Terminal World (71 page)

‘As far as the city lets me,’ Meroka said. ‘That’s my promise to you.’

‘The same goes for me,’ Quillon added.

‘As our doctor?’ Nimcha asked.

‘As your friend.’ He paused and added, ‘And doctor, of course. You don’t get away from my medical services
that
easily. Speaking of which, we really should be on our way to see Curtana and the others.’

‘Do you think she’ll be all right?’ Nimcha asked.

‘I expect so,’ he said.

But there was a tightening knot of trepidation in his chest as he answered.

An entire floor had been given over to the sick and wounded, with the patients spread throughout several rooms. Quillon collected his medical bag at the door to the largest, where it had been placed on a table waiting for him. The news was both better and worse than he had been expecting. Worse, because there were many more men and women who had received injuries of varying severity when the fires took
Painted Lady.
Better, because Agraffe’s wounds were superficial, and better still because Curtana was not as badly burned as he had feared. They had placed her in a small room adjoining one of the larger rooms, a windowless chamber with a paper lantern hanging from the ceiling and elegant lacquerwork designs on the walls. Agraffe was there already, his hands bandaged, his cheekbones sooty, his eyebrows and downy effort at a beard singed, but otherwise unhurt.

‘How are you?’ Quillon asked, casting a critical eye over Agraffe’s dressings.

‘Burned my hands climbing down one of the ladders, but other than that I got off pretty lightly.’ He looked down at the white-bandaged balls at the ends of his wrists. ‘There are people here who know basic medicine - I think they’ve been looking after Tulwar’s militia. They think I’ll keep the use of my hands, although I have a feeling I’ll probably need grafts.’ Agraffe managed a philosophical smile. ‘Whether anyone can perform grafts now is something I’d rather not think about.’

‘I’m sure we’ll find a way.’

Curtana had not been quite so fortunate. Quillon imagined her staying on the gondola until the bitter end, until there wasn’t a medical crate left to unload.

‘She wouldn’t leave,’ Agraffe said. ‘Not until the last of the supplies were unloaded. By then half the gondola was on fire and the flame-retardant on the envelope was dripping off like hot wax. There were dead airmen on the floor, citizens and airmen screaming from their injuries. One of the connecting bulkheads jammed shut when the airship re-settled. In the confusion we lost contact with each other. I got out thinking I was the last one alive. I didn’t realise she was still aboard.’ He shook his head in regret and frustration. ‘If I’d known—’

‘There’s no sense in thinking like that. You both stayed aboard long after I did. As far as I’m concerned, neither of you has anything to prove about your courage, least of all to me.’

‘Do you think she’ll be all right? They haven’t told me much.’ Quillon appraised the unconscious form of the airship captain. ‘Has she woken?’

‘She was awake when they brought her here but they gave her something to put her under. She said she didn’t need anything, but I knew she was in pain.’

Her right arm was bandaged from hand to elbow, her left to the shoulder. Another bandage encircled her head, covering her ears and forehead. Her hair spilled messily over the dressing. She breathed shallowly, lying on her side with her face turned away from her visitors. ‘Is that the extent of her wounds?’ Quillon asked quietly.

‘I think so.’

Quillon set his medical bag by the side of the bed, opened it and sifted through the compartments for a pair of tweezers. Without waking Curtana - whatever they had given her had put her into deep unconsciousness - he began to undo the dressing on her left arm, peeling back the bandage to inspect the skin underneath. It was raw, but he did not think the burn had reached deeper than the surface tissue layers. Suspending judgement until he had examined the rest of her, he removed the dressing and applied a sterile salve from his bag. Then he called for a fresh bandage and wrapped the arm again. He repeated the procedure for the other arm. There were patches where the burn was more serious, but nothing that he considered life-threatening. There would be scarring, certainly, but he did not think grafts were warranted. He applied the salve, redid the dressing and began cautiously to examine her head wounds, breathing a private sigh of relief as he saw that the burns were not serious.

‘She’ll be all right,’ he said in a near-whisper. ‘I don’t doubt that she was in pain, but she was also exhausted to the point of collapse from commanding the ship. If they gave her something to keep her asleep, they did well.’

