The Riddle - Alison Croggon [147]
She stank of blood. Dharin’s blood had soaked into her fur coat, and although the worst of it had been cleaned off, the fur along her collar was rough with it and she could feel the dry clots in her hair. It was Dharin, the last thing she had of him, and she did not complain. And then her period began and she felt as if her whole body were weeping blood, that she slept and woke in its sour smell.
There was one man who, it seemed, had been given the duty of keeping her alive. At first, he looked to Maerad like all the other Jussacks: they were all as pale-skinned as Maerad, with long blond hair, long plaited beards, and pale blue eyes rimmed by blue tattoos. She didn’t seek to differentiate one from the other: to Maerad they were all nameless savages.
This Jussack was not quite as tall as the others, and despite the tattoos, in other circumstances Maerad might have thought he had a pleasant face. When he needed to clean her, which he did using a cloth soaked in a kind of clarified fat or oil, he was always respectful, almost apologetic. And his feeding of her was, if practical and brusque, not without gentleness. Maerad noted these things unwillingly. She did not spit in his face now, but she would not respond to his attempts to communicate, even though sometimes it was clear that he was trying to tell her his name and was asking hers. She pretended she didn’t understand.
Shortly after dreams and reality untangled themselves, she was inspected by the sorcerer, who was the leader of the small troupe. He looked her over as if she were goods that must be brought intact to their destination. The sleds had stopped, and as she had been every night, Maerad was carried into one of the Jussack tents and laid on the floor. The sorcerer entered, stooping in the tiny space, and inspected her. Maerad became aware of his gaze and opened her eyes. He was clearly a Dhillarearën, but the bile rose in her throat. There was a wrongness in his Gift that she had not sensed in the other Unschooled Bards she had met — Sirkana or Inka-Reb. But he was not a Hull. Somehow, thought Maerad, he was something worse: darkness twisted within him like a poisonous smoke.
“Who are you, to look at me?” she said in the Speech. Her voice was harsh with disuse.
The sorcerer looked back at her expressionlessly, although she saw the muscles around his eyes flinch in distaste. “I am who I am,” he said. “You are no one, to ask such a thing.”
“You murdered my friend,” said Maerad. “Why have you not killed me?”
“You killed a man,” said the sorcerer. “The punishment for that is death. But we have other plans for you. They are not your concern.”
“You are all base murderers,” answered Maerad. Her mind was slow and thick, and she felt too tired to argue. “That man would not have died if you had not attacked us. It’s your fault he died, not mine.”
“Be that as it may,” he answered. “You are ours now.”
“I belong to no one.” A dull rage rose inside her. “You have no right . . .”
He stared at her with contempt. “You are a woman. Be silent.”
If Maerad had been in possession of her powers, she would have blasted him into nothing with no compunction. She stared back at him with loathing, refusing to lower her eyes. Something faltered in his gaze, and instead of challenging her, he turned away.
“Why have you captured me?” asked Maerad. “Where are you taking me?” But the man would not answer her.
He examined her as if she were a piece of livestock, looking at her teeth and inside her mouth and checking her limbs. Furious at the indignity, Maerad bit his hand, and he hit her across the jaw with a casual violence. What he saw clearly did not please him, and he spoke sharply to the Jussack, who trembled at his side, his head bowed in fear and humility. He picked up her left hand and pressed it. A little feeling came back into it, mostly pain. Then he gave the other Jussack what was clearly a long list of instructions and left the tent.
After