Free That Game We Played During the War by Carrie Vaughn Page B

Patients had bandages at the end of stumps that had been arms or legs, gauze taped over their heads or wrapped around their chests, broken and splinted limbs. A pair of nurses was on hand, moving from bed to bed, adjusting suspended IV bottles, checking dressings. The situation’s familiarity was calming.
    The nurses looked at her, then glanced at each other, and the loser of that particular silent debate came toward Calla. She waited while the man studied her badge.
    â€œI’m here to see Major Larn,” Calla said carefully, politely, no matter that the nurse would already know. By now, Calla was thinking of nothing else.
    â€œYes,” the nurse said, still startled. “He’s here.”
    â€œHe’s well?” Calla couldn’t help but ask.
    â€œHe will be. He—he will be glad to see you, when he wakes up. But you should let him sleep for now.” Between Calla and Valk, how much was the nurse seeing that couldn’t be put into words?
    â€œOh, yes, of course. May I wait?”
    The nurse nodded and gestured to a stray chair, waiting by the wall for just such a purpose.
    â€œThank you,” Calla said, happy to display her gratitude, though she was afraid this only confused them. They could see that Valk was more important to her than other considerations, even patriotism. They could not see why, because Calla was confused about that herself. Calla fetched the chair and looked for Valk.
    And there he was, in the last bed in the row, a curtain partially pulled around him for privacy. He’d been like this the first time she’d seen him, lying on a thin hospital mattress, well-muscled arms at his sides, his face lined with the worries of a dream. More lines now, perhaps, but he was one of those men who was aging into a rather heart-stopping rough handsomeness. At least she thought so. He would laugh at her thought, then wrinkle his brow and ask her if she was thinking true.
    An IV fed into his arm, a blanket lay pulled over his stomach, but it didn’t completely hide the bandage. He’d had abdominal surgery. Before settling in, she checked the chart hanging on a clipboard at the foot of the bed. She’d never really learned to read Gaantish, but could read medical charts from when she was at Ovorton and they’d put her to work. Injuries: Internal bleeding, repaired. Shrapnel in the gut. He’d been cleaned and patched up, but a touch of septicemia had set in. He was recovering well, but had been restricted to bed rest in the ward, under observation, because past experience showed that he could not be trusted to rest without close supervision. He was under mild sedation to assist in keeping him still. So yes, this was Valk.
    She settled in to wait for him to wake up.
    *   *   *
    â€œCalla. Calla. Hey.”
    She woke at her name, shook dreams and worries away, and opened her eyes to see Valk looking back. He must have been terribly weak—he only turned his head. Didn’t even try to sit up.
    He was smiling. He said something too quickly and softly for her to catch.
    â€œMy Gaantish is rusty, Major.” She was surprised at the relief she felt. In her worst imaginings, he didn’t recognize her.
    â€œI’ll always recognize you,” he said, slowly this time. He switched to Enithi, “I said, this is like the first time I saw you, in a chair near my bed.”
    She felt her own smile dawn. “I wasn’t asleep then. I should know better than to fall asleep around you people.”
    â€œThey tell me the cease-fire is holding. The treaty is done. It must be, if you’re here.”
    â€œThe treaty isn’t done but the peace is holding. My diplomatic pass to see you only took a week to process.”
    â€œSoon we’ll have tourists running back and forth.”
    â€œThen what’ll they do with us?”
    His smile was comforting. It meant the bad old days really were done. If he could hope,