The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [133]
“Oh, horseshit and a pile of it!” Gerran lowered his sword. “You’re my prisoner.”
The Horsekin lad blinked, uncomprehending.
“Prisoner,” Gerran repeated. “Not kill you. Prisoner.”
“Ah! Slave.” Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Your slave now.”
“Not a slave, just a prisoner of war. A hostage.”
Again the uncomprehending stare. Gerran remembered the negotiations at Zakh Gral, and their early failure. The Horsekin didn’t take prisoners of war or hostages, nor did they want theirs back in return.
“Do you want to live?” Gerran said. “Or should I kill you quickly? Your choice.”
The Horsekin looked at his right hand, so badly broken in so many places, as if it belonged to someone else. The pain must have been winning the battle against the shock, Gerran figured, because the lad’s eyes filled with tears. He cradled the bleeding wrist with his good hand.
“Live or die?” Gerran said again.
The tears spilled and ran down, leaving trails in the dust and blood that allowed streaks of blue and red tattoos to show through.
“Live,” the lad whispered. “Your slave now.”
“Good,” Gerran said. “What’s your name?”
“Sharak.”
“Come with me, Sharak. The chirurgeon will bind that hand for you.”
Nicedd returned with the report that the woods were clear of enemies. Gerran told him to guard the menservants as they gathered fuel, then returned to camp, leading his prisoner. Although Raddyn the chirurgeon seemed surprised at Gerran’s request, he did agree to bind the lad’s hand for him.
“He’ll have information we need,” Gerran said. “Like how big the army was that his squad come from.”
“True spoken,” Raddyn said, then beckoned to Sharak. “All right, you! Hold out that paw!”
Sharak stared at him. The chirurgeon demonstrated by holding out his own hand, then pointed a finger at the Horsekin. The boy nodded docilely and followed the order. Gerran was just wondering if he should tie his prisoner up at night or suchlike when Salamander wandered over to join him.
“Nicedd told me you’d taken a prisoner,” Salamander said.
“That’s him.” Gerran jerked a thumb in Sharak’s direction. “You know somewhat about the Horsekin. He’s surrendered, but can we trust him? A Deverry man would know how to act when he was taken hostage, but what about the Horsekin? Do they understand honor?”
“About this, they do. If he thinks he’s your slave, he’ll be obedient. After all, they’d kill him if we sent him back.”
Sharak suddenly yelped in pain. Once again tears rolled down his dirty face. Raddyn was binding the wrist tight with wet linen.
“It’s not going to heal straight no matter what I do,” Raddyn remarked to Gerran. “And the fingers are hopeless. I’ve bound and splinted each one, but all he can do is keep them still and pray to his cursed goddess that they heal. When the linen dries, it’ll tighten. When we get back to Cengarn, I should be able to do a bit more for the wrist.”
Salamander turned to Sharak and spoke to him in the Horsekin tongue, eking out his small knowledge of the language with gestures. The boy nodded, then wiped his face on the sleeve of his good arm.
“Interesting,” Salamander said. “He knows some Deverrian.”
“A few words here and there,” Gerran said. “Like he’d just started learning it or suchlike.”
“In preparation for an invasion, I wonder?” Salamander raised both eyebrows high. “Or to handle slaves at least. Not a good omen, Gerro.”
“Ye gods!” Gerran felt suddenly cold. “I’d not thought of that.”
“Thinking isn’t your duty in life, though ’tis mine. Later, with your permission, I’ll want to question this lad.”
“Permission granted, of course.”
Raddyn made a sling out of a square of linen, settled the arm in, and tied the ends behind Sharak’s neck.
“He’s a brave lad,” Raddyn said to Gerran. “Most men