Impossible Things (2 page)

Kaelnar Vapensigsson rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to get some heat into them. He was used to hard, mean winters, but they were winters at home, clean and crisp and cruelly beautiful; they were
his
winters, not these unfathomable New Land winters with their heavy falls of hail and dirty, scraggy snow.

‘Do we have to go back to see her?’ he asked. ‘Can’t we just get on the boat and go home?’

Verak snorted. ‘You want to leave a woman like Samara mad at you?’

‘I don’t intend on ever coming back here.’ He gazed around at the desolate beach, the sort of beach where ships came to die. No one had ever frolicked on this beach, built a jaunty sandcastle or shrieked with delight at the coldness of the water. This was a beach where the hard things you tripped over might be the bleached ribs of a long-wrecked ship, or of its long-dead crew.

It was a hideous place, but it was still a better place to camp than Samara’s compound. The guest rooms might have looked luxurious, but ever since he’d woken up there the morning after the blind girl, he’d had the uneasy feeling that all the silks and sweet herbs were like spices disguising rotten meat.

He’d muttered something about needing to supervise repairs and set up camp by the shore.

‘Still, international relations …’

‘I don’t give a rat’s fart about international relations,’ Kael snapped. ‘I’m Krull the Swiving Warlord.’

‘Is that how you’re announcing yourself now?’

Kael glared at the hull of his ship as it swayed with the tide. If it hadn’t been for this hideous weather they wouldn’t have been blown into that stupid reef and he could have checked Samara’s exports at the port, like he’d planned. But no, he’d been stuck here three weeks and beholden to a sadistic hag who treated her slaves as disposable commodities.

An image of the blind girl from his first night at Samara’s came into his mind, stabbing guilt into him, and he dismissed it. Not his problem.

‘And she’ll want presents,’ he grumped. ‘We can’t pay her for loaning us slaves, but she’ll want presents.’

‘We have plenty of brandy and silks on board,’ Verak said. ‘We can spare some.’

Kael nodded. ‘And crystals,’ he said, the blind girl haunting him again. ‘We’ve always got loads of crystals.’

The great hall of Samara’s estate had a throne on a dais. Kael wondered if she’d be waiting there for his farewell as she had on his arrival nearly three weeks ago, dressed in silks and satins, surrounded by dull-eyed slaves in a horrible parody of a court scene.

Kael, who’d attended more royal courts than he could remember, snorted. His own court consisted of a chair and a desk and a queue of people complaining about crop harvests. If he wore silk and satin he’d be laughed out of the place.

The horde marched behind him. Today they really were a horde, armoured and fearsome, and he’d instructed Johann, the signifer, to don his full bearskin cape as he carried the standard. Behind him, the horde’s banner snapped in the freezing wind.

He stopped dead in the doorway, the horde coming to a complete stop behind him. The clang of every fist on every breastplate was deafening, and judging by the uneasy reaction of Samara’s fat, bullying guards, it had the impact he wanted.

But the throne was empty. The room was dark and cold, the huge fireplace spilling ashes. One of the toadying, greasy men Samara called her courtiers came scurrying towards him. ‘What’s the hold-up?’ Kael demanded.

‘Um. Her ladyship is ill.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Kael lied. ‘I need to see whoever’s in charge.’

The man twisted his gloved hands. Samara liked to surround herself with richly-dressed men, apparently under the illusion she was some sort of queen. Kael was fairly sure they were simply another sort of slave – just ones who didn’t realise it. They were there to warm her bed and fan her ego.

This one looked entirely at sea. It was clear that without Samara to order everyone around, no one knew what to do. Gods, did no one in this place have a shred of initiative?

‘Apologies, gentlemen, but—’

‘Do not apologise to me,’ Kael snarled, towering over the little man, who cowered gratifyingly. ‘I am Krull the Warlord, and you will do as I say.’

The courtier nodded rapidly, and Kael thought he saw some sort of relief in the man’s eyes.

Briefly, he wondered what would happen to these people without Samara. They truly didn’t seem able to function by themselves.

‘My men need food, and we need provisions for the ship. Lady Samara has promised to help us with this.’

She hadn’t, but the courtier didn’t know that.

‘We will of course pay for the supplies we take,’ he said, confident that with Samara out of commission, no gifts would be required. ‘Now get out of my way, little man.’

