Sapphique

by Catherine Fisher

  “Only till I find someone better,” he said.

  THE QUEEN held a State dinner that evening in the Claimants’ honor.

  As Claudia sat at the long table licking the last traces of lemon syllabub from her spoon, she thought of her father. Seeing him had shaken her. He had looked thinner, his contempt less assured. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what he’d said. But surely Incarceron, the very intelligence the Sapienti had created, could never leave the Prison, because if it did all that would be left would be a dark shell of metal. Millions of Prisoners would die, without light, air, food. It had to be impossible.

  Trying not to think of it, she watched Finn anxiously through the candles and wax fruit and hothouse arrangements. He had been placed next to the Countess of Amaby, one of the teasing, mincing women of the Court who were fascinated by his moodiness, and who would gossip maliciously about him afterward. He seemed to be barely answering her endless chat, staring into his wine cup, and drinking too much, Claudia thought.

  “Poor Finn. He looks so unhappy,” the Pretender murmured.

  Claudia frowned. Queen Sia had placed the two Prince Gileses opposite each other, halfway down the table, and now from her throne was watching them both.

  “Yes. Well, that’s your fault.” Claudia put the spoon into her dish and looked straight at him. “Who are you? Who’s put you up to this?”

  The boy who called himself Giles smiled sadly. “You know who I am, Claudia. You just won’t admit it to yourself.”

  “Finn is Giles.”

  “No, he isn’t. It was convenient for you to believe that once. I don’t at all blame you. If I’d had to face marrying Caspar, I’d have done something as drastic, and I’m sorry for leaving you to such a fate … But you know you’d already started to doubt Finn even before I came back from the dead. Hadn’t you?”

  She watched him in the candlelight and he leaned back and smiled. Close to, his resemblance to Finn was astonishing, but it was as if they were strange twins—one bright, the other dark, one easy, the other tormented. Giles—she didn’t know what else to call him—wore a silk coat of peach satin, his dark hair perfectly groomed and tied in a black ribbon. His fingernails, she noticed, were manicured, the hands of someone who had never worked. He smelled of lemon and sandalwood. His table manners were exquisite.

  “You’re so sure of yourself,” she murmured. “But you have no idea what I think.”

  “Don’t I?” He leaned forward as the footmen cleared the dishes and set small gilt-edged plates. “We were always alike, Claudia. I used to say to Bartlett—”

  “Bartlett?” She stared at him, uneasy.

  “A dear old man who was my chamberlain. He was the one I talked to most, after Father died, about us, about our marriage. He said you were a haughty little thing, but he liked you.”

  She sipped her wine, barely tasting it. The things he said, his casual memories, disturbed her. A haughty little thing. The old man had written something almost identical in the secret testament she and Jared had found. And surely only they knew of its existence.

  As small dishes of strawberries were served she said, “If Giles was locked in Incarceron, the Queen was part of the plot. So she must know Finn is the real Prince.”

  He smiled, shaking his head, eating the fruit.

  “She doesn’t want Finn to be King,” Claudia went on, stubborn. “But if he died, it would be far too suspicious. So she decides to discredit him. First she needs to find someone who’s the same age, and who looks like him.”

  Giles said, “These strawberries are really wonderful.”

  “Did she send out messengers through the Realm?” Claudia dipped a finger in the bowl of rosewater. “They must have been delighted when they found you. A real look-alike.”

  “You really should try them.” His smile was warm.

  “A bit too sweet for me.”

  “Then let me.” He swapped his dish for hers, politely. “You were saying?”

  “Only two months to train you. Not enough, but you’re clever. You’d learn fast. First they’d use a skinwand, get the likeness exact. Then they’d drill you in etiquette, family history, what Giles ate, rode, liked, who he played with, what he studied. They’d teach you to ride and dance. They’d make you memorize his whole childhood.” She glanced at him. “They must have a few Sapienti in their pay. And they must have promised you a fortune.”

  “Or be holding my poor dear mother in a dungeon, maybe.”

  “Or that.”

  “But I’m to be King, remember?”

