The Thousand Names Part 17

Winter went to the wagon, intending to circle to the open tailgate and peer underneath. Halfway there, though, she saw the pale shape of a hand, palm up. Whoever was under the wagon had been caught when it overturned, one arm pinned to the dirt by one of the wooden walls. No wonder she can't move. The flesh of the forearm was angry red and purple where the board pressed against it.

"Folsom!" Winter said. "Can you shift this?"

The big corporal approached, looking speculative, and circled around to the rear, where he could get a grip on the bed. He gave it a tentative pull and grimaced.

"Not much," he said. "We'd need a couple more men to flip it."

"Just lift it a little," Winter said. "Only for a minute."

By now he'd seen the hand, and he nodded grimly. He squatted, put both hands under the bed, and straightened up with a grunt. The wagon came up with him, wheels spinning slowly.

The girl screamed, high and piercing. Winter took one look at her outflung arm, which had an extra bend above the elbow where the wagon had been resting, and knelt down to grab her by the legs instead. She scrabbled for a moment in the semidarkness under the wagon, uncomfortably aware of the weight that would crash down on her back if Folsom's strength failed him, until she managed to get a grip and pull. The girl slid free, but her broken arm shifted, and she gave another shriek right in Winter's ear. Bobby grabbed her shoulders as they emerged and pulled her away from the wagon, and Folsom let the weight fall back to earth with a crash.

"Are you all right?" Winter asked in Khandarai. She got no response, and when she leaned closer she could see that the girl's eyes showed only the whites. Her gray skin seemed unnaturally pale.

"Dead?" Bobby asked.

Winter shook her head. The girl's chest moved, breath coming shallow and fast.

"Pa.s.sed out, I think. Her arm's broken." At first glance, there didn't seem to be any other wounds. "We'll have to carry her."

"Carry her where?" Bobby said.

"Back to camp," Winter said. "And-"

"To a regimental surgeon?" Bobby said.

That brought Winter up short. If the officers were turning a blind eye to rape and murder, she doubted the surgeons would have much time for an injured grayskin.

"Back to my tent, then," Winter said. She wondered if someone had set up their tents, or if they'd all been written off for dead.

"Someone will see," Bobby said. "What are you going to tell them?"

There was a long pause while Winter chewed her lip.

"Wrap her in a blanket," Folsom said, dusting off his hands. "Another wounded man carried into camp. n.o.body'll notice."

Winter looked down at the unconscious girl. She had a heart-shaped face, gray skin dusted with soot, and long, dark hair that was a ma.s.s of dirt and tangles. She wore only a simple gray robe, cinched at the waist with a wispy cord belt. Winter guessed she was younger than Bobby.

"We'll try it," she said. "And then I'll think of something."

a a a Getting the girl into camp was easier than Winter had dared hope. The Colonials had raised their tents upwind of the burning Redeemer camp, within easy distance of the little brook as it emerged from the valley and ran into the sea. The city of blue canvas was the same shape and size as ever, as though nothing had happened, and the sentries only looked them over briefly and then waved them through.

The Seventh Company's tents had indeed been erected along with the rest. Winter saw no one as she and the two corporals threaded their way to her own dwelling. It was after full dark, and if the rest of the men were as exhausted as she was, they were no doubt sound asleep. The need to collapse was almost overwhelming, but she held it off for the moment.

Folsom let the girl down on Winter's pallet. Her eyes were tightly closed now, and Winter couldn't tell if she was awake or not. A soft moan escaped her lips as her broken arm touched the ground.

"That needs tending," Folsom said.

Winter, finally sitting, was wondering if her legs would actually drop off. She gave a weak nod.

"Fetch . . ." She paused. Someone in the company had set broken arms before, surely, but inquiring openly would give the game away. "Bobby, fetch Graff. You'll probably have to wake him." The gruff corporal was a veteran. Doubtless he'd dealt with this sort of thing before.

"Right," Bobby said. The boy's eyes were bright with exhaustion, but he went nonetheless.

Folsom grunted and left the tent as well, returning a few moments later with a cracker of hardtack and a block of Khandarai cheese in one hand and a canteen in the other. These he offered to Winter, who took them gratefully. She'd had nothing to eat since morning but a few crumbs gobbled in haste in the ravine, and even dry the hardtack was welcome. The cheese was a touch overripe, but she sliced and devoured it anyway, and washed it down with the lukewarm water.

