Impossible Things (3 page)

Kael looked back at the girl. Now that the crusted blood and dirt on her face had been washed away, now that the crystals had healed the worst of the injury to her face, the inky black patterns twining around her left eye were clearly visible. The mark of a Seer.

The Healer’s mark on her palm was once more whole. And on her right forearm twined an unmistakable Warrior mark.

She bore three marks of the Chosen. Three.

‘Come on, Mr Devil’s Advocate, explain that one to me.’

‘I don’t know,’ Verak said. ‘I just … Look, a female Warrior I can just about get my head around, but Thrice-Marked, that’s …’

‘Just as impossible,’ Kael finished. He drained his wine and reached for more. ‘A Seer and a Healer, then. That’s possible. That’s got precedent. Probably.’

‘It’s plausible,’ Verak said. ‘On a child of the Citizenry. A child whose parents both came from long lines of the Chosen. How many Twice-Marked have there ever been who weren’t Children of Two Marks at the least?’

There was a short pause. Verak winced.

‘Well, me for one,’ Kael said as drily as he could. His mother had been from a very old family, but much to the regret of her family she’d remained unmarked and chosen to marry a warlord from a frozen wasteland, a Citizen only by the skin of his teeth and the grace of a family who’d thrown up a few Warriors many generations ago.

‘But you’ve got lines of Chosen stretching back on both sides as far as the Book records. Have you ever heard of a Twice-Marked being born to a plebeian?’

‘No.’ Kael stared glumly at the fire. He was never going to be able to explain this to the council. He’d need a Truthteller to verify her marks, and he wasn’t sure they even had one at the Academy any more.

A man like himself, who came from two long bloodlines of the Chosen, whose father was already a renowned Warrior, had no need to have his Warrior mark checked. There was no reason why he’d cheat, and he was quite aware of the penalties.

She could demonstrate her Healing talent quite easily, he supposed. And once she’d regained some strength he could perhaps test her for Warrior abilities. But how in the seven hells he was supposed to check whether she was really a Seer or not, he had no idea.

She couldn’t be Thrice-Marked. She couldn’t be a Warrior. Those were two impossible things about her. But the third …

The thought that anybody with her gifts was living as a slave was just inconceivable. She could only be Twice-Marked if at least one of her parents came from a very old Chosen family. It simply wasn’t possible otherwise.

And no Chosen would ever allow their child to become a slave.

The children of the Chosen were cosseted, adored – and very carefully recorded in the Book of Names. It was impossible to simply disappear.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, it was very hard, he’d put it that way. There were always loopholes, always exceptions. The gods knew he’d found a few in his time.

Clearly some weird things were going on with this girl. Some almost impossible things.

He was going to have a hell of a time explaining this to the council.

She couldn’t ever remember comfort like this.

She was warm, which in itself was almost a forgotten sensation. And she was clean, which wasn’t a state she’d been able to achieve for a horribly long time.

But the strangest thing, the most alien sensation, was the lack of pain.

She concentrated. Her belly was still empty, but the clawing pain of a hunger so intense it felt as if her body were trying to eat itself, had faded. Her face didn’t feel as if it were on fire any more, her eyeball boiling with agony, her flesh crawling with fire. Her hand was so painless she had to check it was still there.

The everyday bruises, sores, bites and lashes hurt so little she barely noticed them.

She realised she must, therefore, be dead.

Which was why it came as something of a shock to hear a deep, dark voice asking, ‘Are you awake?’

She froze, not sure how to answer.

‘You are. I can tell you are. Do you want something to drink? You’re still quite dehydrated.’

She licked lips that were dry but no longer blistered, and nodded.

A hand touched the back of her neck, and she barely had time to register the surprise of strong fingers against her bare scalp before a cup was pressed to her lips.

‘Just little sips now. Your body can’t handle much more.’

She drank as directed, trying to take small sips but too frightened he’d take it away from her.

It was him, undoubtedly. The stranger who’d strode into the great hall and, out of all the female slaves, chosen her to warm his bed for the night.

The warlord she’d been ordered to please. The big man, smelling of sweat and blood and sage, who’d spoken to her gently, almost as if he didn’t want to hurt her. She wasn’t fooled. They all wanted to hurt her.

The man she’d so insulted, so offended, she thought he was going to kill her there and then.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked now.

A terrible question to answer. Would it please him more if she were hurt? If she told the truth – that she felt a lot better – would he hurt her? If she said she felt terrible, would he punish her for lying?

