The Godspeaker Trilogy (56 page)

He folded his arms. “That’s right.”

“And you say you’ve lost your faith. Jones—” She drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. “I’m not sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into. This Zandakar will need constant watching, dressings changed every two hours, and medicines he’ll not appreciate poured down his throat and slathered over him from head to toe. Suitable food. Water. Bedpans. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know whether you’re up to this or not. You’re a toymaker, not a nurse.”

He stiffened. “I nursed Hettie.”

She spared him a swift smile. “That you did. And you nursed her well. But we both know this is entirely different.”

“Ursa …” He unfolded his arms and touched his fingers to her wrist. “Please. I must be the one to take care of him.”

Her expression was a mingling of exasperation, impatience and affection. “Because Hettie said so?”

He nodded. “That’s right.”

“I don’t like it, Jones.”

“You don’t have to. Just trust me. Please? Zandakar is sick and we have to make him better. Does anything matter more than that?”

“Hmmph,” she said, exasperation winning out. “All right, Jones. I’ll go along with you … for the moment. But don’t think that’s the end of this conversation. Once my patient here is seen to we’ll pick up where we left off. I will be getting to the bottom of this nonsense. That’s a promise.” She smiled, without humour. “And you know me. I keep my promises.”

She certainly did. It was one of the best things about her. “And you’ll help me to nurse him? I can’t do it alone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I’ll help you to nurse him.”

Dexterity felt a flood of relief. Whatever this mystery meant, he couldn’t imagine unravelling it without Ursa’s staunch aid and acerbic intelligence. “ Thank you . Now, what do I do?”

Ursa looked her patient up and down. “For a start we’re going to get rid of that disgusting hair so I can see to the head wound and the cooties. Pass me my shears, Jones. I’m going to clip him like a sheep!”

The first touch of the blades startled the man awake. Half rising from the table, he shouted, “Wei! Wei!”

“Hold him down, Jones!” said Ursa, stepping back with the shears held high. “The last thing he needs is a finger lopped off!”

Hold him down? Hold him down how ? There wasn’t a square inch of the man’s skin that wasn’t festering or blistered or slimed with pus. Gingerly he took hold of the former slave’s shoulders and tried to restrain him. “Please be still,” he begged. “Please don’t struggle!”

The man ignored him. Weak and hurting as he was, still he tried to roll himself off Hettie’s table. Dexterity let go of his shoulders and seized his forearms instead, doing his best to avoid the open, weeping sores left by wrist manacles fastened too tightly for too long.

“Wei, wei,” the former slave repeated, trying to fight free.

“Stop this!” Dexterity shouted. “You’ll hurt yourself. Do you hear me? Zandakar, stop !”

As though he’d been shot, the man stopped thrashing.

“That’s better,” he said, and loosened his grip. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re trying to help you, Zandakar.”

“Zandakar,” the man whispered. “Zandakar.”

The panic had receded in his ice-blue eyes. Dexterity nodded. “Yes. Hello, Zandakar. Remember me?”

“Smile at him, Jones,” said Ursa. “I’d say it’s been a while since he saw a friendly face.”

“Are you sure?” he said, glancing at her. “For all we know, where he comes from smiling is a declaration of war.”

“He’s unarmed and I’ve got the shears. Smile at him, Jones. Try to make a connection.”

Oh dear. Tentatively, Dexterity smiled. “It’s all right, Zandakar,” he said, in the tone of voice he used to calm overexcited children. “You’re perfectly safe here. We’re not going to hurt you. Zandakar . See? I know your name.” He pointed at himself. “Dexterity.” He pointed at Ursa. “Ursa.” Gently, he touched the man’s shoulder. “Zandakar.”

It seemed to be working. Responding to the smile, or the unthreatening tone, or maybe to both, the man began to relax. After a moment he nodded. “ Zho . Zandakar.”

“ Zho . What does that mean?” said Dexterity, with another glance at Ursa.

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Jones.”

“It sounds like yes . Do you think that’s what he means?”

“I think I’m getting tired of standing here with these shears,” said Ursa. “Shall we press on?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He turned back to Zandakar and risked another smile. “All right now? Everything all right?”

Zandakar was frowning. “Dex—Dex—”

“Dexterity. But Dex is fine. It’s easier to say.” He nodded, still smiling. “ Zho . Dex.”

“Dex,” said Zandakar, then looked at Ursa. “Ursa.”

