eight
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Hide your weakness, but show your devotion. If you act as a man, you are a man, and nothing deters you from your duty.
—Fifth Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet
“Where’s our Ishi this morning?” Qadir asked. He dipped a slice of Cook’s fresh flatbread into fragrant oil from Irustan’s own olives. “I can’t believe she’s let you out of her sight.”
Zahra smiled at that. It was true. Ishi followed Zahra like her shadow, eating when she ate, working when she worked, mourning when Zahra went out with Qadir. “She takes her apprenticeship seriously,” Zahra said. “Indeed.”
“We had a call last night,” Zahra went on. She was almost too tired to eat, but she poured a second cup of coffee. “I wouldn’t have waked her, but she followed me to the clinic. We were there a long time, so I let her sleep this morning.”
Qadir looked around at the servants. “Asa’s still there?”
“Yes. There was a fight last night, after rites.”
He frowned, wiping his fingers. “Whom did you treat?”
Zahra lifted tired shoulders. “Some miner, young, undoubtedly drunk. I’ll have Asa send a message to his squad this morning, but he’ll be back in the mines tomorrow. I’m worried about the others, and about the women involved.”
“I’ll let you know what I hear about the others,” Qadir said. He signaled, and Diya came forward with his case. “But, Zahra,” Qadir added, “I don’t want any street women coming to this house, not even to the clinic. If I had my way, such women wouldn’t be allowed in the Medah at all.” He stood and reached for his case, checking inside and then snapping it closed. Diya went to the door of the dayroom and opened it, waiting.
“But, Qadir,” Zahra protested. “Where are those women to go if they need help? What are they to do?”
“They’re not your concern,” Qadir said. “1 mean this, Zahra.”
She stood, anger pushing away her fatigue. “Qadir,” she began.
He held up one finger, frowning, and she stopped. She knew Diya was watching them, and she ground her teeth in frustration. Qadir leaned to kiss her cheek. She forced herself not to pull away from his touch. “Zahra, I don’t want Ishi seeing unveiled women. She doesn’t need to know there are such people.”
“You underestimate her,” Zahra said.
“No,” he answered firmly. “I know you feel compassion for them, Zahra, and 1 admire you for it. But not Ishi. No.”
She stood with her napkin dangling from her fingers as he left the room. When Diya turned to close the door, he glanced at her beneath lowered eyelids, and she caught the gleam of triumph that flashed in his eyes. With a wordless exclamation, she threw her napkin on the table, where it fell with infuriating limpness. Lili came in at just that moment.
“What is it, Medicant? Do you need something?”
Zahra was too angry to speak. She shook her head and turned to go to the clinic. Cook was waiting for her in the hall.
“Medicant,” Cook murmured. “One of the women is here. One of the—one of the unveiled ones. I heard what the director said, but she’s hurt. There’s no place for her to go.”
Zahra looked over her shoulder to be certain Lili couldn’t hear. “She’s in the clinic?”
Cook’s round face looked uneasy. “No. The kitchen.”
Zahra bit her lip, thinking. “Do you know what she needs?”
“She’s bruised, and she’s holding one arm in the other. She told us she got knocked down. She came to the service door.”
“All right,” Zahra said quickly. “You go and tell her to wait. I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t tell anyone else! Hide her in the pantry. Let me get this other patient taken care of, and I want Asa to get some rest. I’ll come to you in a moment.”
Cook hurried away, and Zahra went on into the surgery, where she found Asa talking comfortably with young Ohannes. Thank the Maker for Asa, Zahra thought for the hundredth time. Diya would have had nothing to dowith anyone so bandaged and bruised as Ohannes, but here was Asa, leaning comfortably with one hip braced on the edge of the bed, chatting in a low and soothing tone. She remembered at the last moment to button her verge before she came around the bed to look down at her patient.
“How are you feeling, Ohannes?”
His good eye was clear, and the swelling in the other one was already beginning to go down. It would be open by afternoon. “I’m all right, Medicant,” he said. He was shamefaced beneath the wrappings of gauze. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for,” Zahra said absently, checking the monitor, touching the young man’s wrist. “Now Asa is going to let your squad leader know where you are and how you are, and tell him you’ll be back tomorrow, all right?”
