Plague of Memory Read Online Free Page A

Instead, we had used bone, nerve, ligament, muscle, and dermal grafts grown from Knofki's own cells to fashion him five new toes. I had offered to perform the delicate surgery to attach the new toes, but the Senior Healer had elected to do it himself. I had the impression that he didn't yet trust me enough to let me use the equipment in the surgical suite.
    "Have you felt any pain or lack of sensation?" Squilyp asked the boy as he inspected the foot. "No, Senior Healer." Knofki tried to remain still. "It only itches."
    "Bring some dermal emollient," I told the nurse. I took the boy's foot in my hand and tested each toe. "He heals well. We should splint the foot and permit him to try walking on it." I noted the boy's delighted grin. More was itching than his foot, I imagined. Had I been ten years old, I would not have wished to spend every waking hour in a berth and endure being prodded and poked by healers and nurses.
    "I disagree," the Omorr said. "It has only been two weeks since the attachment surgery. Too much weight on the foot could cause the internal tissues to tear."
    "Not if it is properly bandaged and supported," I said. "His circulation will not further improve without proper exercise."
    Squilyp appeared ready to argue the point, and then he looked down at the boy. "If I permit you to walk about, will you promise to restrain your exuberance and follow instructions on how you are to distribute your weight and use the walking supports?"
    Knofki's grin only widened. "Yes, I vow I will, Senior Healer."
    "Very well, then." He patted the child's shoulder. "We will have you up and about after your morning meal."
    The next two patients had also improved; one enough to be discharged and returned to limited duty. Squilyp hopped over to Dapvea Adan's empty berth and glared back at me. "You provided the means for him to self-terminate? Without my permission?"
    "I relocated his berth." I indicated a room, which was generally used for those requiring very close monitoring. "I had thought he might need the space and time to be private and make peace with his deity." Daevena knew these people never gave anyone much solitude.
    "Has a nurse been monitoring him?" Squilyp hopped past me and quickly entered the room. I followed, and found him hovering next to Dapvea Adan's berth, checking his vitals.
    "Greetings, ClanSon Adan," I said. The Jorenian opened his white eyes and nodded. "Has my Speaker arrived?"
    I still did not know what a Speaker was, but no one new was present in Medical, so I assumed not and shook my head.
    "It is time," he said, closing his eyes. "Summon her."
    "I must first compose the signal to send to your HouseClan on Joren," Squilyp said. "It is difficult to find words to describe your condition. Were I to call you a coward, they might declare me ClanKill on the spot."
    ClanKill? These ensleg actually killed something other than the taste of food? I looked at the Omorr with new interest.
    "My Speaker shall inform my ClanUncle of my decision," Dapvea told him. "I am not a coward."
    "Surely no," I said, stepping up to the other side of the berth. "It takes great courage to face one's death. I should know. I am told that I have died at least four or five times."
    Squilyp glared at me. "Your sixth may arrive sooner than you think."
    I thought of flashing a dagger. "Death never forgets a promise." I glanced down at Dapvea, who watched us with an appalled fascination. "Jorenian, if you wish to end your life, so be it. As you have no mate—"
    "I have a bondmate. She is on Joren," he said, his expression turning sad. "My Speaker will relay my wishes to her."
    "I see. Well, then, it is not as if you have children—" I stopped when I saw his black eyebrows draw together in the center. "Forgive me. You also have children?"
    "Five." He gestured toward the empty half of the berth. "I will not have my ClanSons and Clan-Daughters seeing me reduced to this—this half of what I was."
    "Ah, so you wish to die rather than shame