Free The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) by Robert V.S. Redick Page B

pillow to Haddismal, then knelt and tore open Chadfallow’s jacket, sending buttons flying. He drew his long white knife, slipped it under the doctor’s shirt, and cut
the fabric from collar to waist. He did the same with each leg of the doctor’s trousers. The doctor’s skin was very pale. His limbs were muscular but the joints looked stiff and
swollen.
    ‘Be gentle with his hands, we need them,’ said Ott to the marines. Then he nodded to Haddismal, who lumbered forward and knelt by the doctor’s head. Using both hands, the
sergeant held the pillow down over Chadfallow’s face, leaning into it with the whole of his bulk. The doctor kicked and thrashed, but the Turachs held him firmly. A muffled howl escaped the
pillow, but it did not carry far.
    Fiffengurt tried to lunge and was brought down with a second blow. The ghosts were backing away. Death, for some reason, could always be counted on to unnerve them.
    Ott pinched the doctor’s skin appraisingly, as a tailor might a jacket he was preparing to trim. Then his knife-hand moved in a blur, and an arc of scarlet appeared on the doctor’s
breast. Chadfallow’s writhing did not change: he was suffocating; the pain of the cut passed unnoticed.
    Ott studied the wound a moment. His hand flicked again. The second cut, three inches lower, was exactly the same shape and length as the first. Rose found himself admiring the man’s
concentration. Two more strokes followed, curling this time, bisecting the lines in a graceful pattern.
    Captain Kurlstaff moved away from his ghostly companions. He flowed through the crowd, through the table, and solidified again by Rose’s chair. ‘You whore’s bastard! Make him
stop! You’re the captain of this ship!’ Rose sat as if turned to stone.
    The doctor’s movements grew erratic. Ott picked up speed, moving from chest to stomach to legs, violating the doctor’s body with the precise but impulsive movements of a painter
surrendering to inspiration. Blood ran in stripes over Chadfallow’s limbs, trickling into the remains of his clothes.
    At last Ott gestured to Haddismal, and the sergeant removed the pillow. Dr Chadfallow was barely conscious. Blood foamed about his lips. He had bitten his tongue.
    ‘In Magad’s name,’ said Sandor Ott.
    Thumping footsteps outside the cabin. Mr Uskins, the disgraced first mate, pushed open the door. He was terribly dishevelled, his hair untrimmed and greasy, his uniform lumpy and stained. He
gaped at the scene before him, then broke into a smile of glee.
    ‘Look at the Imperial Surgeon! How the mighty are fallen, eh, Captain Rose? How the highborn are brought to heel!’
    Fiffengurt was sobbing. Chadfallow moved feebly, leaving smears of blood. Captain Kurlstaff stared at Uskins with vague apprehension. There was a white scarf knotted at his neck.
    Ott cleaned his knife in Chadfallow’s hair, then stood and stretched his back, wincing with pleasure. ‘Spread him out,’ he said.
    The Turachs pulled at Chadfallow’s wrists and ankles until the doctor lay spreadeagled on his back. Unbuttoning his fly, Ott began to urinate on the man, methodically, face to feet and
back again.
    ‘The trust we put in you,’ he said, ‘makes your defection all the more base. It is not only treasonous but hurtful to His Supremacy. It is a crime against – what did you
call it, Doctor? – the soul.’
    The room grew rank. Chadfallow groaned and spat but could not move. Ott paused, chose a new position, began again, soaking the doctor’s wounds and shreds of clothing. When he finished, he
went to the table and gathered the linen napkins and tossed them at the doctor. ‘Clean yourself,’ he said. ‘Rose, I am sorry this occurred in your cabin. Tell the steward to clean
it with vinegar and lye. I believe this concludes our business, gentlemen. Let us hope for favourable winds, and a swift departure for the North.’

 
     
     
     
3
A Leopard Hunt

     
     
     
     
    13 Modobrin 941
     
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