‘Your colour’s improved,’ he said, taking the cup away and pulling her into a sitting position. ‘Have something to eat.’

This was dangerous. This was frightening. He was pretending to be kind to her, but why?

A bowl of something savoury was held under her nose and she felt her mouth fill with saliva. Forcing herself to be sensible, she inhaled and concentrated on separating the scents. Vegetables, herbs … She breathed in again, but the herbs were just seasonings. Nothing to harm her.

Probably, it was information he wanted. That’s what Ladyship had implied that first night. ‘See if he talks in his sleep,’ she’d said with a laugh.

Maybe Ladyship would be forgiving this time …

The soup was delicious, the taste almost too rich to stand. When he took the bowl away she wanted to stop him, to bring it back, to eat and eat. But she did nothing. She wasn’t greedy. She was grateful. She must remember to be grateful, or Ladyship would be upset again.

‘I know you’re hungry,’ he said. ‘I know you’re so far beyond hungry it’s a miracle you’re still alive. Clearly the gods have plans for you. But I can’t let you eat too much, not just yet. A little more each time until you can manage a whole meal. We’ve got to do this gradually.’

She nodded. She’d nod at anything he said if it made him happy.

‘But by the time we get to Ilanium you’ll be a lot healthier. We’ve got weeks on this journey for you to get stronger, and plenty to eat. Especially if you like fish.’

She nodded again. She truly had no idea if she liked fish or not.

Then she caught up with herself. ‘Journey, my lord?’ she said, her voice cracked and weak.

‘Yes. We’re going to Ilanium.’

He paused, clearly expecting a reaction to this. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘Do you even have any idea where that is?’

Ilanium. It snagged vaguely in her memory, like something from a long-forgotten story. Bracing herself, she admitted, ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

‘No. Right. So. Born here, were you?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘No. Right then, look. You’re clearly a lot better than you were last night. Do you think you can move? You’ll just have to go as far as one of the wagons. I can carry you if you need me to.’

‘Wagons?’ She licked her lips again. Of course, she wouldn’t be travelling with Ladyship. Ladyship would have her own carriage, or possibly a litter. But … ‘I need to see her.’

‘Who? You have family here?’ he asked sharply.

‘Ladyship.’

He barked out a laugh. ‘You want to see Samara before we go? Are you really a glutton for punishment, girl?’

‘She’s been unwell. I need to make sure she’s well enough to travel.’

‘Well enough—? She’s not going anywhere. And she thinks you’re dead. No. You just come quietly out to the wagons, we’ll pull one right up to the door so no one sees you, and—’

‘Not going anywhere?’

She cringed automatically. She’d interrupted him.

‘No. I’m not taking her to Ilanium! Ha, unless I can actually pin this smuggling thing on her. If I saw that woman in chains I think I might actually dance a jig of happiness. And I do not dance.’

If she could see she’d have stared at him in bemusement. He was taking her away? ‘But Ladyship needs me.’

‘Needs you.’ He said it flatly, heavily, like a slab falling flat on the ground. Like the wall that had crumbled last year and taken out three men and a woman instantly, flattening them so utterly she could only tell who was missing by counting up the survivors.

‘Samara does not need you,’ said the warlord. ‘Any more than she needs a practice target, or a punchbag, or perhaps a butterfly she can pull the wings off. Samara has whored you out, burned you, imprisoned you and tried to starve you to death. Samara does not need you.’

‘She’s ill. I have … some skill with herbs …’

‘You have much more than that.’ He was close now, sitting on the bed near her. ‘You have no idea of the skills you have. Look, your hand, your face – you did that. You healed that.’

He touched her palm, stroked her cheek. She willed herself not to flinch.

‘I can’t leave her.’ Ladyship would be so, so angry if she left. ‘Bad things happen when you leave.’

‘I’ll bet they do. Bad things like being shot in the back with an arrow.’

He didn’t seem to understand. ‘It’s not safe out there,’ she whispered.

‘It’s not swiving safe in here!’ he yelled, and backed off. ‘Seven hells, girl. Are you telling me you actually want to stay?’

She nodded.

‘Right. And is this like you “wanted” to please me that first night?’

She did cringe this time. She nodded.

He let out a string of sounds she didn’t entirely understand, but she recognised by the tone they were profanities.

‘You’d rather stay here with this woman than—? She’ll throw you back in that cell, you know that? Probably burn you again, and this time there’ll be no crystals to heal you. She doesn’t
need
you. She wants you to
die
, slowly and horribly.’

‘Ladyship will give me what I deserve,’ she whispered.

