She waited a long minute. “Go and do this operation, Ryan Cawdor. It’s not necessary to try and get what I want this way. The other options are more sure.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Must mean something.”
“Time will show us all, Ryan. Now, that same time is passing by and your friend could be on his way down the slippery slope. Go and save him.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” For a moment he considered kissing her on the cheek, then decided against it.
MILDRED HAD ELECTED to try to operate down in the main kitchen area of the ville.
“Best lights. Large table we’ve had scrubbed and scrubbed. Some real good knives that Jak’s been honing until they sing. Plenty of hot water. Can’t ask for more.”
“You want help?” Krysty asked.
“I’ll use Jak. Got the longest, most agile fingers. Rest of you just keep well back.” She wiped sweat from her forehead, reaching to tie a strip of white cotton around her temples. “Tell them to bring him down. And for Christ’s sake, don’t jog him.”
“We’ll do that. Me and Ryan,” J.B. offered.
THE OLD MAN WAS DELIRIOUS, head rolling, eyes staring wildly. He looked through Ryan and J.B. as they bent over him, tucking in the bedclothes, ready to switch him to a stretcher that they’d borrowed.
“Turn the right flank, mon commandant , or we are lost! Save the Hussars and we save Moscow. It will take more than a French musketball to keep me from Corunna. Rally stouthearts, and let us seek glory in the cannon’s mouth. Onward, onward!”
By the time they reached the kitchen with him, Doc had fallen into a deep sleep.
“Everything’s ready,” Mildred said, wearing a makeshift surgical mask, as was Jak, his narrow red eyes staring over the top of it.
The kitchen ovens were scorching hot, with cauldrons of water bubbling and steaming. On a side table Mildred had laid out a number of silver needles, already threaded with stout cord, and an amazing array of different knives.
“One thing I don’t have is any anesthetic,” she said. “Have to go in quick and accurate. Ryan, hold his head still. J.B., you take Doc’s feet. Krysty, try and keep his hands out of the way. Best we can do.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”
She had three of the brighter sec men standing ready to help with swabs, cloth and water.
Behind them, a door opened and Straub entered, closely followed by Countess Katya Beausoleil, who gestured to Mildred to ignore her and get on with the operation.
“WOULD YOU LIKE LIQUOR to help take away the pain, Dr. Wyeth?” asked Katya.
“No. He’s out cold. Probably come around, but I’m hoping it’ll be quick.”
Straub leaned forward, dark eyes fixed on Mildred. “I can use my silver disk and it will be easy.”
She hesitated, knowing that the bald man spoke the truth. “No,” she said. “Have to bring him around and that’ll mean a lot of pain. Damned thing’s about ready to burst as it is. I’m starting right now.”
Ryan watched, unmoving, as she picked up one of the shorter, broad blades, bringing it close to Doc’s wrinkled, taut stomach. He was holding the old man’s head, tight in both hands, braced against any movement. At the far end of the whitewood table, the Armorer was leaning on his feet. Krysty was sprawled across his chest, both his hands held firmly in hers.
Doc seemed to be deeply unconscious, though his eyelids flickered and his lips were moving silently.
“Swab the blood, Jak,” Mildred said as she made the first straight, deep cut. “Could do with clamps to hold the sides back. Have to do what I can.”
It was amazingly fast. Ryan checked his chron as Mildred started the first incision. She made further cuts, then reached in to hold the gash while Jak went in, doing what he’d been told by her. He used the longest, thinnest flensing blade, cutting through something that gleamed a yellowish white, holding it up triumphantly in his right hand.
Then Mildred was suddenly busier than a one-legged man in a forest fire, sewing and swabbing the gushing tide of crimson that flowed from the wound, Jak at her elbow, following her hissed instructions.