“Can’t I go today, Medicant? My squad needs me.”
“No,” Zahra said. “You’ve got a nasty cut on your face, a concussion, and a split scalp.” The young man winced and turned his head away. “Oh, you don’t want to hear about your injuries?” she asked. All at once her fatigue and frustration devoured the last of her patience. “If that’s the case, little brother, I suggest you stay out of fights. And avoid spirits!”
He blushed painfully. He turned his face to her, though he managed to avoid her eyes. “I’m sorry, Medicant,” he said plaintively. “Really. I just want to go back to my team.”
Zahra let out her breath. He was only a boy, after all. In a gentler tone she said, “Of course, Ohannes, I do understand that. Tomorrow. You’ll return to your duties tomorrow.” She checked his bandages with a light finger, and detached the master syrinx from his arm. “Now, Asa will help you to walk about a bit, and I’ll send a light breakfast from the kitchen. Then you have to rest today, and let the medicator help you heal.”
“All right, thanks,” Ohannes muttered. Between them, Zahra and Asa brought him to a sitting position. Asa reached for his cane where it rested against the wall. The young miner saw it, and flinched back from Asa’s hand as if he had been burned. He turned his head to avoid the sight of Asa’s crippled foot.
Asa showed no reaction. With studied calm, he put his hand under the young man’s arm and urged him off the bed. Ohannes complied, but as they left the surgery, he kept his gaze averted.
Zahra bit back another hot remark. It was no use. The miners behaviorwas no different from that of his friend of the night before, or of Diya—or of Qadir.
She called after them. “Asa, call his barracks, please, and speak to the squad leader. I’ll go ask Cook for some soup.”
Asa’s voice was even as he answered. “Of course, Medicant.”
Zahra spilled out a box of sterile gloves and piled supplies into the empty carton—bandages, bottled medicines—curse Qadir, it would be so much easier to treat an injured woman with the medicator! She added a packaged splint, in case the arm was broken. She called one more time. “Then, Asa, you go and get some sleep, all right? Route the phone into your room.”
“Yes.” Asa and Ohannes had made one tour of the dispensary and hall, and were beginning another. Zahra slipped out the door and hurried toward the kitchen, the box hidden under her drape.
The kitchen of the IbSada house was at the opposite end from the clinic. It was wide, high-ceilinged, with beautiful counters tiled in stone. Midmorning light made the fixtures and the polished tiles gleam. Cook was directing her two assistants as they cleaned up the breakfast service and began preparations for lunch. The houseboy sat having his own meal, sipping coffee and chatting with the maids. When he saw Zahra enter, he shot to his feet, but she waved him down.
“Never mind, Marcus,” she said. She raised her eyebrow in question to Cook, who nodded toward the pantry. “Cook, could you put a tray together, broth and bread for a patient? Marcus can take it to the clinic.”
“Of course, Medicant,” the cook answered.
“Excuse me,” Zahra said to the room in general. She crossed the shining floor to the door of the pantry.
The pantry was almost as large as the kitchen itself, with a short stair leading to a storage loft. Every shelf and bin was full. It was unwindowed, kept cool and dim to preserve the fruits and vegetables. The bins of fruit glowed faintly, the deep brown of olives, the purple of grapes still on their stems, yellow and orange citrus. Zahra waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, and then murmured, “Sister? Are you there?”
“Yes,” came the breathy response. “Up here.”
Zahra quickly climbed the five steps leading to the loft. In the back, seated on an upturned basket, the woman waited. She did have a veil, actually, though it was worn ragged. It was unbuttoned, hanging limply from her stained cap. She cradled her left arm in her right, and her face was pale as wax, and damp with perspiration. There were bruises around her mouth and neck. More had happened to her than getting in the way of the fight. “What’s your name, sister?” Zahra knelt beside her.
“It’s Eva,” the woman answered. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“No thanks necessary.”
“But after what happened to your teacher . . .”
“That was a long time ago, Eva. Let’s not think about it.”
