Sapphique

by Catherine Fisher

  Jared sighed. “It’s strange how beguiling illusion can be.”

  “You always told me to beware of it,” Claudia said.

  “So you should. As a society we have lost the ability to tell the real from the fake. Most of the Court, at least, don’t even care which is which. It concerns the Sapienti greatly.”

  “Maybe they should enter the Prison,” Finn muttered. “We never had any trouble.”

  Jared glanced at Claudia, and they both thought of the watch, which she wore now, safe in her deepest pocket.

  It was two leagues to the fringes of the Forest, and almost midday when they approached it.

  The road to this point had been broad and well-used—traffic between the Court and the western villages was steady, and the ruts of wheels had cut deep in the baked mud.

  But once under the green canopy the trees gradually closed in, and vast deer-nibbled boughs of mighty oaks gave way to the tangled undergrowth of the wildwood. Branches hung heavily overhead, the sky barely seen through their meshed leaves.

  Finally they came to the crossroads and the track that branched off to the Academy. It ran downhill through a green clearing, crossed a stream on a clapperbridge, and wound its way up the other side into the wood again.

  Jared stopped. “I’ll go on from here alone, Claudia.”

  “Master …”

  “You need to get back. Finn must be there for the investigation.”

  “I don’t see the point,” Finn growled.

  “It’s vital. You have no memories, so you must impress them by your personality. By the strength you have, Finn.”

  Finn gazed at him. “I don’t know I have any, Master.”

  “I believe you do.” Jared smiled calmly. “Now, I ask you to look after Claudia, while I’m gone.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow and Claudia snapped, “I can look after myself.”

  “And you must look after him. I depend on both of you.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Master.” Claudia leaned over and kissed him. He smiled and turned the horse, but she saw how under his calm there was a tension as if this separation meant more than she knew.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “For going.”

  She shook her head. “You’ll only be a few days.”

  “I did what I could.” His eyes were dark in the forest shadows. “Remember me kindly, Claudia.”

  She suddenly had nothing to say. A chill struck her; she wanted to stop him, to call after him, but he had urged the horse and it was already striding away down the lane.

  Only when he had reached the bridge did she stand in the stirrups and yell, “Write to me!”

  “He’s too far,” Finn muttered, but Jared turned and waved his hand.

  “His hearing is excellent,” she said, foolishly proud.

  They watched until the dark horse and its slim rider disappeared under the eaves of the wood. Then Finn sighed. “Come on. We should get back.”

  They rode slowly and silent. Claudia was moody; Finn barely spoke. Neither of them wanted to think about the Pretender, or what decision the Council would come to.

  Finally Finn looked up. “It’s darker. Isn’t it?”

  The slants of sunlight that had lit the forest earlier had gone. Instead clouds had gathered, and the breeze had become a wind, threshing high branches.

  “There’s no storm ordered. Wednesday’s the Queen’s archery day.”

  “Well, it looks like a storm to me. Maybe it’s real weather.”

  “There is no real weather, Finn. This is the Realm.”

  But in ten minutes rain began. It came as a pattering and was suddenly a torrent, lashing with tremendous noise through the leaves. Claudia thought of Jared and said, “He’ll be soaked.”

  “So will we!” Finn glanced around. “Come on. Hurry!”

  They galloped. The ground was already soft; the hooves splashed into puddles that spilled over the track. Branches whipped at Claudia’s face; her hair flew out across her eyes and plastered itself to her cheek. She shivered, unused to the cold and the wet.

  “This is all wrong. What’s going on?”

  Lightning spat; from overhead the low, heavy grumble of thunder rolled down the sky. For a moment Finn knew it was the voice of Incarceron he heard, its terrible, cruel mockery, knew he had never Escaped at all. He turned and yelled, “We shouldn’t be under the trees. Hurry!”

  They whipped the horses up and raced. Claudia felt the rain like blows in her chest; as Finn pulled ahead she shouted at him to wait, to slow down.