The courtier did just that, and Kael thought he saw a hint of a smile on Verak’s face as they strode back into the courtyard. Outside, the air was brutally cold, but it was better than the chilling emptiness of the hall.

‘You,’ he pointed at a random slave. ‘Show my men where your food stores are kept and assist them with whatever they need. Understood?’

The slave nodded, looking terrified, and Kael signalled to his quartermaster to follow. The men wheeled after him, boots stamping on the snowy courtyard.

‘What do you suppose she’s ill with?’ Verak asked as the courtyard emptied.

Kael shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s been attacked by her own conscience.’

‘Didn’t think she had one,’ Verak replied. ‘I mean, what if it’s something contagious?’

‘Karnos can handle it.’ His Healer could handle most things.

‘Still, I’d rather not spend a three-week voyage cooped up with plague-ridden sailors.’

‘It’s not the plague, or this place’d be full of corpsified slaves.’

‘Corpsified?’

‘It’s a word,’ Kael said defensively.

‘Krull the Warlord: scourge of the seas, terror of the Empire and maker-up of words.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’

Verak grinned at him, and Kael grinned back, but it was a grin that withered as he watched a burly guard carrying a frail body out of a side door.

‘That’s not a plague victim,’ he said to Verak, even as he started forward. ‘You there,’ he accosted the guard, ‘what did this slave die of?’

It was a slave, undoubtedly so. Matted hair, inadequate clothing, stick-thin limbs.

Limbs with tattoo-like markings on them.

Oh,
hell
.

‘It’s not dead,’ said the guard, and Kael resisted the urge to hit him for the ‘it’. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

The guard shrugged. ‘Displeased her ladyship.’

Kael frowned. Beside him, Verak made a noise of disgust.

‘You mean, she’s going to be executed?’

‘Nah, just chucked back inna cell until it’s dead.’

Kael stared hard at the emaciated arm bearing the impossible tattoo.

‘You mean,’ he said slowly, ‘she’s to be starved to death?’

The guard shrugged. The movement made the slave’s head loll.

He wasn’t entirely sure how his sword ended up in his hand, the tip against the guard’s throat. Verak said, ‘Kael,’ warningly but he wasn’t listening.

‘This is what’s going to happen,’ he said to the guard, whose attention was riveted on Kael’s crystal-studded double-handed war sword. ‘You’re going to give that girl to my friend here, and then you’re going to go back to Samara and report that she’s already dead and disposed of. Aren’t you?’

The guard nodded, terrified.

‘Now,’ Kael said, and the man nearly threw the slave at Verak before rushing back inside.

‘She weighs nothing,’ Verak said, appalled, cradling the unresponsive creature in his arms.

Kael pushed back the tangle of her hair and swore. On her left cheek was a crusted, oozing mess of a wound, blistered and burnt.

‘Karnos could heal that,’ Verak began, and Kael shook his head.

‘Karnos isn’t here.’ The Healer had remained with the crew who were dismantling the camp by the shore and preparing the ship for departure. Kael had only brought enough men to intimidate Samara. ‘She has marks on her hand – she said they were tattoos, but …’

‘You think she’s a Healer?’ Verak said doubtfully.

Kael looked at the dreadful creature. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he said truthfully. He held out his arms, and Verak handed her over carefully, as if she might break. ‘Go find the men and bring me a chest of crystals. I’ll be in the guest quarters.’

Verak nodded and ran off, and Kael strode to the low building where Samara had housed him and his men the night of their arrival. The doors weren’t locked, but neither were there any signs of recent occupation. He shoved open the door to the room he’d used before, laid the girl on the bed and glanced at the fireplace. Gods be praised, someone had laid a fire there. He lit it and covered the girl with a blanket for good measure.

Then he sat beside her and took her left hand, her Healer’s hand.

And swore.

This also bore the blistered, crusted skin of a burn. Unlike the one on her face, which was a few weeks old, this one was fresh, angry and red and probably too much for her to bear.

‘Can you hear me?’ he asked, shaking her gently. Nothing. ‘I order you to pay attention to me!’

That caused a flutter of her eyelashes. Her lips moved, and she made that death rattle noise again.

‘I’ll swiving murder that bitch,’ he cursed. ‘I’ll cut her to pieces. Starve you to death! I hope she does have the plague.’

