Skeen's Return (20 page)

That was the thing that bothered her the most; she knew quite a lot about treating Min ailments; at one time when she was considerably younger, she had tried using that knowledge to treat members of the Pallah families she lived with and it was only luck that kept her clear of total disaster. She learned then that there was no correlation between what worked for Min and what eased Nemin ills. She touched Skeen's face. Hot and dry. She sighed. Skeen looked diminished. Like the dead, diminished. Not dead yet, how long?

She slipped her sandals off, got warily to her feet. “Domi,” she called.

His face and voice carefully neutral (she suddenly remembered how very young he was) he said, “Trouble?”

“I'm not going to wait any longer. I'm going to fly ahead. Maybe Maggí or one of the others will know what to do.” She watched his face muscles fight his control, aware he was terrified of being left alone with Skeen and the boat; well, he had reason enough. Lifefire knows a thousand things could happen he couldn't handle alone. But there was no help for it, she had to go. “I'll climb high,” she said quickly. “The winds up there blow faster, I'll be back before you notice I'm gone.”

“Ti …” He cleared his throat, giggled suddenly, surprising both of them. “You're not seeing something staring at you. Tell Maggí to up anchor and come meet us, that'll make things move a lot faster. You know you can't carry much when you sprout feathers.”

“Hai!” She slapped her forehead. “Stupid. You're right.” She grinned at him as she started undoing her trousers. “Never you mind my feathers. Medicines don't weigh all that much, I'll bring back something to start on. Hm. I haven't the least idea how long this is going to take. Expect me when you see me.”

She fought her way up the wind layers until she found a southbound stream; it was faster than any she remembered trying to negotiate and more turbulent. It frightened her, but she cast herself into it; battered and disoriented, she beat herself straight and went sweeping south. When her initial dizziness passed off, she looked for the river, tried to locate Maggí's ship. She was flying above a layer of clouds; what she saw most of the time was a thready whiteness though she caught glimpses of the land through scattered small breaks in the cover; unhappily, she passed over them too quickly to see more than a few blurred details.

It was stony, barren country, with sluggish streams and shallow ponds matted thick with ancient layers of algae, meager scrub, grass like hair on an old man's head, thin, patchy, drained of color. Off to the right, where the hills swelled into mountains, she caught glimpses of ugly gray structures. Mine works. Except for those, it was an empty land. Nothing moved on those hillsides but the plumes of vented steam.

Without warning the windstream turned east, straight away from the river's course. Uttering an irritated squawk she dropped and began casting about for a new southflow where she could save energy and glide along faster than she could fly. When she was stabilized again, she started looking for the ship with hopes this time of finding it.

And nearly lost her hold on the wind. It was directly below her, swinging slowly about its anchor lines, bare masts swaying to the tug of the wind. Giddy with relief, she spiraled down to land on the quarterdeck beside Maggí Solitaire.

Shifting from hawk to cat-weasel, she growled deep in her throat, rubbed past the Aggitj woman's leg and went bounding down the steps to the deck. She dropped her hindquarters to the wood, growled again; tail tip twitching like a metronome, she rose, stalked below, stood waiting at the door to the Captain's cabin.

Maggí pushed past her, opened the door and went inside. She turned to face Timka who had shifted again and was pulling on the robe Maggí kept for her on a hook behind the door. “Trouble?”

Timka smoothed the sash ends down, sighed. “One thing I like about you, Maggí Solitaire, you don't need long explanations. Skeen got her hand mangled by a woffit and she's laid out with a fever. I need help.” She allowed herself a brief smile. “Domi says it'd be a good idea if you upped the anchors and came to meet him. Us. I'll be flying back in a minute, after I talk with the others. By the by, you wouldn't have any ideas how to break that fever?”

Maggí scowled past her, chewed on her lip. “Ah … I'd be a bit nervous about trying.… A minute, I'll be back.” She circled the long table and vanished into her bedroom; Timka heard her rummaging about in there, heard a chest lid crash down. Maggí came back with a roll of bandage and a jar of ointment. “Fever I don't know about, but this mess seems to work on all sorts of flesh. I've used it on close to everything that walks on this world.” She smiled at Timka. “I even had occasion to use it on a Min once.” She looked from her burden to Timka, frowned. “Lifefire, how are you going to carry this? Think it would be too heavy if I put it in a sack and tied it around your … um … foot?”

Timka giggled. “Be just fine.” She sobered. “Leave room for whatever Pegwai or … well, anything I need to fly back to the boat.”

Maggí set the bandages and jar on the table. “I hear you. I'll have one of the crew sew you up a sack. And I'll send the rest of your company down here. You want the Boy too? He's playing with my daughter.”