  Only his horse replied. With a high whinny it reared, hooves kicking the air, and then to her horror it fell, crashing on one side, and he rolled from it, slamming into the ground.

  “Finn!” she screamed.

  Something slashed past her, whipping into the wood, thudding into a tree.

  And then she knew it wasn’t rain, or lightning.

  It was a hail of arrows.

  RUINED, LIKE THE MOON

  15

  Each man and woman will have their place and be content with it. Because if there is no change, what will disturb our peaceful lives?

  —King Endor’s Decree

  “Claudia!”

  Finn rolled over as a firelock blazed; the tree next to him was scorched with diagonal fire. “Get down!”

  Did she have no idea how to act in an ambush? Her horse was panicking; he took a deep breath and ran from cover, grabbing it by the bridle. “Get down!”

  She jumped, and they both fell. Then they were squirming into the bushes, lying flat, breathless. Around them the forest roared with rain.

  “Hurt?”

  “No. You?”

  “Bruised. Nothing serious.”

  Claudia dragged soaked hair from her eyes. “I can’t believe this. Sia would never order it. Where are they?”

  Finn was watching the trees intently. “Over there, behind that thicket, maybe. Or high in the branches.”

  That alarmed her. She twisted to see, but rain blinded her. She wriggled farther back, her hands deep in leaf-litter, the stink of decaying foliage rich in her face.

  “Now what?”

  “We regroup.” Finn’s voice was steady. “Weapons? I’ve got a sword and knife.”

  “There’s a pistol in my saddlebag.” But the horse had already bolted. She glanced sidelong at Finn. “Are you enjoying this?”

  He laughed, a rare event. “It livens things up. But back in Incarceron we used to be the ones doing the ambushing.”

  Lightning blinked. Its brilliance lit the wood and the rain came down harder, hissing through the bracken.

  “I could try and crawl to that oak,” Finn muttered in her ear. “And get around …”

  “There might be an army out there.”

  “One man. Maybe two, no more.” He squirmed back, the bushes rustling. Instantly two arrows thwacked into the bole of the tree above them. Claudia gasped.

  Finn froze. “Well, maybe not.”

  “This is the Steel Wolves,” she hissed.

  Finn was silent a moment. Then he said, “Can’t be. They could have killed me last night.”

  She stared at him through the downpour. “What?”

  “They left this next to my head.” He held up the dagger, the snarling wolf’s head dripping in his fingers.

  Then as one, they turned. Voices were approaching through the hissing forest.

  “See them?”

  “Not yet.” She eased forward.

  “I think our enemy has.” Finn watched the small movements of branches. “I think they’re pulling out.”

  “Look.” A wagon was rumbling along the track, precariously laden with mown hay, the loose cover flapping in the wind. A brawny man walked beside it and another drove, sackcloth hoods covering their faces, their boots thick with mud.

  “Peasants,” Claudia said. “Our only chance.”

  “The archers might still be—”

  “Come on.”
Before he could stop her she scrambled out. “Wait! Please, stop!”

  The men stared. The big one swung a heavy cudgel up as he saw Finn behind her, sword in hand. “What’s this?” he said sourly.

  “Our horses were frightened and ran off. By the lightning.” Claudia shivered in the rain, pulling her coat around her.

  The big serf grinned. “Bet you had to hold each other tight then?”

  She drew herself upright, aware that she was soaked and her hair dripped in a tangled mess, made her voice cold and imperious. “Look, we need someone to go and find our horses, and we need—”

  “The rich always need.” The cudgel tapped against the raw red hands. “And we all have to jump, but it won’t always be like that. One day soon …”

  “Enough, Rafe.” The voice came from the wagon, and Claudia saw that the driver had pushed back his hood. His face was wrinkled, his body bent. He seemed old, but his voice was strong enough. “Follow us, missy. We’ll get you to the cottages, and then we’ll find your horses.”