He swore again. ‘What you deserve is a slap in the face. Look – what
is
your name?’

She opened her mouth, and no sound came out.

… what is …

A memory stirred, deep and forgotten.

… name …

‘Are you going to answer? Do you even know?’

… my name …

His voice came from very close to her face, and very far away all at the same time.

‘Do you
have
a name?’

… my name …

‘Can you even hear me? Oh, I give up. Samara can bloody well have you.’

‘My name,’ she mumbled.

‘Are you even listening? I said you can go back to that filthy cell and
rot
for all I care—’

‘My name,’ she said slowly.

He paused in his ranting. ‘Yes?’

She lifted her head and said clearly to the warlord, ‘My name is Ishtaer.’

The little slave looked up, and if he hadn’t known she was blind he’d swear she was looking right at him.

‘My name is Ishtaer,’ she said clearly.

For a long second Kael stared, the wind knocked out of him. ‘Ishtaer,’ he repeated automatically.

‘My name,’ she said again, slower this time, ‘is Ishtaer.’ It was as if she was trying to persuade herself of it.

‘That’s a very pretty name,’ Kael said weakly, and shook himself. ‘That’s a Draxan name. Are you from Draxos?’

Again, that expression on her face, as if she didn’t understand the question.

‘I’m from,’ she began, and paused. But this time her face cleared to frustration. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘You’re not from here?’

She frowned, and Kael thought he recognised the expression from his own days at the Academy, when he’d struggled so hard to recall the names of the great families of Ilanium or the correct form of address for a senator’s wife.

A Draxan name. One of their old goddesses, he thought. Perhaps she’d been kidnapped, or … perhaps lost in the riots there. Four years ago now? Five, maybe. They simply hadn’t been able to account for everyone.

‘All right, Ishtaer. How about this. How old are you?’

She brightened a bit at the use of her name. No, brightened wasn’t the right word. She seemed to become more solid, more real. More alive.

‘I think …’ she trailed off, and he saw her fingers tapping against her palm as if she was counting. ‘I think … twenty?’

She still cowered as she said it, as if she expected this to be the wrong answer. Kael let it slide. ‘Twenty it is.’ Which would make her maybe sixteen at the time of the riots. No Chosen would have gone missing without someone creating a stink, the type of news he or Verak would certainly have been privy to, which meant she’d have to have been unmarked at the time. She thought she’d been marked for seven years, but then she also thought her marks were tattoos and that her beloved Ladyship was her benefactor. Samara had really done a number on her.

Sixteen was a little old to have come into her first mark, but not unheard of. It was possible she’d been from an old family who hadn’t produced a Chosen in generations, forgotten outside the pages of the Book of Names, or perhaps that she was just too old to be expected to manifest a mark. Or maybe both.

It shouldn’t be hard to track an Ishtaer on the lists of the missing after those riots. The thought cheered him. He might even be able to reunite her with her family. Although what the hell he’d tell them about where he found her he had no idea.

‘Right then, twenty-year-old Ishtaer who may or may not be from Draxos, I’ll ask you again. Do you want to come with me?’

She was still a moment, then said, ‘Away from here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Away from Ladyship?’

He ground his teeth. ‘Yes.’

A longer pause, then Ishtaer whispered, ‘She’ll kill me.’

He said nothing, waiting for her answer. Waiting, it seemed, forever.

When she spoke her voice was almost inaudible, and her whole body shook as if the words had to be forced from her, pushed past some impossible barrier.

‘I want to leave. I want to get away from this place. I want—’

Then she ran out of things to say, and her body slumped as if she couldn’t continue the effort of speaking any more. It seemed to Kael as if it had taken all her energy to say those words, to even think them. What had Samara done to this girl to break down even the thoughts inside her own head?

‘Right.’ He felt more relieved than he’d expected. ‘Good, then. We’ll leave as soon as things are packed up. Smuggle you out. Shouldn’t be hard, she already thinks you’re dead.’

She shook her head. ‘She’ll want to see me. A body.’

‘Well then. Close your eyes and play dead.’

Another shake. ‘She won’t …’ Then she seemed to pull herself together, and her head came up. ‘I know a concoction. Herbal. It makes you look dead. Unconscious. Slows the heart right down. No breathing. She wouldn’t be able to tell …’

Kael frowned. ‘Is that necessary?’

Ishtaer flinched. ‘She doesn’t like to lose,’ she said quietly.

