Hour of the Octopus by Joel Rosenberg

Author:Joel Rosenberg [Rosenberg, Joel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780441169757
Publisher: Ace
Published: 1994-01-01T07:00:00+00:00

bag contained a skeleton, its bones intact; another contained a skeleton with each bone carefully broken.

They would connect each of my possibly broken bones to the corresponding bones of the skeletons with bright wires that terminated in sharp, painful needles that Narantir would stick into my flesh un-til it touched the bone.

They then would apply the Law of Similarity; like to like. Phlogiston—whatever that was—would flow from unbroken bone to unbroken, or from broken to broken. A few hundred stabs with needles, and they would know just what was and wasn't broken. And I'd be spotted with hun-dreds of tiny sores that would heal indecently slowly. Therapeutic magic is never for the comfort of the patient.

I was surprised when Tebol balanced the beam holding the bags on the spearpoint. It bowed a trifle, then started to slip off until Tebol adjusted the center.

His magician's bag provided a covered ramekin, a clean brush, and a pair of silver scissors; he uncovered the ram-ekin, revealing a dark goo, then dipped the brush and touched it to each of the ten pulse points, first cutting through the clothing over my elbows, armpits, and crotch.

The goo was green and somewhat translucent. I tried to hold my breath against the stench I was certain it gave off, but finally had to breathe in. It really didn't smell bad. The odor was thick and sickly sweet, to be sure, but held over-tones of perook, patchouli, and eucalyptus that would have been very agreeable under other circumstances, and were even kind of pleasant now.

Maybe even a bit of mint?

Tebol muttered a few words I didn't quite catch, and made a gesture with his long, aristocratic fingers that looked more like somebody flicking away a fly than any-thing else. The goo flashed momentarily, painlessly into a silent green flame and the balanced bags pivoted neatly on the spearpoint, one swinging toward me, one away.

"Amazing," Narantir said. "Nothing broken."

"No bones," Tebol corrected, running the little finger of his left hand up the side of my calf. It twitched, as though from palsy. "But there's torn muscle and tendon in here," he said, dipping a finger into an inkpot and touching it lightly to my flesh in two places. "And… here."

Narantir's brow furrowed. "How?"

"Eh?"

"You know. How did you determine that? I see nothing there to resonate with torn muscle or tendon."

Tebol smiled. "Ah. You like it?"

Narantir's mouth twisted. "Please."

Tebol's smile broadened. "I shouldn't, but… since it's you—I cut a tiny bit of muscle and tendon in here," he said, raising his left little finger, "and slid a small piece of squid quill into the cut so that it can't rejoin. It resonates to cut muscle and torn tendon, yes? Like to like, no?"

"And to squid," Narantir said, with a low grumble.

Tebol shrugged. "I don't think that's what we have here." He pulled what looked like a bowstring from his bag. "A simple matter, really," he said, turning back to me. "We substitute a bit of calf tendon for your own, and just let the muscles heal naturally.

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