The man whose pistol Iven had broken needed two fingers removed.
Sera told him before she began. She showed him the damaged tissue, explained what she could preserve and waited until he had understood enough to choose. He was frightened, angry and still capable of trying to blame the person who had stopped him from firing.
Sera heard him out.
“Your hand is injured,” she said. “That is what we’re treating. Jora will hear the rest.”
Jora sat outside the little field screen while the procedure went on. She had divided the prisoners between two sound chambers near the western air shaft, with the injured separated so no one could use another person’s wound to start a fight. Hesh had sent a runner for the neighboring workers already due at West Mouth. They would help bring the prisoners out to the settlement, where a proper escort could be requested from Riven Gate.
It would take days.
The existence of a road did not make every official at its far end present.
Iven helped hold the light, then left when Sera had enough hands. His shoulder was sore from the fight but worked. The night’s food and rest had restored part of his reserve. He had no intention of spending the morning at maximum output merely because everyone now knew he could.