It was eerie, how still and limp she became after drinking her carefully mixed potion. Kael and Verak had watched her mix it, and the older man had stopped Kael from interfering about five times when he simply couldn’t believe she knew what she was doing.

‘You can’t even see what you’re putting in there!’ he exploded.

‘No, my lord.’ She added a pinch of some herbs that looked identical to at least three other kinds set out before her.

‘So how do you know—’

‘I assume she’s familiar with the texture,’ Verak said, in the same voice he used to quell arguments between his children. ‘And the smell, perhaps, Ishtaer?’

She nodded, concentrating on what she was doing. If nothing else, Kael really couldn’t doubt that she was a Healer now. The frightened wretch who’d cowered from him and begged to stay had vanished, leaving behind a calm and competent woman, measuring out herbs as if she did it every day.

Only the Chosen had such calm confidence in their work, and that usually came after years of training.

Soon after she swallowed the potion her head began to loll, and the pulse Kael was monitoring in her wrist decelerated until it was barely a flutter every few minutes. Her eyes stayed open, glassy and unfocused and unnerving as hell.

‘She’s too clean,’ he said to Verak. ‘Samara will never believe we just found her like this.’

‘And too warm,’ Verak said. ‘I’ll get some snow.’

‘And dirt,’ Kael called after him. ‘Her face is all healed up.’

They made her as dirty and cold as they dared, then Kael wrapped her in his cloak and took a deep breath and picked her up. Her body weighed nothing, a fragile bundle of sticks wrapped in thin skin.

‘Gods, I hope she isn’t actually dead,’ he said as they carried her out of the guest quarters and across the frozen courtyard. ‘Can you imagine telling the council about her? “We found potentially the highest-ranked Chosen the world has ever seen, and then we let her poison herself.” They’d love that.’

Dread curdled in his gut as the very real possibility occurred to him that all this could have been a form of suicide. His steps faltered. Had Samara brainwashed her that badly?

‘Hush,’ Verak said. ‘She’ll be fine. You saw the way she handled those herbs. She knew what she was doing.’

‘Yes, that’s what worries me.’ Right then. There was nothing for it now. If she’d killed herself no Healer in the world could bring her back.

Samara lounged on her throne in the great hall, looking wan and pale. Kael almost felt sorry for her, then he remembered that she’d branded Ishtaer’s face and palm and left her to starve in a freezing cell. He wondered if the Emperor would mind if he cut the head off one of the Empire’s most important oil suppliers.

‘My lord,’ she said, but whatever she was about to follow it up with, Kael cut her off.

‘My lady,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘I would not have disturbed you except to ask where your burial ground is.’

Samara’s forehead creased. ‘Burial ground?’

He indicated the limp body in his arms. ‘The slave who so pleased me on my first night appears to be dead. I would bury her according to the traditions of my people.’

Samara beckoned him closer, and when he held out Ishtaer’s body her nose wrinkled.

‘The little cripple,’ she said. ‘Pity, it was occasionally useful. Still, that’s what it deserves for such insolence.’

‘Insolence, my lady?’

She motioned to one of the slaves by the fire and said to Kael, ‘It was so pleased with itself after one night with you, my lord, that it evidently got ideas above its station. Drew something on its face. One of its witch marks. They’re all lies, of course. That’s why I burned it off immediately. The little cripple had no magic.’

‘Indeed, my lady?’ Kael said, his mind racing. So Ishtaer’s Seer’s mark had appeared the night he first met her? Interesting.

‘That’s why I bought it, you see. For the witch marks. I understand among your people they denote magical ability?’

Kael kept his face expressionless. Everyone in the Empire knew what the marks meant, but the Chosen kept the details of their gifts shrouded in mystery. Better not to let the general populace know that their ‘magical abilities’ were dependent on a handful of crystals.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he said.

‘But they were lies. Tattoos or some such. You needn’t bury it according to your customs, my lord. I doubt it’s one of your people. We can just throw it in the furnace.’

‘As you say, my lady,’ Kael said, holding onto his temper. ‘But our traditions demand that every body is treated with respect. Even,’ he added, ‘those of our enemies.’

Samara looked surprised at this, but shrugged tiredly and said, ‘As you wish. But before you do, my lord, let me just check it’s really dead, and not just trying to fool us.’

She turned to a nearby slave, and Kael’s heart leapt in his throat as he saw what the man held. A brand fresh from the fire, the stylised S shape burning bright yellow and white.

Samara took the brand carefully and looked at Ishtaer with disgust. ‘Well?’ she said to the slave. ‘I don’t want to touch it.’

