Peshawar Lancers by S. M. Stirling

Author:S. M. Stirling [Stirling, S. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Great Britain, Historical, Russia, International Relations, Alternate Histories (Fiction)
ISBN: 9780451458735
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2003-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Well, here I am, dealing with an unlicensed doctor and hiding from evil conspirators in a safe house. In a book, this would be romantic, instead of nerve-wracking, King thought, as Elias showed him through the door to Warburton’s room.

The doctor Elias had procured was of a type who could be absolutely relied on to give care of a reasonable quality and to say nothing whatsoever about his patients to anybody. Conrad McAndrews was from the Viceroyalty of the Cape; about one-half Kapenaar, the other half a mixture of Zulu and Cape Malay, and all three showed in his accent, at once clipped, guttural, and singsong. He had worked as an apothecary’s apprentice in Durban, then stowed away on a ship—worked as a stoker when found out—bound for other parts of the Empire, where ancestry didn’t play such a part in determining a man’s destiny. Somehow he’d scrambled his way to an MD from the University of Columbo, which was not usually accounted among the best of the Empire’s medical schools. The adventures which had resulted in the revoking of his license had also given him an air of lantern-jawed silence which did not invite either conversation or confidences.

“My fee will be fifty rupees per visit. In advance,” the doctor said.

The Jew paid from a roll of Imperial Bank of India notes tucked into one sleeve of his striped robe. Then and only then did the doctor look at the man in the bed.

“Hmmmp. Injuries?”

“Bruises, cuts, a blow to the head,” King answered crisply. “There seems to be some fever.”

The doctor shook his head, shone a light into Warburton’s eyes, investigated the contusions and cuts, took his temperature with a long glass thermometer. King helped the injured man move; Warburton bore the pain well, but there was no denying he wasn’t fit for action yet.

“Whoever did this stitching on the cut running down from the right shoulder blade has a neat hand,” the doctor said dryly. “He seems to be recovering from the blood loss. There’s an infection, but not a bad one; I presume you used iodine? This ointment on that and the other cuts, twice a day. These pills, three times a day—on an empty stomach. There is also a concussion. Headaches? Nausea? Blurred vision?”

Warburton nodded to each, and the doctor made a sound in his throat, with the same air as a mechanic who’d found a cracked ceramic heat exchanger in a gas engine.

“No physical activity or excitement for a week. Bed rest; light diet; plenty of water or juices, broth would be excellent, no coffee, tea, or alcohol. Pay me now for the next visit.”

He turned on his heel and walked out again. Yasmini threw back the scarf she’d been wearing over her hair and held across her face as if in modesty—something credible enough in Old Delhi. Elias seated himself on a cushion, perching like an ancient, highly intelligent, and benevolent vulture.

“So. With his True Dreamer gone, is this Ignatieff a threat?”

“Yes,” Warburton said, and Yasmini nodded emphatically.

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