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I drop the sponge on the nearby counter and turn to leave.
“Will you help us?” Numair asks.
I stop and turn toward them. Inara fiddles with the collar of her kaftan, her breaths shorter than they usually are, and even Numair can’t stop running his hands through his hair that’s already mussed.
“Valdus won’t want me here.”
“It won’t be up to him to decide,” Numair says.
Cries at the end of the hall cut off my answer. When the men finally come through, we stumble out of their way. Valdus’s face is a mask of pain as rebels lower him on the table. His shirt is dark crimson, blood seeping through a drenched towel where Joao presses it against his wound.
Kyle limps into the room with a small metal case in his hands and passes it to Lara. She pops it open and takes out tools—sharp even to look at—and arranges them in a neat line.
Priya puts her hands on Valdus’s shoulders, trying to hold him down, but in vain. As another wave of pain hits, Valdus arches his back, spittle flying through his clenched teeth.
Scissors in her hands, Inara cuts his shirt open, revealing a meager wound spewing too much blood.
“Hold him down,” Inara says.
The men who had carried him take a step back. Numair is the only one to tighten his grip on Valdus’s shoulders.
“Anyone who wants to be elsewhere, leave now,” he growls.
A few rebels stumble out of the room, and I don’t blame them. We all know how strong Valdus is. Since he’s thrashing from pain and agony, he just might kill us all, thinking we’re his enemy.
Priya, Damen, Kyle, Numair, Lara, and I are the only ones left as Inara turns to her set of tools.
“Where are the forceps?”
We all lift our gazes.
“In the case, there should be a pair of forceps,” Inara mutters, picking up the case and looking inside as if she might find something in its emptiness.
Valdus groans. His binding flares. The table sags to fit his frame as if it was a mushy mattress and not hardened metal.
“All right, Inara. They ain’t there,” Numair says. “What do we do now?”
“I’ll have to dig into his wound with my fingers,” she says, tears gathering in her eyes. “It’s going to hurt. A lot.”
“Do we have any other choice?” he asks.
She shakes her head.
“Everyone,” Numair says. “Hold him down. Like your life depends on it.”
We all grip Valdus’s legs and arms as hard as we can, but something tells me it won’t be enough.
“Ready when you are,” Numair says, looking at Inara.
She nods and picks up a scalpel glistening under the candlelight. Valdus’s skin splits under the sharp blade, and blood flows freely down his side. Inara catches it with a piece of gauze, and when she digs her fingers inside the wound, Valdus’s eyes fly open. His mouth thrown agape, a silent scream never leaves his mouth. He arches his back again, thrashing under our efforts to restrain him.
“Maker’s breath,” Inara mutters, pulling her hand out.
Valdus drops back on the table. His breathing becomes ragged, and Inara closes her eyes, lifting her hands as if to press them to her temples, but she must know her palms are slick with blood.
“What?” Numair asks. “What’s wrong?”
“The bullet. It’s too deep. I can’t reach it.”