Kael willed himself not to panic as the slave pulled back a fold of the cloak covering Ishtaer’s body and pulled out her hand. Her right hand, not the one Samara had already maimed. Not the one resting healed and perfect inside the cloak.

‘Is that necessary, my lady? I am quite good at knowing when a body is dead,’ he said.

‘I don’t trust this one,’ Samara said, and thrust the brand against Ishtaer’s naked wrist.

He didn’t hide his expression this time. The smell of burning flesh was disgusting. Verak caught his eye, and it was a good job Samara was focused on the torture she was inflicting on Ishtaer’s corpse, because Verak looked like he wanted to kill her.

The look of excitement on Samara’s face was almost sexual.

‘I think that proves it,’ Kael said, a little sharper than he intended, and Samara looked up, disappointed. ‘We must treat her with
respect
.’

Samara looked genuinely baffled, but she carelessly handed the brand back to the slave, forcing him to take it by the hot end.

‘Bury it where you like,’ she said, ‘just not anywhere it’s going to get in my way.’

‘Of course, my lady. I wouldn’t want to disturb you,’ Kael said, and left before he accidentally killed her.

Ishtaer awoke to the sway and creak of a ship and every one of her muscles tensed in immediate, helpless panic. Or at least they tried to. Her body felt sluggish, heavy, the way it had felt in that cell after days of eating snow and licking the moss from the walls.

The ship …

She couldn’t remember why the thought frightened her so much. She didn’t remember a ship of any kind. Didn’t remember anything before Ladyship. But the smell of the sea and the rocking of the bunk on which she lay, and the creak of the ship’s timbers, the calls of the crew to one another, all brought back a deep, paralysing terror.

Bad things happened on ships.

When the door opened she tried to still herself, to feign sleep, but the erratic rise and fall of her chest gave her away. A man spoke, but she couldn’t make out his words, her blood was pounding in her ears, her own breath rattling and scraping so loudly it deafened her.

‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please don’t …’

A hand held her head still. Something was pressed to her lips. Unable to fight, her weak and treacherous body letting her down again, she thrashed uselessly, sobbing with blind panic.

The next time she woke the lethargy was gone from her limbs. She was still on the ship. Still in the bunk.

A hand held hers.

‘Now, no theatrics this time,’ said a deep voice, the warlord’s voice. ‘No one’s going to hurt you, Ishtaer.’

Ishtaer. My name is Ishtaer.

She yanked her hand back, but he held firm. Her heart hammered so fast and hard she thought it would break right out of her chest. She felt like a rabbit, inches from the jaws of a mad dog, panicked and utterly helpless.

‘You gave poor Karnos a black eye,’ said the warlord, ‘which I have to say was actually quite impressive given the level of sedation you were under. Perhaps I ought to take that Warrior mark more seriously.’

She cowered, waiting for the inevitable punishment.

Instead, the warlord sighed. ‘I said I’m not going to hurt you,’ he told her. ‘Only cowards pick on the weak, and you, little Ishtaer, are about as weak as they get. Now. Can you promise me you’re not going to try and fight me?’

Her breath jerked in and out in shallow pants.

‘Ah, so that’s it,’ he murmured after a long pause. ‘That little episode in the guest quarters. You think I’m going to take advantage of you? Look—’ he sighed again, his thumb idly rubbing the back of her hand. ‘That wasn’t my finest hour. I’m sorry. I thought – well, I don’t know what I thought. That Samara might punish you for not giving me what I wanted. Which, ironically, isn’t what I wanted.’

He paused.

‘I mean – look, we both know why she sent you to me. You did say you were willing. But having seen more of Samara’s handiwork I can tell that’s not exactly true. You wanted to please her, didn’t you? Not me.’

Ishtaer licked her lips. She nodded.

‘She told you to give me what I wanted.’

Ishtaer nodded again.

‘And did you want to do that? Did you want me?’

She couldn’t answer. He’d be so angry.

‘I won’t get angry,’ he said, and that was so like what she’d been thinking that she was startled into honesty.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want it. I’m sorry, I— I didn’t know what to …’

His hand squeezed hers, unexpectedly comforting. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘My ego will recover. And listen, just for the record, I don’t take unwilling women. Never have, never will, don’t tolerate it among my men. If your eyes worked properly I’d take you to see what decorates the prow of my ship, but I don’t suppose there’s any sense in scaring you. Suffice it to say that not one man on this ship will touch you unless you ask him to. I promise you that. They’re all far too frightened of me to even think about it.’