  “They’ll never let you be King.” Claudia glanced over at Sia. “They’ll kill you, when you’ve served your purpose.”

  For a moment he was silent, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin, and she thought she’d scared him. Then she saw he was gazing at Finn through the haze of candle smoke, and when he answered, his light humor had vanished. “I came back to save the Realm from being ruled by a thief and a murderer.” He turned. “And to save you from him too.”

  Startled, she glanced down. His fingers touched hers on the white tablecloth.

  Carefully, she drew her hand away. “I don’t need saving.”

  “I think you do. From that barbarian, and from my evil stepmother. We should stand together, Claudia. We should watch each other’s back, and think of the future.” He turned the crystal glass carefully. “Because I will be King. And I will need a Queen I can trust.”

  Before she could answer, a loud rapping came from the high end of the table. The majordomo was beating the floor with his staff. “Your excellencies. Lords, ladies, Masters. The Queen will speak.”

  The babble of chatter hushed. Claudia caught Finn’s dark glare, fixed on her; she ignored it and looked at Sia. The Queen was standing, a white figure, her pale neck glistening with a diamond necklace that caught the flamelight in its rainbow brilliants. She said, “Dear friends. Let me give you a toast.”

  Hands went to glasses. Down the table Claudia saw the peacock-bright coats of the men, and the women’s satins shimmer. Behind, in the shadows, rows of silent footmen waited.

  “To our two Claimants. To dear Giles.” She raised her glass archly to the Pretender, then turned to Finn. “And dear Giles.”

  Finn glowered. Someone tittered a nervous laugh. In the moment of tension no one seemed to breathe.

  “Our two Princes. Tomorrow the investigation will begin into their stories.” Sia’s voice was light; she smiled coyly. “This … rather unfortunate situation will be resolved. The true Prince will be discovered, I do assure you. As for the other, the Impostor, I’m afraid he will pay dearly for the inconvenience and anxiety he has caused our Realm.” Her smile was icy now. “He will be shamed and tortured. And then he will be executed.”

  Utter silence.

  Into it she said lightly, “But with a sword, not an ax. As befits royalty.” She raised her glass. “To Prince Giles of the Havaarna.”

  Everyone stood, in a rattle of chairs. “Prince Giles,” they murmured.

  As she drank, Claudia tried to hide her shock, tried to catch Finn’s eye, but it was too late. He stood slowly, as if the long tension of the meal had broken, glaring across at the Pretender. His stillness made the buzz and chatter subside into quiet curiosity.

  “I am Giles,” he said, “and Queen Sia knows it. She knows my memory was lost in Incarceron. She knows I have no hope of answering any of the Council’s questions.” The bitterness of his voice made Claudia’s heart thump. She put down her glass hurriedly and said, “Finn,” but he stormed on as if he hadn’t heard her, his gaze hard on the courtiers.

  “What should I do, ladies and gentlemen? Do you want me to take a DNA test? I’ll do it. But then, that wouldn’t be Protocol, would it? That would be forbidden! The technology for that is hidden and only the Queen knows where. And she’s not saying.”

  The guards at the door edged forward. One drew his sword.

  If Finn saw, he didn’t care. “There’s only one way to solv
e this, the way of honor, the way we’d do it in Incarceron.”

  He pulled a glove from his pocket, a studded gauntlet, and before Claudia realized what it meant he had shoved the dishes aside and flung it between the candles and flowers. It struck the Pretender full in the face; a shocked murmur rippled down the table.

  “Fight me.” Finn’s voice was thick with anger. “I challenge you. Any weapons. Your choice. Fight me for the Realm.”

  Giles’s face was white, his control icy. He said, “I would be most happy to kill you, sir, at any hour and with any weapon I can find.”

  “Absolutely not.” The Queen’s voice was sharp. “There will be no dueling. I totally forbid it.”

  The two Claimants glared at each other, like reflections in a smoky mirror. From down the table Caspar’s drawl rose. “Oh let them, Mama. It would save so much bother.”

