Strange, but on our side, thankfully!
Pavilion of the Healers
“Here they come,” Rodney said.
Gervais looked up from his preparations to see his friend was correct. The first few sets of stretcher-bearers were crossing the big courtyard from both the north and south, field medics trotting beside the wounded. The patient coming in from the north had an arrow protruding visibly from the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
“We are ready for this, my friend,” he said, thoroughly drying his hands and then inspecting his nails. It wouldn’t do to have one catch on a man’s wound or stitches.
“I sure hope so.”
“We are better prepared than any army other than that of the USE itself,” Gervais said, with what he hoped was perfect confidence.
The bearers from the south were the first to arrive, hustling their charge into Rodney’s operating room.
“See you when it’s over,” Rodney rumbled, following them.
“See you then, Rodney.”
Gervais went to his own station, giving a reassuring nod to his team. Several women were not only present, but integral to the team. Two of them would make better doctors than any of the current crop of male candidates, but Gervais knew better than to pursue their elevation too soon. Pushing too hard and early had resulted in far too many swindles going sideways on him. The more people thought a given thing their own idea, the easier they were to bring around to your purpose.
The second set of bearers entered. The patient was fully conscious and looking at Gervais with interest and no little fear under sweating brows.
“Single wound. No exit. Patient hasn’t lost a lot of blood,” the medic was saying, “but it seems the shaft of the arrow may have broken on penetrating. I thought it best to leave it in place and bring him to you.”
Brow cocked above her veil, Sunitra held up the opium pipe.
Gervais nodded to her but spoke to the medic, “Well done. Don’t forget to resupply before you go back out.”
Sunitra lit the opium pipe and thrust it at the wounded warrior.
“I don’t need this,” the warrior said, pushing the pipe away with his good hand.
“Not yet,” Gervais said, lifting one of the larger surgical knives, “but when I start cutting on you with this, I think you’ll be glad of it. Now shut up and suck on that pipe.”
The man’s eyes went comically wide. When Sunitra held the pipe out again, he grasped it, quickly stuffing the stem between his lips to draw, hard, on it.
Gervais gestured. “Move a little onto your side, if you please, and let me take a look at that.”
He had to cut the cotton tunic away from the man’s back, as the arrow hadn’t penetrated it. From the look of it, the arrowhead was indeed broken off. He could see the nearly blunt cylinder of the arrow shaft pushing the skin at his back up.
“Do you know what happened?” Gervais asked. He needed to let the opium work on the boy before cutting anyway, and if the fellow could tell him where the arrowhead was, it might just help.
“I’m not sure. I was at the loophole firing. I heard a clatter, felt like I got punched, and was nearly spun off my feet. My brother said the arrow hit the wall and then me.”
“Which probably saved your life. Of course it doesn’t really help me figure out whether or not the arrowhead’s in you or sitting at the bottom of the loophole you were defending from, but still…” He pressed gently on the would-be exit wound. When the man barely responded, Gervais glanced at one of the men and gave a sharp nod.
That man, a burly fellow selected for his muscles, gently took the patient’s wrists in his own hands.
“Use the ties, that’s what they’re there for.”
The orderly did as he was told. The next few minutes were lost to Gervais as he explored the wound and eventually extracted the arrowhead with a minimum of cuts that he was quite pleased with.
“Doctor Vieuxpont, I can finish here.”
Gervais paused, hand halfway to picking up the suture needle. He looked up and saw there were three more patients waiting for his attention.
He dropped his hand. “Please do.”
The burly orderly and Sunitra left with the first patient, the lovely local already marking the point where she would suture the wound.
“Next!” he called as another woman entered carrying a tray of fresh surgical knives. As she exchanged the trays he dropped the scalpel he’d been using on the old one.
“You’re welcome, Doctor.” Gervais flinched, recognizing the voice. Veiled and dressed in one of the nondescript robes that were provided to hospital workers because they could be easily laundered or replaced, he could hardly be blamed for having mistaken Shehzadi Jahanara for a servant girl.
“My thanks, Begum Sahib.”
“You are most welcome, Doctor.” The princess left without another word or backward glance.
Shaking his head, Gervais lost himself again in the treating of wounds and the healing of bodies, a skill and calling he would never have had the chance to practice had he remained in Europe rather than coming to this exotic, beautiful land.
Lahore Gate
John coughed as the stairwell filled with blinding, choking dust. The gatehouse shook so violently he stumbled, barked a knee on the next stairs. He was dragging himself upright when another colossal pair of impacts made his ears ring.
Something caught on his rifle, dragging him off his feet and sideways. Something hard and heavy hit his other shoulder and upper chest. A noise like a freight train passing within inches of his ear rumbled and clattered to a crescendo. He blinked, shot his arms out in an attempt to grab something that wasn’t moving. An interminable, horrifying scrabble later, he lay prone on the uneven steps of the gatehouse, rifle somewhere below.
He coughed again, started to wipe at the dust-caked eyelashes that glued his eyes shut, but stopped as his
