeen. She drowned in fever and pain, she struggled to hold on to a thread of consciousness, but the pull of being Skeen was strong, so strong.… Frantic, turned vicious by fear, she clawed her way free, fell shrieking to the floor.

When she was again aware of things around her, Lipitero was holding her head, dripping Balayar cordial into her mouth. She grimaced, pushed at the Ykx's hand; the cordial was cloying, unpleasant, as it combined with the sour taste of stomach acid. Lipitero set the flask aside, helped Timka to sit up.

Timka coughed, swallowed. A flash of memory started her struggling to get up. “Skeen.…”

Lipitero restrained her gently. “Not worse, not better,” she murmured, “What happened?”

“Help me up.” She stumbled the two steps to the bunk leaning on Lipitero's arm, dropped to her knees and peered into Skeen's face. The sweat was gone, her face was hot and tight again; like so many times before, the infusion's effect had worn off after a brief respite. She cursed under her breath, lowered herself until she was sitting on the floor, resting her arms on the bed. After a minute she looked up at Lipitero. “I was trying the Min inreach, I thought I might be able to pull out of her some way of … of using something of hers to fight this.” She touched the blackening hand, shivered. “Pegwai's going to cut it off tomorrow, today, I mean. I wanted.…” She lifted a hand, let it fall.

Lipitero squatted beside her, stroked the straining bandage. “Did you get anything? Even a fragment might help me.”

Timka closed her eyes, but all she saw was blackness; she couldn't remember anything but overwhelming terror. “No,” she said. “Maybe after some sorting out.…” She sighed, dropped her head on her arms. “Hai, Petro, I'm tired. Too tired to think, I think.” She giggled, then started crying.

“Yes, I see you are. Come.” She slipped her hands under Timka's arms, tried to lift her. Timka fumbled with arms and legs, but finally got herself together enough to help. Lipitero got her across to the other bottom bunk and eased her down. With a weary sigh, Timka stretched out, smiled up at Lipitero as the Ykx tucked a blanket around her and fluffed a pillow for her. She closed her eyes, sighed again, and plummeted into profound sleep.

Timka sat on the bunk, Skeen's head in her lap. She swallowed, looked away as Pegwai brought over an empty bucket and put it down beside the bed. “Do you think you'll need that?” she muttered. “I thought you said the beam will cauterize.…” She couldn't go on.

“Think, yes—be sure, no; Besides, there's the hand; should be something under it to catch it.”

“Oh.”

“Ti, if it bothers you that much, let me get the Mate in here. You don't have to watch this.”

“I know. Has nothing to do with logic or even feeling, Pegwai. I just have to be here. And don't tell me Skeen wouldn't ask it of me, I know that. That doesn't matter either.”

“She won't feel anything, it will happen so fast.…” He saw Timka's face and broke off, grimaced. “I'm not all that happy about it either. Still, it has to be done. Otherwise Skeen is going to die and soon.”

“Stop nattering and do it.”

“Hold her arm out and steady. I'm making the cut about halfway to the elbow.” He turned pale, but stepped around the bucket and waited without comment as Timka slid around, lifted Skeen's arm and extended it so the hand was centered over the mouth of the bucket. He continued to wait until the arm was steady and still, then he positioned the cutter (Lipitero had set beam length through trial and much error at about a meter, long enough for ease of handling and a clean cut, short enough so he wouldn't carve holes in the side of the ship) and waited for the ship to drop and start its climb up the side of a swell. They'd left the river not long after sunup and were several hours out on the Halijara. He sucked in a long breath, exploded it out and brought the cutter down through the arm—swift, neat, precise in this as he was in most things. With a smooth continuation of the motion, he brought the beam back and placed the flat of it against the raw flesh until the cabin was thick with the stench of roasting meat and the gush of blood was stopped. He touched the beam off, tossed the cutter onto the bunk and reached for the pile of bandages and pads laid ready. The beam had sealed the blood vessels as he had hoped, but there was still some leakage. He knew he should have left a flap of skin to fold over the end of the arm, making a neater stump, but he hadn't the skill for that, nor did anyone else on the ship. Maggí Solitaire acted as ship's doctor when there was need for one, but her training was even cruder than his. He stroked on some of her ointment, pressed the pad in place and began tying it down with strips of cloth. When he was finished, he looked at the arm with considerable dissatisfaction, shook his head and stepped back. Timka settled the arm on Skeen's stomach, averting her eyes from the bucket.

“Shouldn't you do something about the veins, sew them shut or, well, I don't know.” Her fear and frustration shrilled her voice.