Was Amberdrake a happy guy? Why no, no he was not. He finished enough of the wounds on Sanzo's thigh that they were merely gouges now, and not tunnels through his leg, and reached into his own robe to produce the leather roll he'd snatched up on the way out of his office. It opened on the ground with a practiced snap of Drake's wrist, revealing several rolls of bandages and surgical instruments, each kept in place with tiny elastic straps.

Drake said a few things to his current patient in one of those other languages, speaking slow and quiet, ending with a question. While he spoke, he smoothed Sanzo's hair back from his forehead and laid his hand over it in the same motion. The gesture was professional, clean, precise. The Gift threaded in, and the pain eased, though it didn't stop completely. He didn't dare numb Sanzo's pain receptors completely; he needed every bit of information he could get from the remaining wound, and unfortunately some of that was coming from the sense of pain.

"I expect someone with so many broken bones to know better than to ask stupid questions," Amberdrake said to Cassian, moving to the worst of Sanzo's wounds accordingly. He shoved the robe out of the way, making good use of the way it was split down the side and folded over itself under that narrow sash. He knew his way around Sanzo garb, to be sure. "Your lungs are being crushed, so you should probably conserve your breath until I can get to you. And keep that left arm supported, your collar bone is broken."

And here came the belt knife again, slitting open the hole in Sanzo's blood-soaked jeans to give him better access to the wound below. Drake reached over to his roll of tools without even looking, plucking a pair of thin, blunt-nosed forceps from it. That ball had to come out, first and foremost.