The Fade kj-2

by Chris Wooding

  I loved to play. With every note, I thanked my masters for allowing me that grace. Without them, I would never have been introduced to the art of music, would never even have laid my hands on a zhuk. But I had shown an aptitude while very young and they had recognised it and tutored me. I loved to play because I was better than anyone else at it, except the older slaves who had had more practice. But my tutor told me I would surpass them if I kept studying. He said he had never had such a talented pupil of such a young age.

  The other two musicians turned up shortly after, and began tuning up their own instruments while Aila and I rehearsed. We knew many songs, from traditional Gurta lays to wild, rousing battle songs and mournful ballads. The Gurta music pierced me with its passion, stirred my blood and made me shiver. I thought what wonderful people these were to have made such music. I remembered snatches of tunes from my life before, verses of lullabies and a rowdy song my father used to sing with his friends. But they were rough and simple melodies, nothing like the counterpoint and harmony of Gurta compositions.

  Our masters came to the gazebo in twos and threes. The other slaves served them food and wine while we played. Some of them stripped and lounged in the pool, because the women were being attended to elsewhere.

  The conversation of the Gurta surrounded me, but I didn't understand much of what they were talking about and I concentrated on playing instead. They were powerful men, speaking of things beyond the knowledge of an Eskaran girl. Instead, I took private delight in my skill, marvelling at every trill and flourish, pleased that I was pleasing my masters.

  And please them I did. After one particular ballad in which the zhuk took the lead – a favourite of mine – Chorik approached me with another man, whom I knew as one of the Administrators. He was broad and stocky for a Gurta, with small, sharp eyes and a knotted braid of a beard, even though he was still young. The musicians stood and we drew the Form Of Abject Subservience.

  ~ Didn't I tell you? ~ my master said to his companion. ~ She plays with such emotion for one so young ~

  I positively glowed on the inside, but my pride was quickly snuffed.

  ~ An animal can imitate emotion ~ said the other man. ~ It is merely a matter of vibrato, tempo, volume. It can be faked ~

  ~ Oh, come now! You must admit that she has talent ~

  ~ I admit that much. But to suggest that these… people think and feel as we do? Ridiculous. Their emotions are as basic and rudimentary as the species we hunt for sport ~

  Chorik laughed, but in his eyes was disappointment. His attempt to impress had failed. I felt terrible for having been the cause of that, and I bowed my head in shame.

  ~ You're right, of course ~ he said. ~ Foolish of me. To call them civilised when they're not even beholden to the Laws ~

  ~ Slavery is too good for these people ~ my master's companion said.

  ~ Belek Aspa, you're a man of impressive conviction ~ Chorik declared, leading him away. ~ Let us talk more on the subject ~

  If there was anything more to be said, Chorik never had the chance to say it, because at that instant an arrow punched into his back and thrust its bloody tip through the centre of his chest.

  Nobody reacted for a moment. There was only shock. Chorik had a surprised look on his face, and while he held it the rest of us were frozen, as if waiting to see what he would do next. Then he burped, and blood flowed over his lips. He tipped forward into the pool, and as he fell the shrieking began and the men panicked. Another Gurta, one of Chorik's friends from the wagon, was shot through the forehead as he clambered out of the water.

  Then people were running everywhere. I was knocked aside, my zhuk falling to the floor with a discordant jangle of protest. As I gathered it up I heard the whip of more arrows, and one thudded into the rail of the balcony, close to my face. I screamed and recoiled, crashing into Aila who, like me, was caught between running away and trying to protect her instrument.

  She clutched at me for safety as we heard our masters swear and curse and howl in fear, their voices high and raw. Our whole lives we had never seen a Gurta terrified. We had seen them in wild anger and deep despair; we saw them argue and bicker often. But to see them afraid? It cracked the foundations of our world.

  ~ Get up! ~ I said, scrambling to my feet and bringing Aila with me. ~ Run! ~

  The men were scattering, heading for the inn or the wagons. The gazebo they left behind was defiled with corpses, the waters red. Several Gurta and one of the elder slaves lay impaled by arrows, their blood flowing steadily into the gaps between the floorboards.

