by Karen Miller
How can it be right that gold can buy new curtains or a man? What kind of a world equates Zandakar with a bolt of cloth? Something to be purchased?
“Please, Ursa,” he added. “I will explain later, as much as I can. But for now could you get your pills and potions and come home with me? I don’t think this poor fellow should be kept waiting for help any longer, do you?”
“Turn the cart around,” said Ursa curtly, pulling the blanket and canvas back over her newest patient. “And wait.”
As she marched away he looked at the sick man’s shrouded shape. “Don’t you worry, Zandakar. Ursa’s the best physick in Kingseat. You’ll be up and around again in no time, I promise.” Which didn’t look very likely, in truth, but was the kind of thing Ursa insisted sick people needed to hear.
Except he won’t understand me, and I don’t understand him, and how we’re supposed to make head or tail of each other I’m sure I haven’t the first idea.
With an energetic “hup-hup” to Otto he coaxed the cart in the opposite direction. A few moments later Ursa came out of her front door, a bulky, battered leather bag slung over one shoulder and a frown on her face.
“I’ve left a note for Bamfield,” she said, climbing into the cart. “He can manage the clinic on his own for one day. If he can’t then I’m not the teacher I think I am.”
“Thank you, Ursa,” he said quietly. “You won’t regret this.”
She gave him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jones. I’m regretting it already.” She stowed her bag between them and twitched the reins from his fingers. “I’ll drive. You’re slower than an arthritic hen. Come on, Otto, you lazy thing, get a move on or I’ll tan your hide for my winter boots, just see if I don’t!”
Otto flailed his long ears and got a move on.
The journey was completed in ominous silence. Glancing often at Ursa’s set, uncommunicative face, Dexterity pinned his damp hands between his knees.
Oh dear, she’s angry. I knew she would be. But how could I not buy the poor man? Even if Hettie hadn’t told me I must, how could I leave him in that hellish slave ship? I only wish I could’ve bought them all.
They reached home, eventually. Leaving Otto hitched in the cottage’s rear yard, Ursa led the way into the small kitchen. She was stringently clear as to how she wanted things to proceed, which involved clearing Hettie’s long kitchen table and spreading it with an old, thick blanket, boiling a large pot of water for the scalding of soft cloths she had him fetch from the ragbag, and keeping out from underfoot as she ranged her jars and pots and muslin bags of ointments and salves and possets and so forth along the nearby bench. Rolls of bandages she’d brought with her too, and these she set out from small to large, along with the pins to fasten them. She asked for a tub to be placed on the floor at one end of the table, and an armful of clean towels. Then she set out her scissors, shears, tweezers, razor, needles and threads close to hand, and surveyed all with pleased eagle eyes.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s fetch in this Zandakar, shall we?”
For all the skin and boniness of him the man with blue hair was still a weight to carry into the kitchen and lay face-up on the table, where he lolled unconscious, breathing in slow, shallow gasps.
Dexterity uncricked his back. “I must see to Otto. Will you be all right for the while?”
“Of course,” Ursa replied absently, staring at the man on the table. “He’s in no fit state to be thinking of starting a ruckus. Be off to your donkey but don’t dawdle out there, Jones. This is a job for two and no mistake.”
So he unharnessed poor long-suffering Otto, and made up for all this early-morning bustle with extra oats and a generous dollop of molasses.
As he stamped back into the kitchen Ursa said, “Water’s boiling. Put the rags in it then scrub yourself to the elbows, if you please. Use the soap in the green jar by the sink.”
She snapped out orders like a noble but there was no point protesting. It was easier just to do as he was told. “So, Ursa. What do you make of him, then?” he asked, lathering his arms with the yellow paste in the jar. The man with blue hair lay very still, seemingly stuporous, with his eyes half-opened and his hands lax by his sides.
Ursa stood back from the table and balanced her chin on her fingers, frowning gently. “Well, I’d say he’s no older than thirty, at the most. Before this he was strong, fit and healthy. He has good bones, good teeth. There used to be muscle, too, before starvation wasted him. He led an active life, but a hard one. There are old scars beneath the new ones. Some look like wounds from a bladed weapon. At least that’s my guess. I think others were caused by arrows. One of those has been tattooed. Very odd.”
