hand back into her own lap and turned away to watch the city sweeping past.
* * *
The alarm jarred Zahra from the deepest cycle of sleep, and she was dressed and on her way to the clinic almost before she knew she was awake. She trailed one hand against the wall for balance, mindful of the little sculptures, not wanting to stumble in the half-dark.
She and Ishi, with Lili and Asa, had returned late from Kalen’s, all of them yawning as they were driven down the dark avenue. Now the moons had risen. The streets outside were brighter than her dim corridor.
She made her way quickly down the back staircase, stopping to veil just before going into the clinic. As she stepped into the surgery, she saw Diya hunched on the stool, his back turned to the dividing screen, his face buried in his hands.
“Diya?” Zahra said. “Is it so bad?”
He straightened his shoulders and dropped his hands, but he wouldn’t turn. She pressed her lips together and went around the screen to see what awaited her there.
It was not so serious, perhaps, but it was messy. A young man lay on the exam bed, clutching a ragged cloth around his head and face. The rag was scarlet with his blood, and vivid spatters marked the white linen beneath him. A trail of droplets led from the dispensary, and his fingernails were outlined in rust, fresh blood still slipping over his hands. It was no wonder Diya had turned away in revulsion. Head wounds could be upsetting, even to those less tolerant than Diya.
Zahra bent over the man. “Kir? I’m the medicant. Can you tell me what happened?" Gently, she loosened his fingers and began to peel the soaked rag away from his face.
He let go of the bloody cloth all at once, and it fell in a sodden mess to the floor. Zahra winced at the sight of him. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, and something had split the skin of his skull so that a jagged flap of skin and hair hung loose over his brow. It was this that bled so profusely, but his face was also lacerated, a long deep cut from cheek to chin. None of it looked life-threatening, but she wished Diya would help her. Asa would have. She would have to call Lili. She didn’t have enough hands to put all of this back together.
“I want to help you, Zahra.”
Zahra spun about. Ishi had come in behind her on silent small feet. She was veiled, rill open but verge buttoned, ready, as if she had done such a thing a dozen times.
“Ishi!” Zahra exclaimed. “I don’t think—”
She was interrupted by a sound from the injured man, and she glanced down at him. With his own soiled hands, moaning, he was trying to push the flap of his torn scalp back into place. A fresh gout of blood trickled down his face and he gagged.
“No, no, kir,” Zahra said quickly. “I’m going to do all of that for you, please lie still.”
She cast a quick glance at Ishi. The girl looked intent and concerned, but more interested than frightened. Zahra didn’t want her patient to lose any more blood. She decided quickly.
“Ishi,” she said, “you’re a blessing straight from the Maker. Hand me the master syrinx, all right?” She reached beneath the bed for a pair of sterile gloves. “Then sponges and a basin, and when this is cleaned up a bit, the surgical dome.”
Ishi put the master syrinx in her hand, then ducked under its long tube and went to the cupboard. Zahra spoke to the medicator, ordering pain medication and a sedative. She could worry later about what had happened—indeed, she could guess. He would not be the first young man to end Doma Day in a fight.
She glanced over her shoulder at the open door to the waiting room. No doubt one of his friends had swallowed his aversion long enough to bring him here, and now cowered in the dispensary, waiting for the medicant to make everything tidy again. There must be others involved. She hoped no one was hurt worse than her own patient.
Zahra sponged the wounds clean with her right hand, using her left to keep
* * *
The alarm jarred Zahra from the deepest cycle of sleep, and she was dressed and on her way to the clinic almost before she knew she was awake. She trailed one hand against the wall for balance, mindful of the little sculptures, not wanting to stumble in the half-dark.
She and Ishi, with Lili and Asa, had returned late from Kalen’s, all of them yawning as they were driven down the dark avenue. Now the moons had risen. The streets outside were brighter than her dim corridor.
She made her way quickly down the back staircase, stopping to veil just before going into the clinic. As she stepped into the surgery, she saw Diya hunched on the stool, his back turned to the dividing screen, his face buried in his hands.
“Diya?” Zahra said. “Is it so bad?”
He straightened his shoulders and dropped his hands, but he wouldn’t turn. She pressed her lips together and went around the screen to see what awaited her there.
It was not so serious, perhaps, but it was messy. A young man lay on the exam bed, clutching a ragged cloth around his head and face. The rag was scarlet with his blood, and vivid spatters marked the white linen beneath him. A trail of droplets led from the dispensary, and his fingernails were outlined in rust, fresh blood still slipping over his hands. It was no wonder Diya had turned away in revulsion. Head wounds could be upsetting, even to those less tolerant than Diya.
Zahra bent over the man. “Kir? I’m the medicant. Can you tell me what happened?" Gently, she loosened his fingers and began to peel the soaked rag away from his face.
He let go of the bloody cloth all at once, and it fell in a sodden mess to the floor. Zahra winced at the sight of him. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, and something had split the skin of his skull so that a jagged flap of skin and hair hung loose over his brow. It was this that bled so profusely, but his face was also lacerated, a long deep cut from cheek to chin. None of it looked life-threatening, but she wished Diya would help her. Asa would have. She would have to call Lili. She didn’t have enough hands to put all of this back together.
“I want to help you, Zahra.”
Zahra spun about. Ishi had come in behind her on silent small feet. She was veiled, rill open but verge buttoned, ready, as if she had done such a thing a dozen times.
“Ishi!” Zahra exclaimed. “I don’t think—”
She was interrupted by a sound from the injured man, and she glanced down at him. With his own soiled hands, moaning, he was trying to push the flap of his torn scalp back into place. A fresh gout of blood trickled down his face and he gagged.
“No, no, kir,” Zahra said quickly. “I’m going to do all of that for you, please lie still.”
She cast a quick glance at Ishi. The girl looked intent and concerned, but more interested than frightened. Zahra didn’t want her patient to lose any more blood. She decided quickly.
“Ishi,” she said, “you’re a blessing straight from the Maker. Hand me the master syrinx, all right?” She reached beneath the bed for a pair of sterile gloves. “Then sponges and a basin, and when this is cleaned up a bit, the surgical dome.”
Ishi put the master syrinx in her hand, then ducked under its long tube and went to the cupboard. Zahra spoke to the medicator, ordering pain medication and a sedative. She could worry later about what had happened—indeed, she could guess. He would not be the first young man to end Doma Day in a fight.
She glanced over her shoulder at the open door to the waiting room. No doubt one of his friends had swallowed his aversion long enough to bring him here, and now cowered in the dispensary, waiting for the medicant to make everything tidy again. There must be others involved. She hoped no one was hurt worse than her own patient.
Zahra sponged the wounds clean with her right hand, using her left to keep
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