Read The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country for Free Online Page B

you are in some pain, now.’ He pulled open a drawer in the cupboard and took out a long pipe, bowl stained black. ‘I would try to get used to it, if you can.’ He stooped and fished a hot coal from the fire with a set of tongs. ‘I fear that pain will come to be your constant companion.’
    The worn mouthpiece loomed at her. She’d seen husk-smokers often enough, sprawling like corpses, withered to useless husks themselves, caring for nothing but the next pipe. Husk was like mercy. A thing for the weak. For the cowardly.
    He smiled his dead-man’s smile again. ‘This will help.’
    Enough pain makes a coward of anyone.
    The smoke burned at her lungs and made her sore ribs shake, each choke sending new shocks to the tips of her fingers. She groaned, face screwing up, struggling again, but more weakly, now. One more cough, and she lay limp. The edge was gone from the pain. The edge was gone from the fear and the panic. Everything slowly melted. Soft, warm, comfortable. Someone made a long, low moan. Her, maybe. She felt a tear run down the side of her face.
    ‘More?’ This time she held the smoke as it bit, blew it tickling out in a shimmering plume. Her breath came slower, and slower, the surging of blood in her head calmed to a gentle lapping.
    ‘More?’ The voice washed over her like waves on the smooth beach. The bones were blurred now, glistening in haloes of warm light. The coals in the grate were precious jewels, sparkling every colour. There was barely any pain, and what there was didn’t matter. Nothing did. Her eyes flickered pleasantly, then even more pleasantly drifted shut. Mosaic patterns danced and shifted on the insides of her eyelids. She floated on a warm sea, honey sweet . . .
     
    ‘Back with us?’ His face flickered into focus, hanging limp and white as a flag of surrender. ‘I was worried, I confess. I never expected you to wake, but now that you have, it would be a shame if—’
    ‘Benna?’ Monza’s head was still floating. She grunted, tried to work one ankle, and the grinding ache brought the truth back, crushed her face into a hopeless grimace.
    ‘Still sore? Perhaps I have a way to lift your spirits.’ He rubbed his long hands together. ‘The stitches are all out, now.’
    ‘How long did I sleep?’
    ‘A few hours.’
    ‘Before that?’
    ‘Just over twelve weeks.’ She stared back, numb. ‘Through the autumn, and into winter, and the new year will soon come. A fine time for new beginnings. That you have woken at all is nothing short of miraculous. Your injuries were . . . well, I think you will be pleased with my work. I know I am.’
    He slid a greasy cushion from under the bench and propped her head up, handling her as carelessly as a butcher handles meat, bringing her chin forwards so she could look down at herself. So there was no choice but to. Her body was a lumpy outline under a coarse grey blanket, three leather belts across chest, hips and ankles.
    ‘The straps are for your own protection, to prevent you rolling from the bench while you slept.’ He hacked out a sudden chuckle. ‘We wouldn’t want you breaking anything, would we? Ha . . . ha! Wouldn’t want to break anything.’ He unbuckled the last of the belts, took the blanket between thumb and forefinger while she stared down, desperate to know, and desperate not to know at once.
    He whipped it away like a showman displaying his prize exhibit.
    She hardly recognised her own body. Stark naked, gaunt and withered as a beggar’s, pale skin stretched tight over ugly knobbles of bone, stained all over with great black, brown, purple, yellow blooms of bruise. Her eyes darted over her own wasted flesh, steadily widening as she struggled to take it in. She was slit all over with red lines. Dark and angry, edged with raised pink flesh, stippled with the dots of pulled stitches. There were four, one above the other, following the curves of her hollow ribs on one side. More angled across her hips, down her legs,