“Have bandages and a hot iron brought to my cell,” I say as kindly as I can.
“A hot iron?” the Palitian asks, confused.
“To seal the wound,” I say.
He shakes his head. “We have nothing like that. We can get you a needle and thread.”
I let out a disapproving grunt. “Check anyway.” Dying here is out of the question. I must finish my fights.
4
THRUM
AMARA
“AMARA!” A VOICE shouts from the hallway.
With a sigh, I abandon my fresh cup of tea and stick my head out of the Nurse’s Room door.
“Pack supplies for a gladiator,” Yuxta says.
“What kind of supplies?” I ask, tucking my still-wet hair over my ear. Solta took pity on me earlier and let me clean up. I even got a fresh dress and a pair of shoes. I think it was more for her benefit than mine, but at least I’m clean.
Yuxta gives me a confused stare, so I clarify,slowly. “Who are the supplies for, and what’s wrong with them?”
“A big cut. He is Vhorathi. Losing a lot of blood.”
Vhorathi … never heard of them.
I duck back into the Nurse’s Room, grab a med-bag, and start looking for the correct sedative in the cabinet. There’s no vial labeled “Vhorathi”. Of course.
Frowning, I pop my head back into the hallway. “Can you repeat the species name?”
“Vhorathi.”
Ok. That’s exactlywhat I heard before.
“What’s the name of the home planet?” Maybe the vial is mislabeled?
“Vhorath.”
Very original.
I duck back into the Nurse’s Room and almost collide with Solta. “Gah!” I shout, surprised by her sudden appearance.
“What species did he say?” she asks calmly, her dark eyes and square pupils soft and unfazed. I repeat the name, and she sighs knowingly. “We do not have sedatives for him.”
“We don’t?”
“We do not. Grab what supplies are needed and give them to the guards. They will handle the rest.” With a single graceful stride, she returns to the table and her datapad.
“Wait, so he has to sew himself up?” I ask, walking around the table and back into her line of sight. “Why don’t we have sedatives for him?”
“A Vhorathi cultural rule,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, eyes still on the datapad. When I don’t leave, she looks up, clearly annoyed. “He is not permitted to come in contact with persons of the opposite sex, so there is no point in sedating him. You could not touch him, no matter his condition. Just deliver the supplies.”
“You know he won’t be able to sew himself up.” Even I would struggle with that.
“He agreed to the risks when he signed his contract and refused medical care,” she says, lowering her eyes back to the datapad, clearly unbothered by the impending death of another slave. Gladiator or not, she doesn’t care. We’re all the same to her. Expendable slaves. “Give him what he needs and leave. What happens from there is none of your concern.”