  We were the last to leave. The other slaves had been quicker, fleeing at the first signs of the attack. But as we went in pursuit of our masters, not knowing where else to go, we saw a dozen riders on crayl-back come racing out from behind the inn. Eskaran riders. The Gurta fled in all directions, shielding their heads with their hands, but they were easily outpaced.

  We stumbled to a halt a half-dozen spans from the gazebo as they cut our masters down with swords. I felt my knees go weak. Some of the slaves were trying to put themselves between their kinfolk and the Gurta, making shields of their bodies. The soldiers pulled them aside and then slaughtered those they were protecting.

  I tugged on Aila's arm, turning her away from that awful sight. As I did, I glimpsed a white face looking out at us from the undergrowth that surrounded the gazebo. It was the one who had criticised my playing. There was no other direction to go, so I ran towards him, and Aila came with me. He saw us coming, scowled and disappeared.

  We ran into the undergrowth, searching for him. I didn't know what else to do. Our master was dead, and I couldn't think straight. I still saw his face, the surprise in his pale blue eyes, the arrow jutting from his chest. Someone had to look after us, protect us, keep us safe. Only the master he called Belek Aspa could do that now.

  I dodged recklessly through the stems and branches and giant puffballs, panting, tugging Aila behind me. The Administrator was not where I thought he'd be, but I assumed it was my mistake. Why wouldn't he wait for us? He knew we were in trouble.

  I saw movement to my left, and pushed through a tangle of vines in pursuit. But it was not a Gurta face that looked back at me.

  He had his sword drawn, scrambling to a halt at the bottom of a small slope. His armour was hide and metal, alien and unfamiliar. He was thickset and stocky, features wide, black-bearded. An Eskaran soldier.

  We stared at him, half-hidden in the vines, paralysed by the sight.

  He relaxed. Sheathed his sword and knelt down.

  'Just little girls,' he said, his voice deep and burred. 'Come on. Don't be afraid.'

  The words made no sense to me, but his tone was reassuring. I was wary, not ready to trust him; and yet there was something about him that made me feel strangely secure. His hulking presence, the cadence of the words. An echo of the past.

  Aila tugged at me, but I didn't go.

  'Come on,' he said again, reaching his hand out. He wasn't approaching us, concerned that we would shy away and run. 'I'm a friend. You want to come home, hmm? Want to go home?'

  Aila tugged again, but I just kept staring at him. Then I let go of Aila's hand, and I stepped out of the cover of the vines, and walked over to the soldier.

  I didn't know why at the time, but I understood later. It was because he looked like my father. I've wondered since whether I would have done the same if it had been a clean-shaven, slender man who'd found us. I've wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn't gone to him.

  'That's a good girl,' he said, gathering me gently within the circle of one big arm. I pressed myself into the crook of his shoulder, pushing my hands and cheek against his chest. The smell of sweat and hide and man. Gurta didn't smell that way; they were always perfumed and scrubbed. But I breathed it in, and it awakened memories, hazy sensations of comfort and sanctuary.

  I looked back at Aila, who was still hovering where I left her. The soldier reached his other arm to her. She turned tail and fled. I
cried out, and moved to run after her; but the soldier's arm tightened, and I couldn't go anywhere.

  'Oh no,' he said, but it was with the benevolent strictness of a parent. 'I'm not letting go of you.'

  I struggled and wept but he just held me, surrounding me with his arms, and it wasn't long before I was still. I sobbed and he held onto me and I knew I'd made a choice, but I didn't yet grasp the consequences. They were too much for a little girl to think about. He made me feel safe. That was enough.

  He covered my eyes as he led me back. I knew what was beyond the hot dark of his hand. Blood. Death. The end of the slim, pale masters. What lay in the future, I wasn't sure. But I surrendered myself to it. I was powerless, as I had always been.

  They captured eleven Eskaran slaves, all young like me. There were no Gurta. The men were all dead and I saw no sign of the women, but I knew what had become of them. They drank their poison vials rather than let the Eskarans take them. Elegant and dignified to the end.

  Aila was not among the slaves. I hoped that she had found the Administrator who had been unimpressed by my music. He would protect her, I told myself. At least, that was what I believed then.

  Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. I never saw her again.

  40

  Mama and Papa were kissing by the stove again. They had a game they used to play, in which he would creep up behind her while she was cooking, grab her round the waist and bite her neck, all the while making snarling noises like a monster. She would laugh in delight and pretend to fend him off.

  Chada and I looked at each other across the table and wrinkled our noses in amused disgust. Papa often pretended to be a monster. He was a burly, hairy man who seemed impossibly huge to my five-year-old eyes. Dark hair, dark beard, dark eyes, dark complexion. In contrast, my mother was small, slender, light-skinned, her hair a wavy fall of tawny brown. Her voice was tiny bells and trickling water, my father's the rumble of the earth.

  'Go and sit down,' she told him. 'It'll be ready in a moment.'

  He nibbled her ear and she squealed and hit him with a wooden spoon. Chada and I laughed as he hurried over to the table with his hands over his head, mumming fear.

  Our house was small, cosy and shadowy, with thick walls and small windows. The stove kept out the steady chill of the cavern outside, and lanterns brightened the corners. We had a couple of jinth bitches who slept at the foot of my bed, though Papa kicked them out at mealtimes because they got too frisky and knocked things over. They were hunting now, patrolling the farm for ground-bats and rackles.

  Chada was swinging his little feet and kicking the underside of the table, tormented by the scent of Mama's cooking. I told him to stop, and he stuck his tongue out at me. Then Papa told him to stop and he did. Then I stuck my tongue out at him in snide triumph, and Papa caught me doing it and cuffed me.

  'You're the older sister,' he said, as I rubbed my head and pouted sulkily. 'Set an example.'

  Chada just looked smug. Only one year younger than me, but he was such a baby. He had Papa's look about him, while I was more like Mama. Sometimes he was fun to play with, like the time when we had gone down to the pool at the bottom of the grove and named all the fish and made up stories about them. But he could so easily throw a tantrum, and then I hated him. The tiniest thing would turn him into a scrunched ball of shrieking fury.

  Mama started dishing up the food, and Papa had to glare at Chada to stop him grabbing at it before it was all served. There were roasted tubers, great hunks of basted fungus, spore-bread and a plateful of eels and crunchy arrow beetles. We were poised to eat the instant Mama sat down, but as usual she said: 'Ah! Ah!' and held up a finger the moment we dived for our plates. Then she made a great show of arranging herself, shuffling in her seat and flicking her hair, while we writhed in hungry agony. After she decided we had suffered enough, she kissed Papa on his bearded cheek and said: 'Eat.'

  We went at it ravenously. We were always starving at the end of the turn, worn out from playing and from helping Papa and Mama with the farm chores. We helped them feed the lizards and collect the eggs. We followed them as they tended to our small herd of yoth. We went to the stream, checked the traps for crabs and then tottered back with buckets of fresh water.

  Our farm was far from anywhere, and I wished for other girls to make friends with; but we were happy. I had no cares but the cares of a child, and there were no troubles so terrible that Papa couldn't deal with them. We had little money but our needs were small. Our lives were simple, slow, honest.

  At the end of the turn, Papa would tell us tales while Mama dozed. Sometimes he frightened us with stories of the White-skins: those narrow-faced men, pale as pearl, who would steal children away if they were naughty. Then Chada clutched at me and I pretended not to be scared. Papa would crank up the tension and at some point he would lunge at us, yelling: 'The White-skins are coming!!!' We would shriek and laugh and the fear would be gone. Then Papa would gather us up in his huge arms, we would snuggle into his chest, and he'd promise that the White-skins would never get us if we were good.

  In that, at least, he was mistaken.

  We all heard the jinths, their rapid, popping cries coming from somewhere down by the stream; but it was only Chada who thought that something was wrong, and nobody listened to him.

  'They've found a rackle,' Papa said, head tilted as he listened. 'Sounds like it's leading them a good chase.'

  One after the other, the jinths fell silent.

  'See?' Papa said, settling back to his food. 'They got it. One less vermin to bore into my sweet-puffballs.'

