“Miracles. Marvels. Completely useless things. It doesn’t seem to follow any particular pattern.”
“Learned Edmund,” she said tiredly, “is it going to try and kill us?”
He had to stop and think about it. Slate pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. It was going to come out as a sob if she wasn’t careful.
“I don’t think so, no. It doesn’t seem to be moving.” He frowned. “I suppose it’s remotely possible it might kill us. But no more than a house or a wagon or a windmill might.”
“Good enough.” The bubble went back down. “Let’s set up camp. I’m about done in, and this is as defensible a spot as we’re going to get.”
Nobody argued.
It’s a miracle.
They made camp in the bay formed by the circled arms of the wonder-engine. The gaping mouth behind them was unsettling—if it had been an open cave, Slate would have insisted on setting up somewhere else—but it ended in a smooth, tongue-like sweep a few feet back. The only hole was a narrow, drain-like opening at the top, a tiny throat for such a large mouth. With the horses picketed in a wall across the open side of the bay, they were as well protected as they were likely to get.
It took only a few minutes to get a fire going, which was a good thing, because Slate didn’t think she had more than a few minutes left in her.
“Sit, sit,” said Learned Edmund. “Let me see to your wounds.”
“Slate first,” said Caliban, although he was practically swaying on his feet. “She took the worst of it.”
Bloody chivalry again, but he’s probably right.Slate sat down onto a rock. The shirt pulled where it stuck to the punctures. Learned Edmund knelt in front of her, frowned, and turned to dig through a saddlebag.
All at once. All at once is better. It’s like a bandage. Do it fast.
Slate took a deep breath, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and ripped it off over her head in a single savage yank.
Her shriek was not noticeably slowed by her clenched teeth, but she managed to bury most of it in the folds of the shirt around her head.
“Mistress Slate!”
Slate opened her eyes blearily.Am I dying? Did I just give myself a mortal wound?
Learned Edmund had fallen over backwards, and had a sleeve over his eyes.
Did I hit him?
“Mistress Slate—you cannot—you—modesty forbids—”
Brenner’s howl of laughter tipped her off.Ah. Yes. Those.She glanced down at herself. There were ugly bruises across her torso, and several shallow oozing holes. Blood had painted her skin with a thin, irregular layer of clotted red. As an object of erotic interest, her breasts currently rated somewhere below a dead flounder.
“Look,” she said tiredly, “I don’t have anything Brenner hasn’t seen before, Caliban’s a paladin, you’re sworn to celibacy, and Grimehug’s the wrong species. Just sew me up.”
“But—”
“Hey Edmund, I hear that if you hold your breath, it keeps your genitals from withering.”
“Shutup, Brenner.”
The scholar rubbed his forehead. “Yes. You’re right. It is shameful for me to be concerned with such things when you are in pain.”
She patted his shoulder absently, too tired to be gratified when he didn’t flinch.
Learned Edmund looked a little green by the end of it—whether from being forced to touch feminine flesh, or the task at hand—but he managed. Most of the antler wounds hadn’t actually penetrated the skin, leaving ugly round bruises instead. Only a few actually required bandaging.
Despite his difficulty in looking directly at the injuries, Learned Edmund did a skillful job patching her up. Slate had been treated by licensed healers with a touch that wasn’t half so delicate.
The tattoo was actually the worst. A thick line of blood had crusted under its teeth and the skin gaped open. Cleaning it was excruciating and Slate had to chew on a knuckle and look away.
