There was loud talk between the guards and Johanna's servant. Through the door she saw members holding torches; they rested their forepaws on their fellows shoulders, and held the lights high. No one tried to come in; there'd be no room.
Johanna looked back at the injured Tine. Scriber? Then she recognized the jacket. The creature looked back at her, still wheezing its pain. "Can't you get a doctor!"
Woodcarver was all around her. She answered, "I am a doctor, Johanna." She nodded at the dataset and continued softly, "At least, what passes for one here."
Johanna wiped blood from the creature's neck. More kept oozing. "Well, can you save him?"
"This fragment maybe, but — " One of Woodcarver went to the door and talked to the packs beyond. "My people are searching for the rest of him… I think he is mostly murdered, Johanna. If there were others… well, even fragments stick together."
"Has he said anything?" It was another voice, speaking Samnorsk. Scarbutt. His big ugly snout was stuck through the doorway.
"No," said Woodcarver. "And his mind noise is a complete jumble."
"Let me listen to him," said Scarbutt.
"You stay back, you!" Johanna's voice was a scream; the creature in her arms twitched.
"Johanna! This is Scriber's friend. Let him help." As the Scarbutt pack sidled into the room, Woodcarver climbed into the loft, giving him room.
Johanna eased her arm from under the injured Tine and moved aside, ending up at the doorway herself. There were lots more packs outside than she had imagined, and they were standing closer than she had ever seen. Their torches glowed like soft fluorescents in the foggy dark.
Her gaze snapped back to the fire pit. "I'm watching you!"
Scarbutt's members clustered around the pillow. The big one lay its head next to the injured Tine's. For a moment the Tine continued its breathy whistling. Scarbutt gobbled at it. The reply was a steady warbling, almost beautiful. From up in the loft, Woodcarver said something. She and Scarbutt talked back and forth.
"Well?" said Johanna.
"Ja — the fragment — is not a 'talker'," came Woodcarver's voice.
"Worse," said Scarbutt. "For now at least, I can't match his mind sounds. I'm not getting sense or image from him; I can't tell who murdered Scriber."
Johanna stepped back into the room, and walked slowly to the pillow. Scarbutt moved aside, but did not leave the wounded Tine. She knelt between two of him and petted the long, bloodied neck. "Will Ja" — she spoke the sound as best she could — "live?"
Scarbutt ran three noses down the length of the body. They pressed gently at the wounds. Ja twisted and whistled… except when Scarbutt pressed his haunches. "I don't know. Most of this blood is just splatter, probably from the other members. But his spine is broken. Even if the fragment lives, he'll have only two usable legs."
Johanna thought for a moment, trying to see things from a Tinish perspective. She didn't like the view. It might not make sense, but to her, this "Ja" was still Scriber — at least in potential. To Scarbutt, the creature was a fragment, an organ from a fresh corpse. A damaged one at that. She looked at Scarbutt, at the big, killer member. "So what does your kind do with such… garbage?"
Three of his heads turned toward her, and she could see his hackles rise. His synthetic voice became high-pitched and staccato. "Scriber was a good friend. We could build a two-wheel cart for Ja's rear; he'd be able to move around some. The hard part will be finding a pack for him. You know we're looking for other fragments; we may be able to patch something up. If not… well, I have only four members. I will try to adopt him." As he spoke one head patted the wounded member. "I'm not sure it will work. Scriber was not a loose-souled person, not in any way a pilgrim. And right now, I don't match him at all."
Johanna slumped back. Scarbutt wasn't responsible for everything that went wrong in the universe.
"Woodcarver has excellent brood kenners. Maybe some other match can be found. But understand… it's hard for adult members to remerge, especially non-talkers. Single fragments like Ja often die of their own accord; they just stop eating. Or sometimes… Go down to the harbor sometime, look at the workers. You'll see some big packs there… but with the minds of idiots. They can't hold together; the smallest problem and they run in all directions. That's how the unlucky repacks end…" Scarbutt's voice traded back and forth between two of his members, and dribbled into silence. All his heads turned to Ja. The member had closed his eyes. Sleeping? He was still breathing, but it sounded kind of burbly.
Johanna looked across the room at the trapdoor to the loft. Woodcarver had stuck a single head down through the hole. The upside-down face looked back at Johanna. Another time, her appearance would have been comical. "Unless a miracle happens, Scriber died today. Understand that, Johanna. But if the fragment lives, even a short time, we'll likely find the murderer."