  Papa's sweet-puffballs were the pride of his crop. When dried and powdered, they made sugar, which we never grew tired of. Usually just the thought of it was enough to distract Chada, but not this time. He kept fidgeting, uneasy. He'd heard the warning in the jinths' cries that the rest of us hadn't.

  'Don't worry, Chada,' said Mama. 'It was just a rackle.'

  'Can I go see?'

  'Finish your meal first.'

  Chada knew it was useless to argue, so he began stuffing food into his mouth.

  'Chew your food, dear,' Mama said patiently. 'You have to get one lot out of the way before the next lot goes in.'

  Papa harrumphed and pushed back from the table, chair legs screeching noisily across the stone. 'I'll take a look.'

  'Oh, leave it,' said Mama. 'The jinths are excited, that's all.'

  Papa got up and went to the window. Chada watched him intently. I was more interested in my food, having been convinced that there was no cause for alarm, so I didn't witness Papa's reaction to what he saw. The first I knew of what was to come was when Papa turned away from the window, looked at Mama, and said, very calmly: 'Get the children out of here.'

  She didn't question him. She got to her feet, pulled out Chada's chair, and lifted him. 'Come on. Out the back.'

  'I'm not done!' I protested.

  'Do as your father says,' Mama told me, holding out a hand for me to take. There was a briskness in her manner that barely concealed the terror beneath.

  'What's happening?' I demanded, but I went with her towards the back door because I had picked up on her alarm.

  Father had taken a long-hafted axe from the corner where it leaned. He looked over at me, the hollows of his face shadowed by the lantern overhead.

  'The White-skins are coming,' he said.

  I'd never felt fear like I did in that moment, and I never did again. Some part of me, even then, had always thought that the White-skins were make-believe. They certainly hadn't stopped me misbehaving from time to time. The White-skins simply couldn't be. A life of such primal horrors was insupportable to a five-year-old.

  But with those words, the White-skins came crashing into reality.

  We hurried to the back door, which let out onto a little fenced garden patch. Mama had to put Chada down to open it up, and then she ushered us both through. At the same moment, the front door burst open and the White-skins rushed in.

  I stil
l see that frozen instant in my nightmares. The press of narrow faces, sharp and pale and cold, like a swarm of chi-rats. Those blank, dead eyes. I see the cruel tips of their blades. They were just as I had imagined them.

  Papa roared and swung an axe into the chest of one of the invaders. Another pointed towards Mama and jabbered something in a horrible, piercing tongue. They'd seen her in the doorway, heading out back. But they hadn't seen us. She was blocking us from their sight with her body.

  She looked at me with tragedy in her gaze, and I knew, before she shut the door in our faces, that she was saying goodbye. She thought she would never see us again.

  How I wish that had been true.

  My first instinct was to pull at the door, to get back into the house, but Mama had locked it. I couldn't understand why she'd abandoned us. I was bewildered, on the verge of tears. There were crashing noises and cries coming from inside. Indecision held me for a few heartbeats longer, then I grabbed Chada's hand and we ran.

  The garden patch was too small to hide us, most of the plants having been pulled up recently. Only a few bulbroots and the aerial cups of burrow-vines were left among the neatly hoed rows. Papa had worked hard to get the soil right here, using compost full of bacteria that broke up the rock into a form that was kinder to plants. Only last turn I had helped him sow the seeds for a fresh batch.

  Beyond was a copse of phosphorescent mycora, ten or twelve spans tall, that Papa had planted before I was born to provide light for another garden, where he grew those rare plants that needed it. We headed for that, Chada toddling fast to keep up. He was whimpering softly, but he was content to be led for now, putting himself into my care.

  'You're the older sister,' I heard Papa say again, and for the first time I felt the weight of that. Chada was under my protection. He was my responsibility now.

  We ran into the copse, dodging between the curved stems of the mycora, dazzled by the bluish-white light that radiated from the underside of their caps. But I knew from many games of hide-and-find that this was the first place a searcher would look, so I kept pulling Chada on, through the copse and out, up the slope towards a cluster of jagged rocks that thrust out of the ground. Papa had told us to stay away from them after Chada had cut his hand open on one of the edges, but I knew Papa wouldn't mind now.