  With a low hup! he whipped up the ox, and the heavy beast lumbered past. Claudia and Finn kept close under the shelter of the towering load of hay, wisps slipping off and drifting down on them. Above the trees the sky had begun to clear; the rain ended quite suddenly, and a shaft of sunlight broke through, lighting the distant aisles of the forest. The storm was passing as quickly as it had come.

  Finn glanced back. The muddy track was empty. A blackbird began to sing in its stillness.

  “They’ve gone,” Claudia muttered.

  “Or they’re following.” Finn turned. “How far are these cottages?”

  “Just here, lad, just here. Don’t you fret. I won’t let Rafe rob you, even if you are Court folk. The Queen’s people, are you?”

  Claudia opened her mouth indignantly, but Finn said, “My girl works for the Countess of Harken. She’s a lady’s maid.”

  She fixed him with a stare of astonishment, but the wizened driver nodded. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “A groom in the stables. We borrowed the horses, it was such a fine day … We’ll get into terrible trouble now. Beaten, probably.”

  Claudia watched him. His face was as doleful as if he believed the story himself; something about him had changed in a moment to an apprehensive servant, his best livery ruined by the mud and rain.

  “Ah well. We were all young once.” The old man winked at Claudia. “Wish I was young again.”

  Rafe guffawed with mirth.

  Claudia set her lips tight but tried to look miserable. She was cold and wet enough for it.

  When the wagon clattered through a broken gateway she muttered quietly to Finn, “What are you up to?”

  “Keeping them on our side. If they knew who we were …”

  “They’d jump to help! We could pay …”

  He was watching her strangely. “Sometimes, Claudia, I think you don’t understand anything at all.”

  “Such as what?” she snapped.

  He nodded ahead. “Their lives. Look at this.”

  Cottages was hardly a word for them. Two lopsided, squalid buildings squatted at the edge of the track. Their thatch was in holes, wattle and daub walls patched with hurdles. A few ragged children ran out and stared, silent, and as Claudia came closer she saw how thin they were, how the youngest coughed and the oldest was bow-legged with rickets.

  The wagon rumbled into the lee of the buildings. Rafe yelled at the children to find the horses and they scattered, and then he ducked under one of the low doorways.

  Claudia and Finn waited for the older man to climb down. His hunched back was even more evident when he stood, no taller than Finn’s shoulder.

  “This way, lord’s groom and lady’s maid. We don’t have much, but we do have a fire.”

  Claudia frowned. She followed him down the steps under the wooden lintel.

  At first she saw nothing but the fire. The interior was black. Then the stink rose up and hit her with its full force, and it was so bad she gasped and stopped dead, and only Finn’s shove in her back made her stumble on. The Court had its share of bad smells, but there was nothing like this; a stench of animal dung and urine and sour milk and the fly-buzzed remnants of bones that cracked in the straw under her feet. And above all, the sweet smell of damp, as if the whole hovel was settling deep into the earth, tilting and softening, its wooden posts rotten and beetle-bored.

  As her eyes became used to the gloom she saw sparse furnishings—a table, joint-stools, a box-bed built into the wall. There were two windows, small and wood-slatted, a branch of ivy growing in through one.

  The old man dragged up a stool for her. “Sit, missy, and dry yourself. You too, lad. They call me Tom. Old Tom.”

  She didn’t want to sit. There were certainly fleas in the straw. The miserable poverty of the place sickened her. But she sat, holding out her hands to the paltry fire.

  “Put some kindling on.” Tom shuffled to the table.

  “You live here alone?” Finn asked, tossing on dry sticks.

  “My wife died these five years. But some of Rafe’s young ones sleep here. He has six, and his sick mother to care for …”

  Claudia noticed something in a dim doorway; she realized after a moment that it was a pig, snuffling the straw of the adjoining room. That would be the byre.

  She shivered. “You should glass the windows. The draft is terrible.”

  The old man laughed, pouring out thin ale. “But that wouldn’t be Protocol, would it? And we must abide by the Protocol, even as it kills us.”

  “There are ways around it,” Finn said softly.