Timka collapsed into a chair. “No, don't bother him. But you could stir up the cook and send down some hot sweet tea and a bun. I haven't had anything to eat since I don't know when and flying back's going to be harder work.”

“I hear you.” Maggí went out walking quickly, the soft patter of her bare feet faded almost before the sound of her last word.

Timka folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them. She was tired, hungry, afraid that whatever they tried would be too late. And angry with herself; Lifefire be blessed, Maggí had offered what she hadn't thought to ask for, the fresh bandages and the antiseptic. Stupid, stupid, Timka. This is the second time I've missed the obvious, my brain must be rotting.

Pegwai came in on a rush of words. Timka lifted her head but didn't try to sort them out until he calmed a little and settled into a chair. He flattened his hands on the table and sat staring at her. “What's wrong?”

Before she could answer, the three Aggitj came tumbling in; Ders ran at her shouting in Aggitchan; he caught hold of her shoulders, shook her. He was frantic, almost weeping, spitting in her face. Hal and Hart pulled him off her and got him settled in a chair. Looking almost as disturbed, Hal stood beside him, patting his shoulder to keep him from exploding again.

“Domi's fine,” she said, “it's Skeen.…”

Lipitero came through the door in a whirl of silk and excitement almost as frantic as Ders'. “Skeen? What about Skeen?”

Timka sighed. “Hart, pull the door shut, will you. Thanks.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Listen a minute, you all can ask questions later. Like I said, Domi's fine. He's taking care of Skeen and the boat right now, which is too much for anyone to handle alone, so I want to get back as fast as I can.” She blinked. The ship was rocking. Lipitero stumbled against Pegwai, caught his shoulder with a grip so hard he grunted with pain. Timka smiled, relaxed a little. Maggí was getting underway, Skeen would have the help she needed, Bona Fortuna willing, as she'd say. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced. “A woffit chewed up one of Skeen's hands; it's a dirty wound and she wasn't able to tend it for a lot too long, so right now it's a mess and she's laid out with fever.” She nodded at the bandages and the small crock of antiseptic ointment. “Maggí came up with that for the wounds. That's good but what bothers me most is that fever. I want to get it down. Can any of you help me?”

A knock at the door. Hart opened it, let in Chulji and the cook who was carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some sandwiches. The cook stared around at the stiff faces, raised his brows at the ominous silence hanging about like smoke; he produced half a smile for Timka, gave her the tray, looked round again, sniffed with disdain and waddled out without saying a word. Timka reached for the teapot, stopped with her hand outstretched when Pegwai pushed his chair back and stood. “Let me look through my kit,” he said. “I remember several antipyretics that work across species.”

Lipitero caught hold of his arm, stopped him. “The Balayar cordial, do you have any of that? It put strength in me when I was very close to dying.” She looked anxiously at him, fingers trembling as she waited for his answer.

“Yes. I hadn't thought of that, you're right.” He edged away from her, almost ran through the door as Hart opened it for him.

“Skeen mustn't die,” Lipitero whispered. “She must not die.”

The intensity in the Ykx's voice made Timka uncomfortable. She gulped nervously at her tea, looked with distaste at the sandwiches. She could feel the tremble of hunger in her arms and legs, her head was too heavy on her neck, but the thought of eating made her a little sick; she forced herself to bite into a sandwich, chewed unhappily at the meat and bread and washed it down with large drafts of tea. Pegwai was away an eternity, or so it seemed; he came back at that eternity's end with a stoneware flask of the cordial and a purplish brown syrup in a small glass vial.

He set these beside the roll of bandage. Hand on the flask, he said, “The cordial. It sits easy on the stomach; get as much down her as you can, at least half a cup before you try giving her this.” He moved his hand to the vial. “The antipyretic. Give her no more than two drops an hour.” He frowned. “If it's going to work at all, you might see signs of change before the end of the first hour.” He examined his palm as if expecting to read the answers there. “I wouldn't worry too much if … ah … if you saw nothing happening for an hour, even two. After that, well, I don't know. Skeen.…” He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“So say we all.” Timka sighed. “If it does nothing more than bring her awake long enough to answer a few questions … Lifefire grant that happens. Pegwai, take these things up to Maggí; she's having a bag run up so I can carry them back to the boat. Chul, will you fly with me? I want to make sure nothing happens to that bag.”

