Isles of the Forsaken by Ives Gilman Carolyn

Author:Ives Gilman, Carolyn [Ives Gilman, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781926851983
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2012-04-15T07:00:00+00:00

10.

Night of the Bonfire

When Nathaway’s wits returned to him, it was morning. He was lying in a room with a slanted ceiling, like an attic, and some sparse, battered furniture. Over by a dormer window sat a plain, solidly built Adaina woman, working at a

small table. He squinted to see what she was doing. She took a cloth bag from

a pile and put it on the table. From a wooden keg next to her she carefully measured three cups of sand into the bag, then started to sew it up with a needle and thread. Unable to make sense of this activity, Nathaway groped for his

glasses on the floor beside his bed, where he always put them. They weren’t there.

His movement attracted the woman’s attention and she came over to his side. He realized it was Strobe’s daughter.

“I ought to know your name,” he said.

“It’s Tway,” she answered. She had a competent, take-charge air, like a nurse or a teacher.

“You’re from Yora,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“But we’re on Thimish now.”

“Right again. Your brains seem to have survived. I guess you Innings must be as thick-headed as we always thought.”

She sat beside him on the bed, took a cloth from his forehead, rinsed it in a bowl of water on the nightstand, and put it back. It smelled of herbs. Her hands were gentle. It reminded him—

“That Grey Man,” he said. Then, uncertainly, “Was there a Grey Man here?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Did he . . . do anything?”

“No,” she said. “You made it pretty clear you didn’t want him to, before you passed out. He said he could still help you, even unconscious, but Harg wouldn’t let him. He said it would be like rape. Harg’s strange on the subject. But then, so are you.”

Once again Nathaway found himself grateful for Harg’s exposure to civilization.

“Where are my glasses?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Tway said. “Lost.”

“I couldn’t see what you’re doing.”

She glanced back at the table, stacked with finished cloth bags. “Oh. I’m sewing up cannon cartridges.”

“You mean that’s gunpowder?”

“Yes.”

There was enough of it in this small room to level a building. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?” Nathaway said.

She shrugged. “I needed something useful to do, and you weren’t throwing off many sparks.”

He wanted to sit up, but was afraid to move and make the pain in his head come back.

“Hungry? Thirsty?” Tway said.

“Yes,” he admitted.

She went to the door and knocked on it. There was a rattle of a key in the lock, and someone opened it from outside. They exchanged some words, then the door closed again. The bolt shot home.

Frowning, Nathaway said, “Why is the door locked?”

Tway regarded him with crossed arms. “You’re a prisoner.”

This time he did sit up, despite the wave of aching dizziness, feeling like the situation demanded some action. From earliest childhood he had known that he could be a target of kidnappers. His mother had always said, “Don’t be afraid, just prudent.” He had spent his life alert, and nothing had ever happened.

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