Walegrin could understand the sudden death that came on the edge of a weapon but he had no tolerance for the simpler sorts of dying that claimed ordinary mortals.
He watched, and was faintly curious, as Masha took a glass hom from her kit and, with the solid stem of it to her ear and its open bell against the girl’s skin, performed a swift, but precise, examination.
“Get the torch over here!” she commanded. “She’s still breathing; there’s hope, at least, for the babe.”
None of the men responded. She stood up and grabbed the nearest, the young man who had been crying.
“There’s hope for your child, you fool!” She shook his tunic as she spoke and a glimmer of life returned to his eyes. “Find a basin. Make a fire and boil me some water.”
“I… we have nothing but this.” The young man gestured at the crudely furnished room.
“Well, find a basin… and clean rags while you’re about it.”
The young man looked at Zip, who stared blankly back at him.
“Your fish-eye, Muznut-next door,” Walegrin suggested. “He’ll have all that, won’t he? Even the rags, I imagine.”
Zip’s face twisted unpleasantly for a moment, then, with a sigh, he turned back to the stairway, and the warehouse. The other men followed.
Masha hung her delicate shawl over a huge splinter in one of the wall beams and began unlacing her gown. There was messy work to be done and no sense to ruining her own clothing as well. She tore off the bottom panel of her shift and used one strip to bind her already dripping hair away from her face. With the rest she mopped up as much of the blood as she could and plotted the tasks before her.