“Jacob fought all the guards!” Skrew whispered. “He did this and that!” The vrak demonstrated what I’d done with karate-like movements. He must have thought he could replay his routine since we’d arrived.
“I was there,” I growled, “I know.” I tried to ignore him as I put the old woman down. She sat there, unmoving and shaking.
“Then Jacob smashed the two noggins together like kako shells! Bonk! It was amaze! Skrew never saw thing like it before! It was such gore and pain!” He cackled madly at his own recollection.
“Skrew!” I shouted. I immediately regretted it when the old woman flinched at my raised voice.
“Yes?” Skrew said, arms frozen in a sort-of-karate position.
“We need food. Something she and I can eat. It’s important. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Skrew said, dark eyes becoming round. “Skrew will do this for Jacob. How much food?”
I thought about how much time I needed without him and the possibility that he might find something right away. I did a little math and came up with an answer. “Three days’ worth. Four if you can manage.”
Skrew frowned. It was the biggest vrak frown I’d ever seen. “But that could take Skrew a whole day.”
“Then, you’d better get started,” I said without looking at him.
“Skrew will do as Master says,” he confirmed before walking away.
“Master?” Did he call me “Master?” I turned to ask him about it when the old woman made a sound of pain.
I turned back and found her inspecting her left forearm. She had bruises all the way from her thumb to her elbow. Her skin was remarkably smooth, and I started to wonder if Skrew’s description of her ugliness had been entirely accurate.
I climbed into the cave, tore a piece of fabric from one of the blankets and sat at her side. “I need to clean you up a bit to check for injuries—see if you have anything serious. Will you let me?”
“You killed my master,” she said. “You are my new master.” Her accent was strange to me. Some people rolled their R’s when they spoke. She rolled several letters and added the sound in places I hadn’t expected. I found it intriguing, charming, and exotic.
“I’m not your master,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “I’m nobody’s master. Don’t listen to Skrew. He’s crazy.”
“You are not my master?”
“No. Nobody is your master. You are free.” I tried to sound as authoritative as I could without coming off as intimidating. I didn't want to scare her, but I wanted her to know it was true.
“May I remove my hood?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
“Remove it or not; it’s up to you,” I reminded her. “You are your own woman. You can do what I say or not. You won’t get punished. I won’t hurt you.” I let go of her hands and lowered mine to my sides, trying to emphasize the point.
She reached up with both filthy hands and pulled the hood of her rags back to reveal something more shocking than I’d been prepared to see. I made a mental note to learn more about Skrew’s definition of beauty because his and mine were nothing alike.
Her hair was so blonde, it was almost white, but there wasn’t a wrinkle on her face. Her skin was as white as ivory, and her eyes were as blue as the seas of Deepwater. She was thin but not sickly, and she trembled a little when I stroked her hand with the wet cloth, cleaning it so I could see her injuries. She was also definitely human.
Thin scars crossed her fingers, and I found a few on the backs of her hands. They didn’t look like wounds from fighting or even abuse. They were from working with primitive tools. I hadn’t noticed any tools when I’d rescued her from Cobble and ruined any chance he had at becoming a famous vrak baritone singer.
The only fresh wounds I found were on her knuckles. I’d been in enough fights to see the wounds for what they were. I hoped the scabs had been earned beating her captor to a pulp and wondered if that was why he’d been so angry with her.
“I am free,” she whispered. “I am not a slave.” Her eyes were unfocused, staring at a point in the sky a million miles away as if she was dreaming or remembering something long forgotten.
“That’s right,” I said. “May I see your arms?”
She offered her left arm first, holding the wide sleeve with her opposite hand while I used a little water to rinse the dirt from the cloth. The robe, it seemed, was more function than fashion. A one-size-fits-all-slaves variety of outerwear. When I lifted my eyes to see her arm, I had to stifle a gasp.
Bruises. To the untrained eye, the patchwork of purple, yellow, and brown might resemble some kind of horrible disease, slowly eating away at her otherwise beautiful arm. But no, they were definitely bruises.
I’d spent a year of my career training at the Ricci-8 penal colony as a medic. It was good training, and the prisoners there deserved the harsh conditions they subjected one another to. I’d learned to stitch and seal knife wounds, to identify blunt force trauma, and how to conduct advanced life-saving measures with minimal equipment or support. The kind of injuries I saw on this worman were from hard, constant pressure like a vrak might do by squeezing with a powerful three-fingered fist.
The bruises were layered. Some were almost healed, while others were no more than a day or two old. There were patches of red skin that made her flinch when I brushed them with the cool cloth.
“How long were you a slave?” I asked. I felt the need to say something, rather than sitting in silence, but I wasn’t sure she wanted to talk.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “At least three
