“I barely know what to do with this,” said Learned Edmund honestly. “I should sew it so that it doesn’t scar, but—I don’t think it’ll let me.”
“Leave it,” said Slate. “If I get out of this with just a scar there, I’ve been lucky.”
She looked away, and saw Grimehug sprawled out on his side by the fire, like a dog. He smiled at her with all his sharp teeth. Firelight reflected orange in his eyes.
“Should use gnole medicine, crazy lady.”
“Gnole medicine?”
“Lick it till it feels better. Then eat grass. Works every time.”
“As your physician,” said Learned Edmund testily, “I do not recommend that.”
Slate grinned.
The scholar ran his hands over her ribcage to make sure nothing was broken, a process he undoubtedly found more uncomfortable than she did, despite the bruises.
“What do you recommend, then?” she asked, as he finished and began scrubbing his hands furiously.
“Keep your wounds clean. And sleep. As much as we can arrange.”
Slate was only too happy to obey.
CHAPTER 16
THEY STAYED IN THE WONDER-ENGINE’S VALLEYthe next day. Slate was in no shape to move. Caliban had lost his voice almost completely, and was speaking in hoarse whispers. The horses were exhausted.
And Learned Edmund? He was in rapture over the wonder-engine anyway. He’d filled a notebook with meticulous sketches and measurements, which had mostly involved a patient Caliban, a snide Brenner, and a very long ball of string.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever described this one,” he told Slate excitedly, waving a book at her. “It’s a completely new wonder-engine!”
“Is that good?” Slate asked, wrapping her fingers around a cup of tea.
“It’s wonderful! There are only about thirty wonder-engines known to exist in the entire world! To find a new one—our names will live forever in history!”
He can actually utter that phrase with a straight face. I have definitely fallen in with the wrong sorts of company.
“Do they all look like people?” she asked.
“Doesn’t look much like my kind of people,” said the gnole,who was laying on his back by the fire. Slate had been very warm last night, with the gnole sleeping in a ball at her feet like a hairy rug. She’d offered him his own blanket, and he’d looked hurt. Apparently gnoles slept in piles. Since both Slate’s feet and her love life were cold, this was fine by her.
“Sorry, Grimehug. Do they all look like human people?”
“No, actually. Some of them do look like humans. Some look like animals, apparently, and some resemble buildings, or are more abstract conglomerations of parts.” He made vague gestures with both hands, defining a shape Slate couldn’t even begin to recognize.
“Any gnoles?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Their loss.” Grimehug closed his eyes again.
“Who made them?”
“No one knows.”
“How old are they?”
“Good question.”