  Sia ignored him. “There will be no duel, gentlemen. And the investigation will begin tomorrow.” She held Finn with her ice-pale eyes. “I will not be disobeyed.”

  He bowed stiffly and then thrust back his chair and stalked out, the guards moving hastily aside. Claudia stood, but Giles said softly, “Don’t go, Claudia. He’s nothing, and he knows it.”

  For a moment she paused. Then she sat. She told herself it was because Protocol forbade anyone leaving before the Queen, but Giles smiled at her, as if he knew something else.

  Furious, she fidgeted for twenty minutes, her fingers tapping her empty glass, and when finally the Queen rose and she could slip away, she raced up to his room and knocked on the door.

  “Finn. Finn, it’s me.”

  If he was there, he would not answer.

  Finally, she walked down the paneled corridor to the casement at its end and gazed out at the lawns, leaning her forehead on the cool glass. She wanted to storm and yell at him. What was he thinking of? How would fighting help! It was just the sort of stupid, arrogant thing Keiro would have done.

  But he wasn’t Keiro.

  And biting her nail, she recognized, deep inside herself, the sickening doubt that had been growing in her mind for two months. That perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

  That perhaps he wasn’t Giles either.

  12

  He opened the window and looked out at the night. “The world is an endless loop,” he said. “A Möbius strip, a wheel in which we run. As you have discovered, who have traveled so far just to find yourself where you started from.”

  Sapphique went on stroking the blue cat. “So you can’t help me?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

  —Sapphique and the Dark Enchanter

  The trackway undulated over the leaden sea.

  At first Keiro let the horse gallop, and whooped at the speed and the freedom, but that was dangerous, because the metal trackway was slippery, slushy water washing right over it. The mist hung close, so that Attia felt they were riding through cloud with only glimpses now and then of distant dark shapes, which might have been islands or hills.

  Once, a jagged chasm gaped to one side.

  Finally the horse was so weary, it could barely run.

  After nearly three hours Attia came back from drowsiness to realize that the sea was gone. Around them the mist was shredding, to reveal a jungle of spiny cacti and aloes, head high, the great leaves blade-sharp. A path ran straight into it, the plants at each side curled and crisp, smoking blackly, as if Incarceron had drilled this road only minutes ago.

  “It’s not going to let us get lost, is it?” Keiro muttered.

  They dismounted and made an uncomfortable camp in the fringe of the forest. Gazing in, Attia smelled the scorched soil, saw the skeletons of leaves like cobwebs of fine metal.

  Though neither of them said anything, she saw Keiro eyeing the undergrowth uneasily, and as if the Prison mocked their fear, it put the lights out, abruptly.

  There was little left to eat—some dried meat and a cheese that Attia sliced the mold from, and two apples stolen from Rix’s stores for the horse. As she chewed, she said, “You’re crazier than Rix.”

  He looked at her. “Am I?”

  “Keiro, you can’t make deals with Incarceron! It will never let you Escape, and if we bring it the Glove …”

  “Not your problem.” He threw the apple core away, lay down, and wrapped a blanket around him.

  “Of course it is.” She glared at his back furiously. “Keiro!”

  But he didn’t answer, and she had to sit, nursing her anger, until the change in his light breathing told her he was asleep.

  They should have taken turns to keep watch. But she was too tired to care, and so they both slept at once, curled in musty blankets while the tethered horse snuffled hungrily.

  Attia dreamed of Sapphique. Sometime in the night he came out of the forest and sat down next to her, stirring up the glowing ashes of the fire with a stick, and she rolled over and stared at him. His long dark hair shadowed his face. The high collar of his robe was worn and frayed. He said, “The light is going.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t you feel it being used up? Fading away?” He glanced at her sideways. “The light is slipping through our hands.”

  She glanced at the hand holding the charred stick. The right forefinger was missing, its stump seamed white with scars. She whispered, “Where is it going, Master?”

  “Into the Prison’s dreams.” He stirred the fire, and his face was narrow and strained. “This is all my fault, Attia. I showed Incarceron that there is a way Out.”

