Midnight Harvest (11 page)

“But here is España, not Russia,” said Colonel Senda.

“No; not Russia,” Saint-Germain agreed.

Whatever Colonel Senda had been about to say, it was silenced as Rogerio came back into the room carrying a tray on which stood a very large balloon snifter of fine Austrian crystal, with a pool of cognac in the bottom. “I trust this is to your satisfaction.”

The Colonel took the snifter, gave the contents a swirl, and sniffed deeply at the vapors that rose from the wild-honey—colored liquid. “Very good. Not the best I have had, but very good.” He took a generous swig of the cognac, then sighed with satisfaction. “How much of this do you have?”

Saint-Germain glanced at Rogerio. “A case or two. There is more in Córdoba.”

“A case or two,” the Colonel mused. “Quite an investment for a house where you do not live for years on end.”

“The servants who maintain it cost a great deal more than the cognac,” said Saint-Germain, a sardonic light in his dark eyes.

“Tell me,” said Colonel Senda, “do you think you can influence me with good drink? On such an important matter?” He nodded his dismissal to Rogerio; he stared at the servant as if he wanted to annoy him. “You needn’t listen at the door.”

Rogerio paid no attention to this studied insult, but stepped back from Senda’s chair. “Will there be anything else?” he asked Saint-Germain.

“Not just now, thank you, Rogerio” was his reply. “Perhaps you could look in on us in half-an-hour or so? If I need you before then, I’ll ring.”

“Very good, Comte,” he said, and withdrew.

“He’s very old school, isn’t he?” Colonel Senda said as he took another generous sip of the cognac; he paid no attention to the sudden eruption of gunfire in the street below.

“I suppose so. But then,” Saint-Germain explained, “so am I.”

Colonel Senda laughed immoderately. “Oh, how apt,” he said as his mirth ceased. “You are that, no doubt.” A second volley of shots caught his attention, but he said nothing more.

“And, in my old-school way, I am not yet ready to be coerced into surrendering all control of Eclipse Aeroplano Industrias to you, no matter how much it would please you to have me do it. My corporation is not in violation of any Spanish laws, and I have maintained the company along the recommended governmental lines.” Saint-Germain stood up slowly. “You know my conditions for releasing control of the firm to the army, or any other group.”

“You’ve spelled them out: adaptation for surveillance only, no weapons to be added to the airplanes, or alterations in design that would accommodate the use of weapons,” said Colonel Senda as he swallowed a third mouthful of the cognac. “I am sorry to inform you that I cannot agree to any such limitations as you would impose on the army: my superiors will not allow it. Surely you must know they will not accept any such conditions.”

“Will they not,” said Saint-Germain, walking to the window and opening the louvers of the shutters enough to permit him to look out. He could see a few frightened pedestrians emerging from doorways along the Avenida Fantasma clutching their belongings as they cautiously resumed their progress down the street; there were no autos in sight other than the dozen in the Hotel’s car park, and most of the windows facing the street were still firmly shuttered. “It is a lovely afternoon,” he said, more to himself than the Colonel.

“No, they will not,” said Colonel Senda, belligerently sticking to the previous topic. “You must know it is ridiculous to impose such limitations on the army. Let me reiterate our position: constraints imposed by industry are dangerous just now, and cannot be tolerated. We are on the brink of war in España: why do we want airplanes, but to use them for fighting?”

“Why, indeed,” said Saint-Germain, and was just turning away from the window when the crack of a rifle sounded as the wooden louvers shattered and a bullet ploughed deep into Saint-Germain’s right shoulder. He staggered, dropped to his knees, then fell onto his side; the pain had not hit him yet, only the impact of the wound, as heavy as a blow with a stone. It was an effort to breathe, as if the air itself had become weighty.

Colonel Senda was on his feet, shouting something Saint-Germain could not quite make out. “Your master is shot! A terrible accident! He is shot!” he repeated at the top of his lungs, and came to Saint-Germain’s side, bending over him, not quite touching him. “Where were you hit?”

Saint-Germain blinked as if to clear his thoughts. “Shoulder,” he said at last.