Curtana stirred and murmured something. For a moment he thought she was returning to consciousness; but the moment passed and she subsided into restful silence.

‘Thank you,’ Agraffe said, attempting to clasp his bandaged hands together in his lap.

‘You say most of the medicine was saved?’

‘All but a couple of crates that caught fire or smashed. The rest, as far as I know, made it here intact. We’ll need to run a proper inventory, of course, and make sure we’ve got enough clean water for the dilution. Have you spoken to Tulwar about the distribution programme?’

‘That and the, um, other matter.’

‘He speaks of Nimcha,’ Kalis said, still standing by the door with her daughter in front of her.

‘How did Tulwar take it?’

‘Surprisingly well, all things considered,’ said Quillon. ‘He needed less persuasion than I’d expected. The medicines will be distributed fairly, with the advance supplies going to militia. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I see no alternative. If the militia can hold back the angels in what used to be Neon Heights, we can get Nimcha into the tunnels.’

‘And Tulwar understands what’ll happen then?’

‘I’ve told him what she can do,’ Quillon answered. ‘I’ll leave it to him to work through the consequences. If all goes well, we may leave as early as tomorrow. I pushed for it to happen sooner, but Tulwar wasn’t having it.’

‘I’m sure you did your best. Any news on
Iron Prominent
, or the rest of Swarm?’

‘Not since we landed.’

‘Most of the ships don’t have medicine, so there’s no sense throwing them against the Skullboys, or risking a high-altitude approach. The others won’t come in until the ground resistance has been at least partially neutralised - and that’s not going to happen tonight.’

‘Wouldn’t night give them a practical advantage?’ Quillon asked.

‘In some respects,’ Agraffe said, ‘but not in others. You’ve seen how much trouble we had hitting those ground targets even when the sun was up. At night, it’ll be harder still. The Skullboys won’t be able to go ballooning so easily, but they’ll still have their artillery positions and rockets. And as the ground cools, we’ll lose even more lift. There’s only so much ballast you can throw out. Anyway, it’s not as if Ricasso’s going to bring all the ships in anyway, not while there’s a dead zone around Spearpoint. That would be the end of Swarm, and I don’t think even he’s prepared to go that far.’

‘Perhaps it’s time for Swarm and Spearpoint to reunite.’

‘Reunion doesn’t have to involve throwing away perfectly good ships, Doctor.’

‘Perhaps it won’t come to that. If Nimcha can put the zones back the way they were ...’ Quillon trailed off, weariness washing over him. He clapped his hands and made an effort to sound energised. ‘Now: to more immediate matters. I’d like to look at your dressings, if you’ll let me. Afterwards I’ll do what I can for the other men. And then, I think, I shall take Tulwar up on his invitation to be fed. You could probably use something to eat yourself, Agraffe. My recollection is that you were on duty for just as long as Curtana, and I didn’t see you taking any rest either.’

Agraffe held up the useless white mittens of his bandaged hands. ‘Eating’s going to pose some difficulties, I’m afraid.’

‘Not while you’re amongst friends,’ Quillon said.

 

It was close to midnight when Quillon decided that he had done all he could for the injured airmen; that while the survival of some might still be in jeopardy, nothing he could do now would make any tangible difference to the outcome. He packed his tools and medicines back into his bag, hands numb from overwork, eyes blurring with tiredness, and - although he lacked any great appetite - forced himself to join Meroka, Kalis, Agraffe and the others in the room that had been set aside for dining. It must have been over Tulwar’s quarters, for repetitious, steam-driven music could occasionally be heard rising through the floor. The candlelit meal was a banquet compared to anything he had lately experienced aboard
Painted Lady,
the food - despite the prevailing hardships - prepared to a surprisingly high standard. It was perhaps best that the diners did not enquire too deeply into the nature and origin of the various heavily salted meats, or quiz the bathhouse cooks on how long those meats had been left to cure. The main thing was it all tasted good. Quillon nibbled for appearance’s sake, washing down what little he consumed with pungent, purple-tinged wine. Nimcha, he learned, was already asleep, doubtless dreaming of things no one around the table could easily imagine. Meroka had washed, but he could still make out the dark margin around her eyes where she had been wearing goggles in the gun turret. Kalis was helping Agraffe with his food, cutting it for him and lifting it to his lips with a pearl-handled fork. The other airmen - there were no militia or civilians present - were caught between the euphoria of having made it to Spearpoint, and doleful reflection on the terrible price that had been paid by so many of their comrades. Everyone around the table knew they were fortunate to have made it this far; that, irrespective of whatever happened now, they had done something good and lasting for the city. Nothing could take that deed from them. But they were also fully aware that the main bulk of Swarm had yet to complete the crossing, and that there would be a similarly heavy toll on them.

