gone now.
Cate flicked open the small case and extracted two silver needles and the ivory bobbin of black thread.
Next to where Chin lay appeared a man. As tall as he was broad, he seemed a mountain in the low-ceilinged space. Black of hair and eye, his body was so encased in bands of geometric tattoos it was difficult to discern his skin’s natural tone. He shifted as she did, always taking a position directly in her line of sight. Arms crossed over a hogshead chest, he stood disquietingly still, except for the start he held: a length of rope, a fist-sized knot at its end. He swung the bludgeon-like thing with well-practiced ease, passing it several times closely enough for her to observe the knot’s discoloration, looking too much like dried blood. The knot was periodically struck with startling force against whatever surface that happened to be within range.
At one point, there was a subtle shift in the press of men around her, parting to allow a single figure forward. The dry old stick’s rheumy eyes regarded Chin’s leg, the man’s withered mouth pursing in consideration.
“Huh! I’ve seen worse.” The creaky-voiced pronouncement came with the same significance of a verdict handed down at Old Bailey. And then he was gone. Puzzled, Cate forbore inquiring as to what that performance had been about.
While waiting for Chin’s rum to take sufficient effect, Cate inspected the other casualties those who would allow her, that is. A good many would not deign to subject themselves to the hands of a woman, preferring to bind their wounds themselves or be attended to by their mates with whatever bit of rag might be to hand, in spite of her protests.
“Eye fer an eye,” came a low-voiced rumble from somewhere behind her.
“Justice,” hissed another.
She spun around to where several men sat wearing a unified mask of malice.
“We’ll see whose blood stains the deck next,” said Chin in a rum-thickened slur.
She spun back to Chin, now dull-eyed with drink, but glaring nonetheless. Her breast and ribs stinging anew, she thought to apologize to him, but a hollow gesture it would have been, for if the circumstances were to present themselves again, she would have done the same. She straightened, a strange calm befalling her as she took the bottle from his increasingly limp hand. She met his stare as she poised the bottle over his wound and poured. She took great satisfaction from the resulting bellow. It was cut short, however, by the crack of the knotted rope on the bench at her knee. She started as if she had been the one struck, and her hard-found will dissolved.
As she picked up the threaded needle, her pulse raced, her mouth gone dry. She had repaired many a man, but never damage done by her own hand. She periodically paused to swipe the sweat from her eyes; putting a needle through skin wasn’t as easy as one might imagine. Chin’s jaw muscles stood rigid with determination to present a stoic front. And yet, no amount of resolve could prevent his flesh from twitching at every stab. The needle slipped often from her blood-slicked fingers.
She worked under the added pressure of being observed not only by the rope-swinging watchdog, but two others, loosely disguised as assistants. One, small and squat, with huge bulging eyes and an inordinately wide mouth — Frog, as she privately christened him — stood poised with a knife—being disinclined to trust her with it—to cut the thread as she knotted off each stitch. The second, tall and thin to the point of near frailty, with a neck and limbs befitting a great bird, Crane ripped bandages in between sprinkling sand under her feet whenever the floor grew too slippery with blood. She resented their lack of trust, flattering herself as one who possessed enough honor not to exact revenge on a wounded man.
With a sigh of relief, she tied off the last stitch. She moved on to the next one injured, and then the next, all the while working under the severe mask of
Cate flicked open the small case and extracted two silver needles and the ivory bobbin of black thread.
Next to where Chin lay appeared a man. As tall as he was broad, he seemed a mountain in the low-ceilinged space. Black of hair and eye, his body was so encased in bands of geometric tattoos it was difficult to discern his skin’s natural tone. He shifted as she did, always taking a position directly in her line of sight. Arms crossed over a hogshead chest, he stood disquietingly still, except for the start he held: a length of rope, a fist-sized knot at its end. He swung the bludgeon-like thing with well-practiced ease, passing it several times closely enough for her to observe the knot’s discoloration, looking too much like dried blood. The knot was periodically struck with startling force against whatever surface that happened to be within range.
At one point, there was a subtle shift in the press of men around her, parting to allow a single figure forward. The dry old stick’s rheumy eyes regarded Chin’s leg, the man’s withered mouth pursing in consideration.
“Huh! I’ve seen worse.” The creaky-voiced pronouncement came with the same significance of a verdict handed down at Old Bailey. And then he was gone. Puzzled, Cate forbore inquiring as to what that performance had been about.
While waiting for Chin’s rum to take sufficient effect, Cate inspected the other casualties those who would allow her, that is. A good many would not deign to subject themselves to the hands of a woman, preferring to bind their wounds themselves or be attended to by their mates with whatever bit of rag might be to hand, in spite of her protests.
“Eye fer an eye,” came a low-voiced rumble from somewhere behind her.
“Justice,” hissed another.
She spun around to where several men sat wearing a unified mask of malice.
“We’ll see whose blood stains the deck next,” said Chin in a rum-thickened slur.
She spun back to Chin, now dull-eyed with drink, but glaring nonetheless. Her breast and ribs stinging anew, she thought to apologize to him, but a hollow gesture it would have been, for if the circumstances were to present themselves again, she would have done the same. She straightened, a strange calm befalling her as she took the bottle from his increasingly limp hand. She met his stare as she poised the bottle over his wound and poured. She took great satisfaction from the resulting bellow. It was cut short, however, by the crack of the knotted rope on the bench at her knee. She started as if she had been the one struck, and her hard-found will dissolved.
As she picked up the threaded needle, her pulse raced, her mouth gone dry. She had repaired many a man, but never damage done by her own hand. She periodically paused to swipe the sweat from her eyes; putting a needle through skin wasn’t as easy as one might imagine. Chin’s jaw muscles stood rigid with determination to present a stoic front. And yet, no amount of resolve could prevent his flesh from twitching at every stab. The needle slipped often from her blood-slicked fingers.
She worked under the added pressure of being observed not only by the rope-swinging watchdog, but two others, loosely disguised as assistants. One, small and squat, with huge bulging eyes and an inordinately wide mouth — Frog, as she privately christened him — stood poised with a knife—being disinclined to trust her with it—to cut the thread as she knotted off each stitch. The second, tall and thin to the point of near frailty, with a neck and limbs befitting a great bird, Crane ripped bandages in between sprinkling sand under her feet whenever the floor grew too slippery with blood. She resented their lack of trust, flattering herself as one who possessed enough honor not to exact revenge on a wounded man.
With a sigh of relief, she tied off the last stitch. She moved on to the next one injured, and then the next, all the while working under the severe mask of
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