Lips pursed, Colonel Senda got down on one knee. “No blood pumping. Your artery is spared.” He still held the snifter in his right hand, and he emptied the little bit of cognac remaining over the spreading patch of blood on Saint-Germain’s jacket. “You may even live. If you have good care.” He was struggling to his feet when Rogerio rushed into the room, an apron still tied around his waist. “He’s shot in the shoulder: the right one, by the look of it,” the Colonel informed him, then went back to his chair to sit down. “An outrage.”

Rogerio knelt beside Saint-Germain. “My master,” he said in a quiet tone that demanded attention.

“The bullet’s … still…” Saint-Germain muttered; the pain had struck now, and left him breathless in a way the initial shock had not.

“In the wound. I will remove it as soon as I can be rid of the Colonel,” he said in an under-voice in Greek, then spoke up, in Spanish for Senda’s benefit. “I must telephone his physician. If you will excuse me?”

“Will you not take him to hospital?” Colonel Senda inquired as if he were discussing primroses.

“If his physician so orders, of course: to the hospital of his designation,” said Rogerio. “If the streets are safe enough to travel just now.”

“Very well,” said the Colonel. “If you should prefer, I can order my men to transport him to San Gil’s; they will take very good care of him there.” When Rogerio did not seize the opportunity, Senda shrugged. “No? Then I will not linger. I should report this; accidents like this are on the rise, and care must be taken. Random shots are as dangerous as intentional ones, aren’t they?” He put the snifter down and stood up. “I leave you to it. Do let me know how he fares.” With that, he went to the door and let himself out.

As soon as he was gone, Rogerio went back to Saint-Germain and again knelt beside him. “Are you still—”

“I am … conscious,” said Saint-Germain. His voice was thready, and his skin was paler than usual. “How bad is it?”

“I will have to dig out the bullet,” Rogerio said apologetically. “I don’t think it would be wise to go to hospital.”

“I agree,” Saint-Germain managed to say.

“Can you get to your feet?” Rogerio put his hand on Saint-Germain’s wounded shoulder.

“With help,” said Saint-Germain. He prepared to push himself with his good left arm; his whole body felt wobbly.

Rogerio put his arm over Saint-Germain’s back and helped to pull him upright, then shifted his position so he could lever Saint-Germain to his feet, letting his master lean against him as he did. “This is a very bad wound. You should be on your bed.” He spoke levelly, though his faded-blue eyes were filled with trouble.

“Yes,” Saint-Germain said, his head ringing from this simple effort. He swayed, his vision swimming. “It’s deep.”

“Can you feel it?” Rogerio asked as he adjusted his hold on Saint-Germain, wedging his shoulder against Saint-Germain’s chest as he began to guide him out of the room and toward the corridor; as they went, he saw a ribbon of blood following them. He said nothing of this ominous sign, but did his best to make Saint-Germain move a little faster.

“Yes … I’ll let … you know where … it is.” He took an uneven breath and went on. “Use the pansy paste.”

“Will it help?” Rogerio asked, knowing that few analgesics or anesthetics worked on Saint-Germain.

“A little.” He grunted as he almost tripped.

“Colonel Senda said this was an accident,” said Rogerio, doing his best to keep Saint-Germain awake and alert.

“Hardly,” said Saint-Germain. He made an effort not to drag his feet.

“So I thought,” said Rogerio as he guided Saint-Germain into the anteroom to his bedroom. “I am going to remove your jacket and your shirt.” The room was shadowed, being on the north side of the building, and the windows still shuttered against the brightness of the day, and Rogerio made no attempt to change this.

“Carefully,” Saint-Germain admonished him, wanting to sink into the nearest chair and knowing that he must not. “Bed,” he murmured; he needed the annealing presence of his native earth in the chest upon which his bed was made. Sitting on the chest, he could feel the first anodyne touch of his native earth seep into him; stoically he permitted Rogerio to remove his jacket and, more gingerly, his shirt. “Ruined,” he remarked as Rogerio dropped the white silk into the hamper.

“So is the jacket,” said Rogerio.

Now that his skin was exposed, Saint-Germain almost shivered, although he was rarely cold; in a remote part of his mind he knew this was a sign of shock. “Fetch a blanket,” he made himself say, then lay back, allowing Rogerio to pull a blanket from the closet over him as far as his bleeding shoulder. At first this made no difference, but then the combination of the blanket’s warmth and his native earth combined to shield him from the worst of his shock.

