No Yilanè could lie. There was only immobility, or lack of expression to conceal one’s thoughts. A statement was a thought and a thought was a statement. The act of speaking was one with the act of thinking.
But not with the ustuzou.
It could think one thing and speak another. It could appear quiet and docile, then say it was choking—when all of the time it was only thinking of escape. It could lie.
This creature must be kept alive, cherished, guarded—and prevented from escaping. The future was gray and formless and Vaintè was not sure of the details. But she knew with positive assurance that the ustuzou was her future. She would use it and its ability to lie. Use it to climb, use it to reach the summit of her ambitions.
But now she must put all thoughts of this impossible talent from her own mind. She must order things done so that none of the others should know. She would order all discussion of the escape forbidden. Should Stallan die? For a moment she considered it—then rejected it. The hunter was too valuable. Stallan would obey the order for silence, would enjoy obeying it since she would certainly remember how close she had been to death before Vaintè’s anger. When she had composed herself Vaintè drew Enge’s attention.
“Is the creature badly hurt?”
“I cannot tell. It is bruised and cut, but that could be all. See, it stirs, its eyes are open.”
Kerrick looked up blurredly at the two murgu standing above him. He had failed to escape, he hurt, and he had failed. There would be another time.
“Tell me what you feel,” Vaintè ordered, and he was surprised at the worry in her words.
“I hurt. All over.” He moved his arms and legs. “That is all. I hurt all over.”
“That is because you tried to escape,” Vaintè said. “You took your chance when Stallan let go of your leash. I will arrange matters in the future so that this will never happen again.”
Kerrick was not too tired or sore to notice the elision in Vaintè’s words, the obvious leaving out of a statement. Vaintè must know what he had said to Stallan to make her drop the leash. Enge did not notice, but he did. He saw that knowledge and wondered at it, then forgot it. He hurt too much.
One of Vanalpè’s students came and dressed his wounds—and after that he was left completely alone for many days while they healed. The student brought food every morning, then checked the progress of his healing. There were no more language lessons—nor did he have to suffer the attentions of the dreaded Stallan. His manacles were removed, but the door was always securely locked.
When the pain lessened enough he thought about his attempt to escape—and what had gone wrong. He would not be trapped that way next time. He would avoid the false vines, leap over them, and flee into the jungle.
Had he really seen the bearded face there among the leaves? Or was it just wishing, hoping, that had placed it there? He could not be sure. Maybe it was only his desire that someone be there, waiting. It did not matter. He did not need any help. Just the chance to run. The next time they would not stop him.
Day after slow day passed until his wounds had healed and the scabs had fallen away, leaving white scars in their place. The student still examined him closely every morning when she brought the food. When all the bruises on his skull were healed she brought the unutakh to remove the long stubble of hair that had grown. After this he became used to the creature’s slimy ministrations once again. The door was always sealed when the student was with him, and he could feel the ominous presence of Stallan on the other side of it. There was no escape that way. But they would not keep him in this chamber forever.
On the day the student came in, moving with excitement, he knew that something was going to happen. She washed him and carefully inspected his body, saw that his skin pouch was decently in place, then crouched and watched the door. Kerrick knew better than to ask the creature what was happening. She never spoke to him or answered his questions. So he sat back and looked at the entrance as well.