He had a deep, musical voice, its timbre rich and dark. There was definitely an accent. Dexterity nodded. “ Zho, Zandakar. I am Dex, and she is Ursa.”

“And Ursa is about to cut your hair,” she said, and stepped forward again.

Zandakar saw the shears and shook his head. “Wei! Wei!”

“I think it’s safe to say that wei means no,” said Ursa. She raised a warning finger. “Zandakar, wei .” Swiftly, taking the sick man by surprise, she seized a handful of his filthy matted hair and held it for a moment. When she let it go and held her hand in front of his eyes there were countless parasites crawling over her skin.

Dexterity saw Zandakar shiver with revulsion. He was feeling revolted himself. “Wash them off, Ursa, for pity’s sake.”

“No point,” she said, her fierce gaze not leaving Zandakar’s face. “They’ll only jump back on me when I start shearing him. Hold up that tub, Jones, and let’s get this done with.” She gave the shears a little waggle. “ Zho, Zandakar?”

Holding the tub so the cut hair would fall cleanly into it, Dexterity saw a silent struggle in Zandakar’s eyes.

“ Zho, Zandakar,” he said, gently. “You mustn’t fret. It’s only hair, it will grow back.”

Abandoning the last of his resistance, Zandakar closed his eyes. “Zho.”

“Burn it, Jones,” she said when she’d hacked off all the matted blue hair. “Outside, so you don’t stink up the kitchen.”

When he came back inside, nostrils clogged with the stench of singed hair, she was bent close over Zandakar’s ragged skull with a pair of tweezers, plucking fat white wriggling things from the savage wound above his right ear. Zandakar was grinding his teeth, small grunts of pain escaping through his flattened lips.

He stepped closer. “Ursa, what are you—oh! Maggots! ” His belly heaved and his hand slapped over his bile-scalded mouth.

“Yes, Jones, maggots,” said Ursa, sparing him a derisive glance. “And let’s thank God for them, shall we? Maggots feast on dead meat only. They eat diseased tissue and prevent rotting. Doubtless we’ll find them secreted elsewhere on this poor wretch, so either get used to them or get out. I’ve not time nor patience for lily-livered fussing.”

He took a deep breath and willed his treacherous stomach to behave itself. “Sorry. I’m all right. I want to stay.”

Ursa plucked the last maggot free of Zandakar’s head wound and dropped it with the rest on the cloth she held in her other hand. “Good. These you can burn in the stove.”

As he disposed of the maggots she selected a small glass vial from the bottles arranged along the kitchen bench. After twisting the stoppered plug free she took one of the cooled boiled cloths, dripped some of the vial’s pale green contents onto it, re-stoppered and returned it to the bench then slapped the cloth over Zandakar’s nose and mouth. His eyes flew open. He struggled once, twice, then sagged into unconsciousness.

“Ursa!” Dexterity protested. “Was that really necessary? I think he was just beginning to trust us!”

“Telling me my job now, Jones?” she said, and tossed the cloth to burn with the maggots.

“No. Well, all right. Yes. I suppose. But—”

She pointed at the somnolent man on Hettie’s table. “ Look at him, Jones. How likely is it I’m going to be able to help him without hurting him?”

He pulled a face. “Not very.”

“Not at all . He could barely tolerate me inspecting that head wound and there’s a lot worse to come before this is over. Believe me, it was the only decent thing to do.”

He sighed, and made himself look at Zandakar’s mistreated body. “Yes. Of course. You’re right, Ursa. I’m sorry.”

She released the rest of her temper in a short, sharp rush of air. “Good. Now let’s get to work. Stand beside me, keep your mouth shut and do exactly what I say exactly when I say it.”

If she was one of the best physicks in Kingseat it had nothing to do with her bedside manner. “Yes, Ursa,” he murmured, and did as he was told.

First she gently washed Zandakar’s stubbly skull, softening the scabs and sores and drowning the desperate remaining cooties. Then she examined the head wound, tut-tutting. Trimmed its edges to bleeding and stitched it up. Beneath her skilled, sensitive fingers Zandakar moaned a little, but did not wake.

“Right,” she said at last, snipping the final thread. “Now for the rest of him.”

