The Eye-Maker

A bell tinkled as Shivers shoved the door open and stepped through into the shop, Monza at his shoulder. It was dim inside, light filtering through the window in a dusty shaft and falling across a marble counter, shadowy shelves down one wall. At the back, under a hanging lamp, was a big chair with a leather pad to rest your head on. Might've looked inviting, except for the straps to hold the sitter down. On a table beside it a neat row of instruments were laid out. Blades, needles, clamps, pliers. Surgeon's tools.

That room might've given him a cold tremble fit to match his name once, but no more. He'd had his eye burned out of his face, and lived to learn the lessons. The world hardly seemed to have any horrors left. Made him smile, to think how scared he'd always been before. Scared of everything and nothing. Smiling tugged at the great wound under his bandages and made his face burn, so he stopped.

The bell brought a man creeping through a side door, hands rubbing nervously together. Small and dark-skinned with a sorry face. Worried they were here to rob him, more'n likely, what with Orso's army not far distant. Everyone in Puranti seemed worried, scared they'd lose what they had. Apart from Shivers himself. He hadn't much to lose.

“Sir, madam, can I be of assistance?”

“You're Scopal?” asked Monza. “The eye-maker?”

“I am Scopal,” he bent a nervous bow, “scientist, surgeon, physician, specialising in all things relating to the vision.”

Shivers undid the knot at the back of his head. “Good enough.” And he started unwinding the bandages. “Fact is I've lost an eye.”

That perked the surgeon up. “Oh, don't say lost, my friend!” He came forwards into the light from the window. “Don't say lost until I have had a chance to view the damage. You would be amazed at what can be achieved! Science is leaping forwards every day!”

“Springy bastard, ain't it.”

Scopal gave an uncertain chuckle. “Ah … most elastic. Why, I have returned a measure of sight to men who thought themselves blind for life. They called me a magician! Imagine that! They called me … a …”

Shivers peeled away the last bandages, the air cold against his tingling skin, and he stepped up closer, turning the left side of his face forwards. “Well? What do you reckon? Can science make that big a jump?”

The man gave a polite nod. “My apologies. But even in the area of replacement I have made great discoveries, never fear!”

Shivers took a half-step further, looming over the man. “Do I look feared to you?”

“Not in the least, of course, I merely meant … well …” Scopal cleared his throat and sidled to the shelves. “My current process for an ocular prosthesis is—”

“The fuck?”

“Fake eye,” said Monza.

“Oh, much, much more than that.” Scopal slid out a wooden rack. Six metal balls sat on it, gleaming silver-bright. “A perfect sphere of the finest Midderland steel is inserted into the orbit where it will, one hopes, remain permanently.” He brought down a round board, flipped it towards them with a showy twist. It was covered with eyes. Blue ones, green ones, brown ones. Each had the colour of a real eye, the gleam of a real eye, some of the whites even had a red vein or two in 'em. And still they looked about as much like a real eye as a boiled egg might've.

Scopal waved at his wares with high smugness. “A curved enamel such as these, painted with care to match perfectly your other eye, is then inserted between metal ball and eyelid. These are prone to wear, and must therefore be regularly changed, but, believe me, the results can be uncanny.”

The fake eyes stared, unblinking, at Shivers. “They look like dead men's eyes.”

An uncomfortable pause. “When glued upon a board, of course, but properly fitted within a living face—”

“Reckon it's a good thing. Dead men tell no lies, eh? We'll have no more lies.” Shivers strode to the back of the shop, dropped down into the chair, stretched out and crossed his legs. “Get to it, then.”

“At once?”

“Why not?”

“The steel will take an hour or two to fit. Preparing a set of enamels usually requires at least a fortnight—” Monza tossed a stack of silver coins onto the counter and they jingled as they spilled across the stone. Scopal humbly bowed his head. “I will fit the closest I have, and have the rest ready by tomorrow evening.” He turned the lamp up so bright Shivers had to shield his good eye with one hand. “It will be necessary to make some incisions.”

“Some whats, now?”

“Cuts,” said Monza.

“'Course it will. Nothing in life worth doing that doesn't need a blade, eh?”

Scopal shuffled the instruments around on the little table. “Followed by some stitches, the removal of the useless flesh—”

“Dig out the dead wood? I'm all for it. Let's have a fresh start.”

“Might I suggest a pipe?”

“Fuck, yes,” he heard Monza whisper.

“Suggest away,” said Shivers. “I'm getting bored o' pain the last few weeks.”

The eye-maker bowed his head, eased off to charge the pipe. “I remember you getting your hair cut,” said Monza. “Nervous as a lamb at its first shearing.”

“Heh. True.”

“Now look at you, keen to be fitted for an eye.”

“A wise man once told me you have to be realistic. Strange how fast we change, ain't it, when we have to?”

She frowned back at him. “Don't change too far. I've got to go.”

“No stomach for the eye-making business?”

“I've got to renew an acquaintance.”

“Old friend?”

“Old enemy.”

Shivers grinned. “Dearer yet. Watch you don't get killed, eh?” And he settled back in the chair, pulled the strap tight round his forehead. “We've still got work to do.” He closed his good eye, the lamplight glowing pink through the lid.