The Riddle - Alison Croggon [156]
She sat on the bed and waited. For the moment, there was nothing else to do.
She didn’t know how long it was before someone finally appeared. The light in her room was unchanging, giving no idea of the passing of time. She struggled against the overwhelming temptation to go back to sleep: she was determined to be conscious next time someone came into her room.
But after a time somebody did come, and they seemed reassuringly human. A small, fat old woman wearing a scarf knotted around her head entered the room without announcing herself, carrying a tray on which was laid a bowl full of something steaming.
“Hello,” Maerad said in Jussack, thinking this the most likely language to try first.
The woman smiled, her face creasing into a cobweb of wrinkles. “You are awake, then. I will tell the master.”
“The master?” Maerad eyed the bowl, which smelled tantalizingly delicious, but she did not stretch out her hands to take it: more than food, she wanted information. “Who is the master?”
“He is our kind lord and master,” said the old woman. “He will see you soon.”
“But what is his name?”
“He does not have a name,” said the woman. “He is too big for a name. He is our master. Here, take the soup.” When Maerad would not take it, the woman laid the tray on the table beside the bed and turned to leave.
“Then what’s your name?” asked Maerad hurriedly, wanting her to stay. “And where am I? And what happened to my hand?”
“You are here, in the palace of the master. And my name is Gima, young fish. Oh, you were a sick girl when you came in.” She clicked her tongue, as Mirka had done. “The frost bit your fingers off, silly girl. But now you are getting better, no? Soon you will be well enough to meet him.”
“Do you mean the Winterking?” asked Maerad.
“I don’t know who that is,” said the woman cheerfully. “Maybe someone calls him that. Here, he is just the master.”
Maerad gave up; her stomach was growling, and it seemed that Gima had no intention of telling her anything useful. “Will you come back?” she asked as the woman left.
“Soon, soon . . .” She lifted the hanging, and was gone.
Maerad devoured the meal ravenously. She had been starving. She pushed the bowl aside, feeling more substantial than before. Perhaps she could think about walking a bit. She massaged her legs, which looked thin and wasted, and then thought that she ought to get dressed. She had just decided to unpack her spare clothes, filthy as they were, when Gima came in again, bearing a long robe lined with white fur, a rich crimson dress and fine woolen leggings, and some finely embroidered felt shoes.
“I will wash these for you,” she said, gathering Maerad’s clothes up and slinging them over her arm. “These are for you, as ordered by the master.”
“But who is he?” asked Maerad, irritated. “And where am I?”
Gima simply chuckled and patted her head. “Don’t you worry about that, little fish. Just get dressed, and then maybe we will take you to him, eh?” She took the tray and disappeared.
Maerad shrugged. It would be better to put on clean clothes. And if she were to see the master, whoever he was, it would be better to be finely dressed. She put on the dress and robe, stood up, and tried walking from one end of the room to the other. Her legs were not so bad; maybe she had just been hungry.
As if Gima had been waiting, she entered the room almost immediately. “Good,” she said cheerfully. “You are dressed. Well, come along.”
Maerad, whose only thought had been to get out of the chamber and to see where she was, immediately felt rebellious. “Where?” she snapped. “Why won’t you answer? Are you stupid?” She used a Jussack word for “stupid” that she knew was particularly insulting, but Gima didn’t even blink.
“Oh, you are so full of questions. Silly, silly girl. Come, come.” She chivvied and coaxed Maerad as if she were a particularly slow child, and Maerad found she was following Gima along the white corridors. She was suspicious of everything in this strange place, and inclined to be