Graff pushed his way in, rubbing sleepy eyes, with Bobby behind him.

"Glad to see you made it, Sergeant," he said, "but I don't see-" He stopped when he saw the girl on the pallet. "Who's this, then?"

"We picked her up in the camp," Winter said quietly. "Her arm's broken. Can you do anything for her?"

Graff looked from Winter's face to Bobby's, uncertain. Then he shrugged.

"I'm no cutter, but I could wrap a splint. Did it break the skin?"

"Not that I saw," Winter said.

"Should be all right, then," he said. "It's not likely to fester, anyway. I'll need some clean cloth, and a length of board."

Bobby left again to fetch the supplies, and Graff went to the pallet to examine the girl. He nodded approvingly.

"Looks like a nice clean break," he said. Then, glancing at the tent flap, he lowered his voice. "Sergeant, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"No," Winter said truthfully. "But you saw the camp, didn't you?"

Graff shifted uncomfortably. "It's war."

"We heard her calling, and . . ." Winter shrugged. "I couldn't just leave her there."

The corporal was silent for a long moment. "Fair enough," he said, after a while. "The colonel said that we're staying camped here for at least another day, for the sake of the wounded. Hopefully she'll be well enough that we can turn her loose by the time we march."

"Thank you, Graff."

He colored slightly under his beard. "Not my place to question the sergeant's decisions."

Winter laughed, and Graff smiled.

"'Sides," he said gruffly, "it's us that should be thanking you. Every man of us. Even if most of those out there don't know it, I do. If you'd let them keep running, we'd all have ended up on spits."

Winter was taken aback. "I-it was just the right thing to do. You could have seen that as well as I did."

"Should have," Graff said. "But it was you that did it."

She nodded awkwardly. The conversation was interrupted when Bobby returned, bearing a selection of boards and a spare sheet ripped into strips. Graff took these implements and set to work, rolling the girl onto her back and gently stretching her arm out along the pallet. Her eyelids flickered, and she moaned again.

"Folsom, hold her down," Graff said. "Can't have her shifting about on us. Sergeant, she's going to scream . . ."

Winter cast about, found one of her discarded socks, and wadded it up. Murmuring apologies, she pushed it into the girl's slack mouth. Graff nodded and began his work. The flesh of the broken arm moved sickeningly under his fingers, and Winter had to look away. The girl's jaw tightened on the sock, as though she wanted to bite through it, but she gave no sound. After a few moments, the procedure was done, and Graff was winding her arm round with linen.

"That should hold it," he said. "If she starts to show fever, we'll have to unwrap it and take a look. If it's festered after all, then the arm will have to come off." He caught Winter's eye. "And don't look to me for that."

Winter nodded. "Thanks again."

"It's nothing." He tied the linen off and got to his feet. "Now, if the sergeant will excuse me, I'll be going back to bed."

"Go," Winter said. "All of you. Get some sleep."

"What about her?" Bobby said. "Someone should watch her. What if she wakes up?"

"Hopefully she'll have enough sense to stay quiet," Winter said.

"Or she'll slit your throat," Graff said. "She's a grayskin, after all's said and done."

Winter gave a tired shrug. "If you find me with my throat slit in the morning, you'll know what's happened."

The three corporals grumbled a bit more, but in the end they left. Winter gathered the sheet and pillow from her bedroll to soften the hard earth, and stretched out. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, but she was asleep the instant her eyes closed.

a a a Jane sat beside Winter on a long bench, watching Mrs. Wilmore lecture on the nature of charity.

Winter was afraid to turn her head. There were proctors prowling about, with sharp eyes and vicious switches. But she could catch glimpses of Jane out of the corner of her eye, red hair falling around her face like a curtain of dark crimson silk. She could smell her, even under the deep, earthy scent they all carried from working in the Prison gardens.

She could feel Jane's hand on her knee, thumb rubbing tiny circles through coa.r.s.e fabric. Inch by inch, the hand ventured higher, fingers exploring her thigh like mariners venturing into uncharted waters. Her skin pebbled into goose b.u.mps, and her throat was tight. She wanted to tell Jane to stop, certain that at any moment she would hear the whistle of a proctor's stick. And she also wanted to grab Jane by the shoulders, press her close- "You still have it?" Jane said. Her fingers slid farther upward, Winter's skirt bunching around them.