Surprised, Dexterity looked again at the man he’d bought. Bladed weapons? Arrows? “He’s a warrior?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ve heard there are warrior tribes still in less-civilised lands. Far, far to the east. Of course that could just be romantic rumour. You know what sailors are like.”
Finished with his scrubbing, he reached for a towel and dried his arms. “You think he’s from the east?”
“I don’t know, Jones. All I can tell you is I’ve not seen another man like him. I’ve seen races with dark skin before. We all have. Icthians. The Keldrave. But a dark race with blue eyes and blue hair? Never.”
An unknown warrior. A man of violence. Lying on Hettie’s kitchen table … He cleared his throat. “Do you think he might be dangerous?”
Ursa looked at him. “Do you really need me to answer that?”
“I’m sure he’s not,” he said, feeling anything but sure. Then he was ashamed. Hettie wouldn’t put me in danger. This man won’t hurt me even if he is a warrior. Haven’t I saved his life? Once he’s better I expect we’ll become the best of friends. I’ll just be certain not to leave any knives lying about .
Ursa shook her head. “Let’s hope you’re right, Jones, for your sake. Has he spoken to you?”
“Yes. On the slave ship. But I couldn’t understand a word,” he said, spreading the damp towel over the sink’s edge to dry. “It was a tongue I’ve never heard before and we hear most foreign tongues these days, in Kingseat.”
“We certainly do,” she said thoughtfully. “Did you ask the slavers about him?”
“There was no time. The sailor I bought him from had no business selling me a slave but he was greedy for gold. He couldn’t see the back of us fast enough.”
“And why exactly did you buy this man?” she demanded, then lifted a hand. “No. Don’t tell me, let me guess. Hettie told you.”
Helpless, he looked at her. “I’m sorry, Ursa. But you don’t want me to lie, do you?”
“Believe me, I’m tempted,” she retorted. Then she relented. “But it’s done now. We’ll talk about it later. All that matters for the moment is physicking the poor wretch.” She nodded at the pot of boiling rags. “Empty that.”
He glanced over his shoulder as he strained the steaming water out of the pot, leaving the scalded rags to cool. “I’ve never seen anyone so badly mishandled. The poor fellow’s not dying, is he?”
“No,” sighed Ursa. “But if he’d stayed on that slave ship much longer he’d be more than dying, he’d be stone-cold dead.”
Dexterity joined her beside Hettie’s table and frowned at the naked man he’d bought. No, rescued. Whoever this Zandakar proved to be, one thing was certain. He was no longer a slave. “So … what’s wrong with him?”
Ursa snorted. “You’d get a shorter answer if you asked me what was right.” She pointed to a round, raised ugly scar on his breast. “See that? It’s a brand. About half a year old, I’m guessing. It got badly infected after it was burned into him, see the old pustules? And the way the surrounding muscle has pitted?” Gently she took the blue-haired man by his right shoulder and rolled him towards her. “And these whip marks? Inflicted about the same time, the earliest ones. Some are far more recent, obviously.” With enormous care she let him settle onto his back again. “The rest of
his troubles are a result of captivity, forced marching, being chained in tight quarters without fresh air, fresh water or decent food. He’s running a fever and there’s been a blow to the head, too. Bad. It’s a wonder his skull wasn’t cracked like an egg-shell.”
Sickened, Dexterity stared at his unexpected … guest. “But you can heal him, Ursa, can’t you? It’s very important that you heal him.” I know that much, if I don’t know anything else .
“I can try,” Ursa said grimly. “But Jones, this is a sick man who’s been brutally mishandled. And even if I can heal his body there might be damage to his mind, his soul, that no amount of physicking can repair. You need to brace yourself for that. I know my job but I’m not a miracle worker. Whatever you think you need this Zandakar for, I wouldn’t be making any plans just yet.”
Oh dear. “Ursa, I’m afraid I don’t have the first idea why I need him. All I know is I had to get him off that slave ship. As for the rest …” He spread his hands wide. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Ursa just looked at him. “Yet you risked yourself to buy him because Hettie said so?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re determined to keep him here, in your home, even though he might be dangerous, because Hettie said so?”
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.”