Rogerio left Saint-Germain for a short while, going to the makeshift laboratory in the third suite; he opened Saint-Germain’s chest of medical tools and medicaments and selected three small, specialized knives not unlike scalpels, and put them into a neat, metallic container that began to hum as soon as he closed the lid. Then he took two vials of heavy glass filled with various substances and fitted with glass stoppers, closed the chest and locked it, retrieved a stack of bandages and a sling from the shelves near the inner door, picked up half-a-dozen sheets of spongy cotton, then hurried back to Saint-Germain.

“Do you … have everything?” Saint-Germain asked, his eyes opening a little.

“I think so,” said Rogerio; he opened the writing desk and set out all he had brought. “I’ll get distilled water from the kitchen and I’ll be ready.”

“Good … I’m weakening,” Saint-Germain told him as he closed his eyes again.

“I’ll get this over as soon as possible. I’ll need your help,” said Rogerio, and went to the kitchen for the distilled water. When he returned, he could see that Saint-Germain’s pale olive skin had an ashen hue. He forced himself to be methodical, setting out his instruments and putting all he would need in proximity to Saint-Germain. As soon as he was ready, he went to the side of the bed and gently touched Saint-Germain’s hand. “My master?” he asked in the Latin of Imperial Rome. “I will have to begin.”

“I’m almost … ready,” Saint-Germain answered in the same language.

“It is going to be painful,” Rogerio warned, looking at the sluggishly oozing blood on his shoulder; the wound was a messy one, with bits of wood and fabric embedded in it, and would require careful cleaning.

“I expect so,” said Saint-Germain through clenched teeth.

“Can you tell me where the bullet is?” Rogerio asked as he reached for the knife with the slight curve in its blade.

“It’s lodged just … behind my … right scapula, about a … a thumb-joint below … my clavicle … go between the … deltoid … and trapezius.” He took a long, unsteady breath. “Both of them … must be torn.”

“There’s a fair amount of damage,” said Rogerio at his most neutral. “The trajectory seems fairly straight, and the entrance not too badly torn.”

“Nothing as bad as … the road to … Baghdad,” Saint-Germain said with a rictus smile.

“No, nothing like that,” Rogerio agreed, and brought up the little knife. “I am going to start now.” The low light did not particularly bother him, and his hands remained steady as he began to probe for the bullet, listening for Saint-Germain’s instructions as he proceeded. Finally he located it, and reached for the small tube that contained four tiny grapplers that could extend to take hold of the bullet and help to remove it. The process was slow and painstaking, and Rogerio was constantly aware of the pain he was causing Saint-Germain, though the Comte remained doggedly silent. Rogerio went on with meticulous care, removing all the bits of cloth and wood he encountered even while he tried to locate the bullet; he did not bother to apologize but kept at his work with steady purpose, his hands as steady as a glass-carver’s. Once he had the bullet out, he took care to remove all the fragments of cloth and wood that he could find, wiping each of these on the remnants of Saint-Germain’s shirt, and then sluiced the wound first with the distilled water, then with the contents of one of the vials, absorbing the blood and other matter with one of the spongy cotton cloths. “I am almost finished,” he told Saint-Germain.

“Good,” Saint-Germain muttered. “You know … what to do.”

“I’ll make sure the wound is as close to closed as it can be made; I will put bandages to hold it in place; then I’ll bind the wound. You’ll have to wear a sling for a month or so.” He had the bandages at the ready; at least, he thought, he did not have to stitch the wound closed. That would have been hard to take just now.

“I’ll do … it,” Saint-Germain said, sounding exhausted.

“And,” Rogerio went on as he began to wrap the shoulder with broad strips of linen, “it will not heal immediately.”

“But … it will heal,” said Saint-Germain, and let himself drift off into a dreamless state that was more than slumber and less than unconsciousness. When he wakened, a single light burned on his writing desk and he had been given another blanket to keep warm. The carriage clock on the single large chest-of-drawers indicated that it was 3:49, and the silence of the night made the ticking of the clock loud by contrast. As he took stock of his surroundings, the injury that had sent him to bed came back to him in vivid detail. He attempted to rise, and was stopped at once by a bolt of agony that went through him like a hot iron. Lying back down, he tested the bandages that enveloped his shoulder and crossed his chest, trying to determine how incapacitated he was. He was deciding that this was not as bad as he had expected, when he realized that he was not alone in the room.