Between them, with exquisite care, they washed every inch of Zandakar, scouring him clean of scabs and pus and hidden maggots, dirt and excrement and old dried blood. Pared the nails on his hands and feet, soothed his many hurts with ointment and salve and bandaged the worst of them. Dexterity thought he could have played a tune on the man’s ribs, so starkly did they spring beneath the skin. Every scar and weeping wound told a story of depravity and suffering, so that by the end his eyes were burning and he could have hung his head and cried for what the man had endured.

Ursa looked at him. “For all we know he could be a murderer, Jones,” she said. “For all we know he could have deserved this and worse.”

He shook his head. “No. I won’t believe that.”

“Why?” She snorted. “Because Hettie told you to save him?”

He met her sceptical gaze squarely. “Think what you like, Ursa. She came to me. She told me to find the ship with the red dragon figurehead, speak to the man with the triple-plaited beard and buy the slave with the blue hair. All three were there as she said they’d be. I can’t explain it. I don’t need to. Hettie said it, and it was so.”

“But Jones …” said Ursa, and he could see she was trying very hard to be reasonable.

“I know!” he said raggedly. “Do you think I don’t know, in my empty bed and my empty house? In all the places where Hettie used to be? But whatever it was, dream or vision or ghost from the grave, here am I, and here are you … and here is Zandakar. And how would you like to explain that, eh?”

Ursa sighed. “I wouldn’t. I don’t even begin to have an opinion on what’s happening here, Jones.”

He was cross enough to be waspish. “Glory be! I’ll just run and put a note on the calendar, shall I? Sixth day of spring, Ursa didn’t have an opinion!”

She scowled. “Oh, hush up. Keep your mind on the essentials, Jones. Where are you going to put this Zandakar? He certainly can’t stay in the kitchen.”

“He can sleep in the spare room.” The room he and Hettie had planned for a nursery. “I’ll hear him in there if he should stir.”

Ursa nodded. “It’ll do, to begin with.”

Zandakar didn’t wake as they settled him into the narrow spare bed. Dexterity lit a lamp and drew the curtains as Ursa straightened her patient’s limbs and drew the light blankets over his long, still body. He looked almost respectable, with his clean, sweet-smelling skin and his close-cropped blue hair and the worst of his wounds hidden beneath salve and bandage.

“Well, Jones,” she said, folding her arms across her middle. “For better or worse, legal or not, it seems you’ve got yourself a slave. It even seems he’s likely to live. And if he does, what are you going to do with him?”

Dexterity gave the curtains a last tug and turned to look at the sleeping Zandakar. “Ursa,” he replied, with a sigh. “If you tell me then the both of us will know.”

B
asking in the sunshine, Prolate Marlan stood at the royal reception chamber’s leadlight windows and watched, with pleasure, the thriving, bustling industry of Kingseat Harbour. Eberg’s castle stood on a hilltop overlooking the kingdom’s sole remaining port. Every window and casement on this side of the massive stone building afforded a magnificent view of the calm blue waters, the crush of visiting ships with their garishly painted sails and their heathenish carved figureheads, the official harbour skiffs darting like pondskaters about the king’s business: checking for overladen vessels, embargoed captains, crews or cargoes, sniffing out any sign of trick or trouble. Even though each visiting ship and boat was inspected before entering the harbour, the royal skiffs were ever-vigilant. Of late even more so, since the deaths of the princes Ranald and Simon, may God rest their careless souls.

Not that he believed in God, of course. But it was the proper sentiment … and he was nothing if not a proper man.

For every vessel the tugs guided from their moorings, helping them reach the open ocean beyond the walled harbour’s heavily guarded mouth, three more waited to take its place. And each one bound to pay tariffs, taxes and imposts, each one full of sailors and travellers who spent their money freely in the town.

Once, not so long ago, foreign sailors and visitors had been looked at askance. Eberg had changed that, viewing each sailor and visitor as a potential source of information, of news that stirred in the wider world. During his reign such information-gathering had been actively encouraged and widened and had yielded many useful results.

Marlan smiled. Eberg’s legacy is not to be sneezed at. Ethrea is richer now than ever before, its value never greater. Every trading nation supports an ambassador here, every potentate and minor lordling keeps his treasure in our vaults. I wonder if they realise that this small island kingdom without an army or navy is the uncrowned ruler of the civilised world?

Most of them didn’t, he was sure. The lesser nations, whose influence was minor. To them Ethrea was merely a toothless convenience. Indispensable, certainly, for anyone desiring to sail north to south or east to west, in the same way a belt was required to keep one’s breeches from falling. But beyond that?