  “Not for us.” He pushed the pottery cups toward them. “For the Queen maybe, because them that make the rules can break them, but not for the poor. Era is no pretense for us, no playing at the past with all its edges softened. It’s real. We have no skinwands, lad, none of the precious electricity or plastiglas. The picturesque squalor the Queen likes to ride past is where we live. You play at history. We endure it.”

  Claudia sipped the sour beer. She realized she had always known this. Jared had taught her, and she had visited the poor of the Wardenry, ruled over by her father’s strict regime. Once, in a snowy January, seeing beggars from the coach, she had asked him if more couldn’t be done for them. He had smiled his remote smile, smoothed his dark gloves. “They are the price we pay, Claudia, for peace. For the tranquility of our time.”

  A small cold flame of anger burned in her now, remembering. But she said nothing. It was Finn who asked, “Is there resentment?”

  “There is.” The old man drank and rapped his pipe on the table. “Now, I have little food but …”

  “We’re not hungry.” Finn hadn’t missed the evasion, but Claudia’s voice interrupted him.

  “May I ask you, sir. What is that?”

  She was staring at a small image in the darkest corner of the room. A slant of sunlight caught it; showed a crude carving of a man, his face shadowy, his hair dark.

  Tom was still. He seemed dismayed; for a moment Finn was sure he would yell for the brawny neighbor. Then he went on knocking dust from his pipe. “That is the Nine-Fingered One, missy.”

  Claudia put down her cup. “He has another name.”

  “A name to be spoken in whispers.”

  She met his eye. “Sapphique.”

  The old man looked at her, then Finn. “His name is known in the Court then. You surprise me, miss lady’s maid.”

  “Only among the servants,” Finn said quickly. “And we know very little of him. Except that he Escaped from Incarceron.” His hand shook on the cup. He wondered what the old man would say if he knew that he, Finn, had spoken to Sapphique in visions.

  “Escaped?” The old man shook his head. “I know nothing about that. Sapphique appeared from nowhere in a flash of blinding light. He possessed great powers of magic—they say he turned stones into cakes, that he danced with the children. He promised to renew the moon and free the Prisoners.”

  Claudi
a glanced at Finn. She was desperate to know more, but if they asked too much the old man would stop. “Where exactly did he appear?”

  “Some say the forest. Others a cave, far to the north, where a charred circle is still burned on the mountainside. But how can you pin down such a happening?”

  “Where is he now?” Finn asked.

  The old man stared. “You don’t know? They tried to silence him, of course. But he turned himself into a swan. He sang his final song and flew away to the stars. One day he will return and end the Era forever.”

  The fetid room was silent. Only the fire crackled. Claudia didn’t look at Finn. When he spoke again his question shocked her.

  “So what do you know of the Steel Wolves, old man?”

  Tom paled. “I know nothing of them.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t talk of them.”

  “Because they plan revolution, like your loose-tongued neighbor? Because they want to murder the Queen and the Prince, and destroy Protocol?” Finn nodded. “Wise to keep silent then. I suppose they tell you that when that happens the Prison will be opened and there will be no more hunger. Do you believe them?”

  The hunchback stared back evenly at him across the table. “Do you?” he whispered.

  A tense silence. It was broken by the stamp and rattle of hooves, a child’s shout.

  Tom rose slowly. “Rafe’s boys have found your horses.”

  He looked at Claudia, then back at Finn and said, “I think perhaps too much has been said here. You’re no groom, lad. Are you a prince?”

  Finn smiled ruefully. “I’m a Prisoner, old man. Just like you.”

  They mounted and rode back as quickly as they could.

  Claudia had given all the coins she had to the children.

  Neither spoke. Finn was alert for another ambush, Claudia still brooding over the injustice of Era, her own unthinking acceptance of riches. Why should she be rich? She had been born in Incarceron. If it hadn’t been for the Warden’s ambitions she would be there still.

  “Claudia, look,” Finn said.

  He was staring through the trees, and glancing up at the alarm in his voice, she saw a tall plume of smoke rising ahead.

  “It looks like a fire.”