The technician, her face still with disapproval, moved to release the monitor cuff. Over her shoulder, Malemayn gave Tatian a speaking look; responding to that appeal, the off-worlder said,
“Look, she said you need to rest, Warreven. Let me take you home.”
“I can stay and look after Haliday,” Malemayn said. “I’ll get the doctor’s name from Mir Tatian, talk to the doctors here, see what—if anything, you don’t know anything’s wrong, Raven—see what needs to be done.”
Warreven turned 3er back to them all, shrugged off the torn tunic. The end of the bandage was just visible where it crossed 3er hipbone and vanished beneath the waistband of 3er trousers. There was blood on them, a little darker than the fabric itself. The technician made a clucking noise, half sympathy, half embarrassment, and reached for the clean shirt, deftly easing it up over 3er arms and shoulders. “Thanks,” Warreven said. “Sorry—”
The woman waved away the apology and turned back to her machines.
Tatian looked from 3im to Malemayn, frowning. He didn’t like the position the other advocate was putting him in, the tacit invitation to side with him against Warreven, to brush away Warreven’s real fears. “I think Warreven’s right, Mir Malemayn. No reflection on the staff here, but Mir Haliday is a herm, and our doctor has more experience treating them.”
Malemayn’s mouth twisted, but then he had himself under control. “I agree that a second opinion would be a good thing—”
“The doctor’s name is Jaans,” Warreven said. Ȝe jammed 3er feet into 3er shoes.
“Jaans Oddyny,” Tatian said, and reached into his pocket for the thin disk. “These are her codes.”
Malemayn took it, and Warreven said, “Give me your word, Mal, that you’ll call her.”
“I’ll call her,” Malemayn said grimly. “I promise, Warreven.”
Warreven sighed, and relaxed slightly. Tatian said, “Let me take you home. Can you walk, or do you want a floater?”
“I can walk,” Warreven began, and the technician shook her head.
“I’ve called for a wheelchair.”
The chair, when it came, was exactly what she had called it, a chair with wheels instead of legs. Tatian walked beside it to the entrance and bribed a waiting faitou to bring the rover around to the entrance. Warreven got 3imself into the passenger compartment without much help and leaned back cautiously against the padding.
“Do you know how to get to my place from here?”
“I’m assuming you can tell me,” Tatian answered, and Warreven nodded. Tatian looked sideways at 3im, thin face outlined in the light from the hospital entrance, and was privately less sure. Ȝe roused 3imself enough to give directions, however, and guided him competently enough through the maze of narrow streets that lay between the Terminus and Blind Point. Tatian wedged the rover up against the side of the building, leaving enough room for a shay to squeeze past, if its side wheels bumped up onto the opposite walkway, and came around the rover’s nose to help Warreven climb out of the low-slung compartment. The indigene was already out, leaning against the rover’s roof. Ȝe saw Tatian looking, straightened painfully, and led the way down the narrow passage between the buildings. Tatian followed closely, grateful for the first pale light of dawn, wondering if he should offer his hand, but Warreven seemed determined to make it on 3er own. Ȝe stumbled once, halfway up the stairs, and Tatian steadied 3im, bracing himself to offer whatever help the other would accept, but then 3e rallied and climbed the last half dozen steps without help. Ȝe fumbled with the key for a few moments, bending close to the lock, but then the door opened and Tatian followed 3im inside.
As the lights came on, he looked around with unabashed curiosity. There wasn’t much furniture—a carved, heavy-looking bench padded with bright cushions, a cast ceramic stool painted to look like a drum, a length of polished wood propped on glass bricks that served as a table, more cushions piled on the floor beside the bench, media center wedged into a corner—but one short wall was lined with storage shelves filled with stacked disks and hardcopy. A cheap reader lay on the floor in front of the media center, and there was another on the floor beside the bench, a crumpled tunic half covering it.
“God and the spirits, I want a bath,” Warreven said.
“You sure?” He looked sideways, winced at the rush of static that blurred his vision, looked at the media center instead. The time display was dark; he said instead, “It’s almost dawn.”
“I know,” Warreven said. “But I’ll be glad I did later.”
Ȝe disappeared down a short hallway. After a moment, Tatian followed, not fully certain he’d been invited, but very certain the other shouldn’t be left on 3er own. The hall led to a dark bed- room, the piled quilts of the bed just visible in the rising light, and the bathroom and kitchen opened to either side. Water was running in the bathroom, and he tapped on the half-closed door.
“Need a hand with anything?”
The door opened at his touch, and Warreven looked out at him. “Actually, yes, if you don’t mind. I’m really sore.”
“I don’t mind,” Tatian said, and stepped into the sudden warmth. The tub was enormous, nearly long enough for him to lie with arms outstretched, and deep, the edges rising well above his knees. Both taps were turned full on, and the air was thick with steam.
“It’s the shirt,” Warreven said. “I can’t get it off.” Ȝe had loosened the neck, and Tatian stepped forward, lifted it carefully off over 3er head. Warreven murmured a thank you, turning 3er back to step awkwardly out of 3er trousers. Ȝe lowered 3imself into the steaming water, leaned back stiffly to hold 3er head under the still-running tap. At that angle, 3er body was fully exposed, bruises dark on 3er ribs and one thigh; the synthiskin bandage ran from 3er left collarbone all the way to 3er right hip, slicing across the shallow curve of one breast, ended in a broader patch of synthiskin that covered the hipbone and a deeper cut. He was on Warreven’s blind side, a third of 3er face covered by the lump of dark bandage, and he suspected they were both glad of the illusion of privacy. Warreven shifted then, penis bobbing in the moving water, started to reach over 3er head, and stopped, muttering a curse.
“Could you—” Ȝe stopped, though whether it was embarrassment or pain Tatian couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter; 3e looked miserable, the bruises on 3er face and shoulders and across 3er unexpectedly muscled stomach darkening rapidly, and Tatian took a step forward.
“What do you need?”
“My hair,” Warreven said. “I need—I want to wash my hair, and I can’t.”
Tatian lifted an eyebrow—it didn’t seem like a good idea—but on second thought it was probably better not to argue with 3im. “No problem,” he said, shoving his sleeves back above his elbow, and knelt cautiously beside the tub. A squat pottery jar stood on the tiles in the corner, and he loosened its stiff lid. It was filled with a pale green cream that smelled strongly of catseyes and, more faintly, of witches’-broom. Tatian eyed it warily—would even Harans put hallucinogens into soap?—and said, “Is this it?”
“Yes.” Warreven seemed to have learned better than to nod. Ȝe leaned back again, bending from the hips only, dipping 3er head into the stream of water from the tap. Tatian suppressed the desire to look for a pair of gloves—the witches’-broom was topically active—and dipped two fingers gingerly into the jar. The musky smell of the catseyes made him sneeze; Warreven blinked and shifted so that he could reach 3er hair.
“What happened to your chest?” Tatian asked, and smeared the cream onto 3er hair. His fingers were tingling already, but he told himself that was purely psychological.
Warreven looked embarrassed again. “A rana with a cargo hook,” 3e said, after a moment.