Winter risked turning her head, but Jane wasn't looking at her. Her eyes were hidden by the fall of her hair.

"Do I have what?" Winter whispered.

"The knife," Jane said, too loud. "You have to bring the knife-"

a a a Light, filtered gray-blue through canvas. It took Winter a moment to remember where she was-not back in the Prison, nor back in the ravine, with Khandarai hors.e.m.e.n all around, but safe in her tent in the midst of the Colonial camp.

And not alone. She sat up from her improvised bed and immediately regretted it. Her body felt like a solid ma.s.s of aches and bruises, and the sweat and grime of the previous day had dried into a crust on her skin. She leaned forward, clutching her head, and groped for a canteen. The water was tepid, but it cut through the dust in her mouth.

The Khandarai girl lay on the bedroll beside her. She was exactly where they'd left her the night before, and so still it was a moment before Winter realized that she was awake. Her eyes tracked Winter, but other than that she didn't move a muscle. It reminded Winter of a rabbit, paralyzed by the glare of a stalking fox. Winter cleared her throat and spoke in Khandarai.

"It's all right," she said. "We're not going to hurt you."

The girl seemed to unfreeze a little, but made no reply.

"How do you feel?" Winter indicated her own left arm. "Does it hurt badly?"

"Where am I?" the girl said.

Her speech had an almost musical lilt, and Winter was suddenly painfully aware of the grating inadequacy of her Khandarai p.r.o.nunciation. She'd picked the language up in bits and pieces from books, once she'd taught herself to read the flowing Khandarai script, and she'd practiced in bars and on the street. Unconsciously, she'd adopted the accent, which meant that she sounded distinctly lower-cla.s.s to Khandarai ears.

"In our camp," Winter said. "This is my tent."

"Camp," the girl said. "The raschem camp."

Raschem was "bodies" or "corpses," Khandarai slang for Vordanai and other pale-skinned foreigners. Winter nodded.

The girl suddenly fixed her with a long stare. Her eyes were the peculiar purple-gray common among the Khandarai, which foreigners often found unsettling.

"Why?" she said. "Why did you bring me here?"

"We found you in . . . the burned camp." Winter groped for the words. "We did not want to leave you to die. Do you remember?"

"Remember?" The girl raised her broken, splinted arm. "I am not likely to forget. But I do not understand. Your soldiers were killing everyone. Taking the women first, and then-" Her gray skin paled. "Have you brought me to-"

"No," Winter said hastily. "Nothing like that. I swear."

"Then why?" The purple eyes were mistrustful.

Winter felt like she couldn't muster a sufficient explanation in her native language, let alone pick her way through it in Khandarai. She changed the subject.

"My name is Winter," she said. "Winter-dan-Iherngla.s.s, you would say." She mustered the politest language she had. "May I know yours?"

"Feor," the girl said. Catching Winter's expression-Khandarai invariably went by both given and family names-she added, "Just Feor. I am a mistress of the G.o.ds. We give up our other names." She looked warily around the tent. "May I have some water?"

Winter handed the canteen across wordlessly, and Feor took it in her good hand and drank deeply, letting the last drops fall on her tongue. She licked her lips, catlike, and set it carefully aside.

"I'll get some more," Winter said. "And some food. You must be hungry."

When she started to rise, the girl held up a hand. "Wait."

Obediently, Winter stopped and sat down again. Feor fixed her with that peculiar gaze.

"I am your prisoner?"

Winter shook her head. "Not a prisoner. Not really. We just wanted to help you."

"Then I can leave as I please?"

"No!" Winter sighed. "If you go out into the camp, someone really will take you prisoner. Or just kill you, or-"

Realization dawned on the girl's face. "They don't know. The others, they don't know that you've brought me here."

"Only a few. People I trust." And how had that come to be? Winter reflected. She'd known the three corporals for only a few days. Battle worked strange magic sometimes. "We'll figure something out, I promise. But for now you have to stay here."

Feor nodded gravely. "As you say." She put her head on one side. "When you . . . found me, was there a man nearby? A large man, with no hair."

Her face gave no indication of her feelings on the matter. Winter debated briefly.

"Yes," she said eventually. "He's dead."

"Dead," Feor repeated. "Dead. That is good."