The woman sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes.
Zahra saw that the arm was broken indeed. She would have to set it. “Eva, I’ve brought some medicine that will ease the pain, but you’ll have to swallow it. The director forbade me to have you in the surgery. I’m very sorry about that.”
The woman shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. She opened her eyes and managed a grim small smile. “I won’t cry out, I promise you,” she said. “I know it’s broken.”
The woman appeared to be about Zahra’s own age, but so lined and thin she might have been fifteen years older. Zahra patted her shoulder. “I’ll hurt you as little as possible.” She rummaged in her box for the opiate she had brought. She poured out a dose and held it to Eva’s lips, then sat back to wait for it to take effect. “The medicator’s much quicker,” she murmured. “We’ll have to wait a few minutes.”
“That’s all right, Medicant,” the woman said again. Soon her eyelids began to droop and her head wavered.
“Is it helping now?” Zahra asked. She ran her fingers expertly along the forearm, where the ulna and radius were both displaced. She could feel them under the skin, and she knew the pain of fitting them back together would be intense, though brief. “You’ll just have to bear it, sister,” she breathed.
The woman gave a sour chuckle and muttered, “You know, Medicant, I’ll bet I’ve borne worse.”
Zahra met her eyes, saw the bitterness, the resignation there. She had no doubt it was true.
Eva set her jaw and looked away. Zahra put her hands on the arm and pulled.
Not even a groan escaped the woman’s lips. She went utterly white, and then a wave of bright red suffused her thin cheeks.
“You’re brave,” Zahra muttered as she clasped the splint around the arm. It puffed immediately, swelling to make a smooth cylinder to hold the bones in place. “I only wish the miners who come to me had half your courage.”
“But they’re babies,” Eva said through clenched teeth. “And I’m an old woman.”
Zahra smoothed the self-sealing bandages around the splint and then turned to the bruises and abrasions that marked the woman’s head and neck. “You can’t be so old, Eva,” she said as she worked. “I’ll bet you’re no more than thirty-five.”
“Thirty-three, Medicant,” Eva answered. “But I’ve been on the streets since I was fourteen.”
Zahra finished her work and sat back to look into Eva’s bandaged face. “Where do you live, sister?” she asked.
Eva pulled her ragged veil up to try to button it with one hand. Zahra reached to help her.
“You don’t want to come there, Medicant,” Eva said. “In my street, there’s garbage everywhere, and sometimes leptokis run over your feet in the doorways. And there are always miners about, looking for unveiled women.” “I can at least send you some things to help.”
“Medicant,” Eva said carefully. “It’s best you don’t know where I live. You help some of us—it’s why I took the chance of coming—but we don’t want to cause trouble for you.”
Zahra touched the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about the way things are. I wish there were more I could do.”
Eva laughed a little, painfully. “There’s nothing more you can do, Medicant. Unless you change Irustan itself!”
Zahra held out the box. “Take these, at least, to help you heal. They’re clearly marked, if you can read them.”
Eva shook her head. “None of us can read. Who would teach us? We’re born to the street.”
“All right. Listen carefully, then.” One by one, Zahra took the bottles out, and the extra bandages, and explained their use. When she was finished, she helped Eva down the stairs. They paused at the pantry door while Zahra checked the kitchen. Cook was alone. Zahra called to her softly, and Cook hurried to meet them. She and Zahra exchanged places.
Just before she left, Zahra put out her hand to touch Eva’s forehead. “Be well, sister,” she murmured. “Come again if you need me.”
With her good hand, Eva caught Zahra’s, and brought it to her lips, kissing it through the pitiful rag of her veil. Zahra found her eyes filling, and she blinked hard. She didn’t shed tears, she hadn’t in years, and she wasn’t going to start now. But as she walked swiftly away from the kitchen, her throat ached. Eva and her kind were the lost ones, and Zahra could see no way to save them. Frustration made anger of her sorrow.
When she went to check on Ohannes, she was too angry to speak to him. As she adjusted the syrinx on his arm, she let her nails pinch his skin, just a little, and was rewarded with an indignant cry of pain. She did not apologize.