At last the tired comrades began making excuses and left for the rooms that had been allocated to them. Meroka said she was going to check on Curtana before retiring. Quillon remained seated, until he was alone with Kalis.

‘You wonder what I really think about my daughter,’ she said, as Quillon sipped at the acrid remnants of the purple wine. ‘Whether I can really love her, when I know what must be done.’

He shifted in his seat, finding a more comfortable position now that he did not need to worry about people seeing the bulges of his wing-buds.

‘I’ve never doubted your love for her. Not once. Not for a moment.’

‘I do not know what will happen to her.’

‘No, but you’ve always known what would happen if she wasn’t allowed to come here. Those bad dreams and convulsions wouldn’t have gone away with time. They’d have become worse and worse, and eventually my medicines wouldn’t have been able to stop them. She’d have died, Kalis - but not before enduring a great deal of suffering. You’ve done the only possible thing a mother can, which is to care for your daughter. Bringing her to Spearpoint was the only choice open to you. And now you have no choice but to finish the journey, come what may.’

‘What if the city does something to her?’

He reached across the table to lay his hand on hers. ‘It already has. But I meant what I said to Tulwar. The city needs her badly, which is why it’s been calling her closer. But for that very same reason, the last thing it’s going to do is hurt her now that she’s arrived.’

‘You want to make me feel better, but at the same time you do not wish to lie. Yet the truth is you have no idea what will happen.’

‘I don’t,’ Quillon said, sighing. ‘But I can always hope for the best. I think that’s all any of us can do.’

‘You will come with us, if we leave tomorrow?’

‘As far as I’m able. Until the city won’t let me go any further. You have my word.’

‘Thank you.’ She raised her head to look hard into his eyes. ‘You are a good man, Doctor. You must never forget this.’

‘Other men would have done just as much as me.’

‘But there were no other men. There was only you, and your bag of medicines. You saved us, when you could have walked on. Then you made Swarm save this city.’

‘Not yet,’ he cautioned. ‘There’s still work to be done. No matter what happens tomorrow.’

‘But the work has begun,’ Kalis said. ‘That is all that matters now.’

 

Quillon rose at dawn, feeling better for having slept, but still with a burden of tiredness that the rest had not alleviated. His wing-buds itched, as if there was some vigorous new phase of growth going on inside them. When he had washed and dressed he went out onto one of the bathhouse’s balconies and stood with his hands resting on the flaking paint of the wooden railing. He had scrounged a cigarette from one of Tulwar’s men and now smoked it gratefully.

At some point overnight it had rained, washing away the worst of the city smells that had dogged the district the night before. The air was cool and invigorating on his skin, perfumed with the faintest hint of woodsmoke. It was a bright, clear day, ideal for ballooning. The balcony faced outwards from Spearpoint, and by some stroke of fortune it also afforded him a view of the fleet. Swarm lay massing on the horizon. Even with the improved acuity of his eyes he could not identify the individual ships, or tell if their engines were still running. The best he could do was make out a dense knot of craft that he felt sure contained
Purple Emperor
somewhere near its heart. He thought of Ricasso somewhere in that congregation of airships and wished him luck. They would all need it.

‘You frosty, Cutter?’ Meroka asked, by way of greeting.

‘Frosty as in ... ?’

‘Alert. Awake. Ready and able to deal with whatever shit the day’s got in store in for us.’

‘In that case, I’m frosty.’