HELLO. DECISION TIME AGAIN. HERE WE HAVE A MAJOR PLAYER AT A TURNING POINT. HOW WOULD YOU DEAL WITH SKEEN AND HER INJURIES? IF YOU WANT TO BE NASTY AND NATURALISTIC, YOU COULD PULL A WILD CARD OUT OF THE PACK AND KILL HER OFF, LEAVING THE ENDS OF HER LIFE DANGLING, NO ANSWERS TO ALL THOSE QUESTIONS PLAGUING HER; AFTER ALL, LIFE IS LIKE THAT; MOST FOLK WHO DIE SUDDENLY DIE IN THE MUDDIEST OF MUDDLES; MALA FORTUNA DOESN'T WAIT TILL THEY TUCK IN THE DANGLES. THIS OPTION WOULD CREATE SOME INTERESTING DIFFICULTIES BOTH FOR YOU AND THE OTHER PLAYERS IN THE STORY; IT WOULD TURN THE ACTION INTO A RADICALLY NEW DIRECTION; WITH A LOT OF SWEAT AND APPLYING RUMP TO CHAIR, FINGERS TO KEYS, YOU COULD MAKE IT WORK.

SECOND OPTION: YOU COULD HAVE PEGWAI OR ONE OF THE OTHERS DO SOME PRIMITIVE AND PROBABLY DANGEROUS SURGERY AND CUT OUR HEROINE'S HAND OFF. NOW THERE'S A FINE OPPORTUNITY TO DRIVE SKEEN BACK TO DRINK AND COMPLICATE HER LIFE CONSIDERABLY. SHE'D HAVE TO GET USED TO A NEW BALANCE. AND IT'S HER RIGHT HAND, AND SHE IS VERY RIGHT HANDED. AND HOW IS SHE GOING TO TIE KNOTS, AND THINGS LIKE THAT?

THIRD OPTION: YOU COULD KEEP THE HAND WHERE IT IS BUT GIVE SKEEN RECURRING BOUTS OF FEVER AND DELIRIUM; MAKE IT WORSE, HAVE THE FEVER BROUGHT ON BY STRESS. THINK ABOUT THAT ONE. YOU COULD LOOK TO ONE OF THE MARTIAL ARTS CLAIMS AND DO THE DRUNKEN BOXER BIT, HAVE HER BODY BE GLORIOUSLY EFFICIENT WHILE HER MIND IS OUT IN NEVER-NEVER LAND. THAT MIGHT BE INTERESTING TO WRITE, BUT YOU'D HAVE A TOUGH TIME KEEPING IT REASONABLY CREDIBLE; IF YOU HAD A FEEL FOR HUMOR THAT MIGHT DO IT. QUITE A CHALLENGE THERE.

FOURTH OPTION:YOU COULD SAY, WELL, SKEEN'S TOUGH AND LUCKY OR SHE WOULDN'T HAVE LASTED THIS LONG; THIS ILLNESS IS A TRYING INTERLUDE, BUT SHE RECOVERS AFTER SOME FINE AND LOVELY SUFFERING. ITS HAD ITS USES; SHE HAS BEEN SCARED INTO TAKING THIS WORLD MORE SERIOUSLY AND PUTTING HER MIND TO WHAT SHE'S DOING, HER COMPANIONS HAVE BEEN SCARED INTO REALIZING THEY ARE TOO DEPENDENT ON HER AND SHOULD START DOING SOMETHING ABOUT THAT AND LET'S GET ON WITH THE GETTING ON.

WHEN YOU TURN THE PAGE, YOU WILL SEE WHAT CHOICE I MADE. WHY NOT KEEP YOUR OWN STORY RUNNING ALONG WITH MINE, SEE HOW FAR THE TWO THREADS DIVERGE?

Lipitero sat on the bunk, Skeen's gear held in the rough diamond space between her legs; a stickum was pasted on the wall giving her a steadier light than the oil lamps that flickered with the motion of the ship. She lifted each tool from the kit, examined it with delicate care, trying to decide without activating it just what it might do; she was not having much success at that in spite of her intimate knowledge of her own instrumentation; alien technologies tend to be incomprehensible to the eye, it's what they do that provides insight into what they are. If Skeen didn't come up enough to do some explaining, she planned to take the things on deck where she had room to provide for accidents. For the past several days Pegwai and Timka had been laboring over Skeen, trying infusion after infusion on her; several seemed to work—for a while. Skeen would sweat, grow restless, come close to cooling off; she surfaced twice during those frantic days, but was disoriented, rambling. They couldn't understand her or she them; she seemed to have forgotten all the Trade-Min that Telka had given her. Lipitero put everything back in the kit, clicked the flap shut with a sigh of frustration and began on the belt pockets. The infusions worked for an hour, a day, once two days—but the fever always came back triggered by the festering hand. Nothing they tried worked on the hand. Timka washed it, changed bandages several times a day, cut away dead flesh, cleaned out the suppuration. And Skeen kept getting worse, rotting hand and draining fever reinforcing each other. Lipitero lifted out a squat cylinder, eased the cap off and frowned at a smaller cylinder with a pinhole in one side.