‘For all our sakes I hope she doesn’t,’ said Verak, entering the room with the chest of crystals. ‘And try not to kill her, the Emperor won’t be pleased.’

‘You think I care about the Emperor?’ Kael said, positioning the chest next to the girl and plunging her hand in.

She gave a startled yelp and tried to pull it out again, but Kael held her there, his fingers wrapped tight around her twig-like wrist.

‘Leave it. Just for a few moments.’ Just until we can tell whether you’re a Healer or not. If you’re not …

He glanced up at Verak, his face tense and worried, and saw his own thoughts mirrored there. If she wasn’t a Healer, they’d have to take her to Karnos and he really didn’t think she’d survive the journey. His own field-medic skills weren’t enough to save someone as weak as this.

‘Kael, her face,’ Verak murmured, and he peered at the crusted mess which was, incrementally, becoming less crusted and less messy.

‘Water,’ he said, his heart thumping. ‘And a cloth. Soap.’

Verak nodded and moved away, and Kael waited impatiently until he returned, watching the ugly wound on the girl’s face heal itself.

She’s a Healer, he thought deliriously. She’s Chosen. She’s Chosen and I nearly left her here to starve to death. Oh gods, the Emperor really isn’t going to be pleased if he hears this.

Carefully, gently, he soaked away the crusts of dried blood and fluids from her face. She flinched weakly, but didn’t stop him. The skin underneath was raw and red, and he thought she might always have a scar there, but then he cleaned a big lump of dirt away and his heart nearly stopped when he saw what was beneath it.

‘Verak,’ he said. ‘Her
face
.’

‘Has to be a hoax.’

‘She’s a Healer, Kael, we’ve seen that.’

The fire crackled as he tossed another log on. The sky was getting dark, so he’d told the men to bunk up for the night and they’d leave in the morning. He couldn’t move the girl now; she was far too weak.

He glanced over at her, lying apparently asleep in the big bed, her body barely making a rise under the heaps of blankets. Her hand was almost totally healed, and her face bore the marks of an old wound. They’d given her sips of water and tiny bits of food, heated water in a tub and soaked away the dirt ingrained in her skin. There wasn’t much for her hair but to shear it all off, which Verak did, cutting away the worst mats and burning them.

She was crawling with lice, her body covered in infected bites and sores which the crystals gradually healed. What they couldn’t heal, however, were the old scars, the marks of beatings and whippings, cuts and burns that had hardened into ugly lumps of scar tissue under her skin. He’d paid these no mind before, so focused on her Marks and her blindness that he hadn’t even looked much at the rest of her. When he looked closely he saw scars around her wrists and ankles that could only have come from manacles. There was even the faint suggestion of a collar that had once bitten into her skin too, although he’d seen no such collar on any of Samara’s slaves.

She was as clean and healthy as they could make her now, and maybe by the time Karnos had treated her and they’d got her back to Ilanium, she might resemble something approaching a human being. If, perhaps, they fed her sticks of lard. Kael had never seen anyone so thin in his life. It made a mockery of the Ilani fears that fashionable women were a bit too skinny.

‘She can’t be a Warrior. It’s impossible.’

‘It’s never happened before,’ Verak corrected. ‘That we know of.’

‘A female Warrior? You don’t think something like that might have made the history books?’

Verak shrugged. ‘Maybe not the history books, but what about all those fearsome warrior women of myth and legend?’

‘They’re
myths
,’ Kael emphasised, ‘and
legends
.’

‘Just because—’

‘Look, stop playing Devil’s advocate, will you? I know you don’t believe it.’

Verak was silent a moment, staring down into his wine.

‘You can’t believe it,’ Kael said. He glanced over at the girl again and wondered vaguely if her body was strong enough to withstand the weight of the blankets on it. ‘And even if such a thing were actually possible, then what about the third mark?’

Verak shook his head helplessly.

‘It wasn’t there before. I’d have remembered it if it was. It could be a tattoo,’ Kael suggested half-heartedly.

‘A blind slave getting a tattoo in a frozen mining compound in the middle of nowhere. That’s more likely than a third mark, is it?’ Verak glanced at the mark on his own forearm. ‘Mine turned up overnight.’

‘Mine too. Both of ’em separate.’