  “Tell me how.” Her voice was urgent; she shuffled up close to him. “How you did it. How you Escaped.”

  “Every Prison has a crack.”

  “What crack?”

  He smiled. “The tiniest, most secret way. So small, the Prison does not even know it exists.”

  “But where is it? And does the Key open it, the Key the Warden has?”

  “The Key unlocks only the Portal.”

  She suddenly felt cold with fear, because he replicated before her, a whole line of him like images in a mirror, like the Chain-gang in its manacles of flesh.

  She shook her head, bewildered. “We have your Glove. Keiro says—”

  “Don’t put your hand into that of a beast.” His words whispered through the spiny undergrowth. “Or you will be made to do its work. Keep my Glove safe for me, Attia.”

  The fire crackled. Ashes shifted. He became his own shadow, and was gone.

  She must have slept again, because it seemed hours later when the clink of metal woke her, and she sat up and saw Keiro saddling the horse. She wanted to tell him about the dream, but it was already hard to remember. Instead she yawned and stared up at the Prison’s distant ceiling.

  After a while she said, “Do the lights seem different to you?”

  Keiro tugged the girth straps. “Different how?”

  “Weaker.”

  He glanced at her, then up. For a minute he was still. Then he went on loading the horse. “Maybe.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Incarceron’s lights were always powerful, but now there seemed a faint flicker to them. She said, “If the Prison is really building a body for itself it must be using enormous reserves of power to do it. Draining energy from its systems. Maybe the Ice Wing isn’t the only Wing shut down. We haven’t seen anyone since that… creature back there. Where are they all?”

  Keiro stood back. “Can’t say I care.”

  “You should.”

  He shrugged. “Rule of the Scum. Care for no one but your brother.”

  “Sister.”

  “I told you, you’re temporary.”

  Later, climbing up behind him onto the horse, she said, “What happens when we get to wherever Incarceron is taking us? Are you just going to hand over the Glove?”

  She felt Keiro’s snort of laughter through his gaudy scarlet jerkin. “Watch and learn, little dog-slave.”

  “You haven’t got a clue. Keiro, listen to me! We can’t help it do this!”
/>   “Not even for a way Out?”

  “For you, maybe. But what about the others? What about everyone else?”

  Keiro urged the horse to a run. “No one in this hellhole has ever cared for me,” he said quietly.

  “Finn …”

  “Not even Finn. So why should I care for them? They’re not me, Attia. They don’t exist for me.”

  It was useless arguing with him. But as they rode into the dim undergrowth she let herself think of the terror of it, of the Prison shutting down, the lights going off and never coming back on, the cold spreading. Systems would seize up, foodslots shut down. Ice would form quickly and unstoppably, through whole Wings, down corridors, over bridges. Chains would become masses of rust. Towns would freeze, the houses cold and deserted, the market stalls collapsed under howling snowdrifts. The air would turn to poison. And the people! There was no way to imagine them, the panic, the fear and loneliness, the trampling savagery such a collapse would unleash, the bloody struggle for survival. It would be the destruction of a world.

  The Prison would withdraw its mind, and leave its children to their fate.

  Around them, light faded to a green gloom. The path was cindery and silent, the horse’s hooves muffled in the incinerated dust. Attia whispered, “Do you believe that the Warden is in here?”

  “If so, things are not going smoothly for my princely brother.” He sounded preoccupied.

  “If he’s still alive.”

  “I told you, Finn can bluff his way out of anything. Forget him.” Keiro peered into the gloom. “We’ve got our own troubles.”

  She scowled. The way he talked about Finn annoyed her, his pretense of not caring, of not being hurt. Sometimes she wanted to scream her anxiety at him, but that would be useless, would only draw the grin, the cool shrug. There was an armor around Keiro. He wore it flamboyantly and invisibly. It was as much a part of him as his dirty yellow hair, his hard blue eyes. Only once, when the Prison had cruelly shown them his imperfection, had she ever glimpsed through it. And she knew he would never forgive Incarceron for that, or for what he felt he was.

  The horse stopped.