Janner’s stomach growled again, and he thought about the last apple. He had taken four from the basket, lost one to Mobrik at the beginning, then given him two in exchange for the favor. He hid the last one in his big glove until his second dash through the factory.
He had waited until he found Sara Cobbler at lunch, and she confirmed that Mobrik had indeed kept his word. As soon as Janner returned to the paring station, he steeled himself for another run. He dropped his giant scissors, slipped the apple into his pocket, waited until the Maintenance Managers were looking elsewhere, and bolted.
This time he zipped through the aisles toward the staircase with ease. In fact, he worried for a moment that his escape was going too well. He heard none of the cries of alarm this time, no signs of pursuit from the managers. He bounded up the steps, a little frustrated because this time he wanted to get caught.
Then he ran into someone. Someone bigger than a child. Someone wearing a ridiculous top hat.
“Another escape attempt, child?” the Overseer said with an evil grin.
Janner shrugged and smiled.
The Overseer pushed Janner to the ground and uncoiled his whip. “You’ll not be smiling for long.”
The worst part about being stuck in the coffin this time was that he had no way to tend to his wounds. Welts covered his arms, his back, and his thighs. The Overseer had whipped him until Janner begged him to stop. Even the Maintenance Managers looked away, probably because it reminded them of their own beatings from the same whip.
“Pick him up,” the Overseer ordered. “Three days in the box.”
So Janner lay in the dark, thinking again of his family, of his wounds, of Tink, wherever he was. He thought of the clean snow of the Ice Prairies, the welcome arms of Gammon’s people. His stomach growled again, and he decided it was time to eat the apple. It was gone far too soon, but at least it was moist enough to slake his thirst, and it quieted the hunger pangs for a time.
He slept in fits. He descended into a numb trance in which his memories swirled before his eyes like smoke. Every sour thought he’d ever thought, every cruel word he’d ever said to his brother or sister, every selfish action he’d ever taken rose out of the darkness like ghosts and taunted him. He replayed arguments, wishing he’d said some things, wishing he hadn’t said others.
He was trapped in a place where all he had was himself, and though he’d never thought of himself as a bad person, every motive, thought, and action that paraded through the blackness told him otherwise. Even his alliance with Sara Cobbler was driven by selfishness. It was true he hoped to help her escape, that he wanted badly for her to be free—but would he be willing to set her free if it meant he had to stay? He was ashamed of the answer. All his justifications—that he was a Throne Warden, that he had to keep Tink safe, that somehow he and his brother and sister might help keep the dream of Anniera alive—all of it was meaningless if he thought himself somehow worthier of being set free than any of the children in the factory, especially pretty Sara Cobbler.
After the third long day, the door to the coffin at last swung open. As before, the light stung Janner’s eyes. He groaned and climbed from the coffin stiffly.
“Out, Flavogle. I see you are able to find fruit even in the box,” Mobrik said when he saw the browned apple core in the coffin. “He’s a sneaky boy, he is. Come on. The Overseer wants to speak to you.”
Janner, though he was weary to the bone, though his body was bruised from the whip, though he was hungry and thirsty and covered with filth, grinned. He couldn’t wait to visit the Overseer.
44
Mountains and Shackles
Janner climbed the steps from the dungeon slowly, willing his stiff legs to work. He would need them very soon.
Just like last time, Mobrik led him into the big, empty room where the carriage sat. No sunlight shone through the high windows, which meant it was nighttime. Perfect. As long as Mobrik hadn’t changed the schedule, things were lining up exactly as Janner had hoped they would.
In the center of the room, the sad brown horse was harnessed to the carriage, just as before, except that it faced the portcullis, as if the Overseer were preparing to leave, perhaps on one of his trips to Tilling Court to pick up more kidnapped children.
Janner’s mind buzzed, but he was too tired, too stiff to sort out whether or not this unexpected change would affect his escape. Before he could worry about it anymore, Mobrik pushed Janner through the door to the Overseer’s office.
The Overseer sat at his desk, a ledger open before him. The top hat, to Janner’s surprise, wasn’t on his head but on a hook beside the door. The whip dangled from a hook beside the hat.
“Eyes on me, tool.”
Janner nodded, trying to appear more exhausted than he really was. He wanted the Overseer and Mobrik to believe he was finally beaten.
“Now. It has come to my attention that you are a…resourceful tool. Mobrik here informed me that you were able to locate three apples.”
“Four, sir,” said Mobrik, holding up the apple core from the coffin.
Janner’s heart pounded. He felt certain that somehow they had found him out. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying Sara Cobbler hadn’t been punished.
“Four?” said the Overseer. “So. You managed to carry food into the box with you. As I said, resourceful. Would you agree, Mobrik?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now, tool. It’s obvious you managed to outwit Mobrik here. You took the apples from his fruit basket when he wasn’t looking and saved them for later snacks. Mobrik told me he caught you trying to eat them in your bunk.”
“That’s right, sir,” the ridgerunner said with a nervous glance at Janner. “Caught the tool crunching away in his bed. I snatched the apples and ate ‘em myself. Couldn’t let them go rotten, sir. You know what they say. The longer they sit, the worser they get.”
The Overseer raised an eyebrow, and hope flickered in Janner’s heart. The ridgerunner had lied about the apples. Maybe that meant he had kept Sara’s transfer a secret after all. Maybe the ridgerunner had indeed honored his oath.
“Yes, we know you’re very passionate about fruit, Mobrik. Thank you. Now shut your mouth.” The Overseer turned his attention to Janner again. “So I propose to you, tool, that you accept a probationary promotion to the rank of Apprentice Maintenance Manager. I keep my eyes open for the resourceful boys and girls. You would no longer be forced to pare the blades. You would be given certain…freedoms. A new bunk, for instance. Nothing so hard and lumpy as the one you’re in. And in time you would work shorter hours—as long as you performed your function well.”
Janner tried to look grateful.
“Best of all, you’ll get bread with your broth. How would that sound?”
Janner nodded again, suddenly unsure of himself. The thought of a softer bed, bread with his meal, and most of all, never having to lift the metal shears again, made him hesitate. Was he acting too soon? He had only been in the factory for a week, and already he was being promoted. If he stayed longer, maybe he would discover other opportunities to escape, opportunities that weren’t so risky. After all, if his current plan didn’t work, he would be whipped and thrown in the box again. He gulped. Four days in the box with no food or water, no light, no room to move, and this time without even an apple to sustain him—it would be too much to bear.
“Very well,” the Overseer said. “Finish your current shift at the paring station, and tomorrow we’ll assign you a Managerial Trainer. What about Gimbleton, Mobrik?”
“Eh, sir?” said Mobrik, who had been nibbling at the last bits of apple on the core.
“I said, do you think Gimbleton would be a good trainer for our tool here?”
“Aye sir. Gimbleton’s resourceful too. And mean. The tool has already met him. Remember the boy you met the first day here? The one with the chain?”
Janner remembered, and the thought of working with that rotten boy made him sick. He didn’t want to learn anyth
ing from Gimbleton or Mobrik or the Overseer. He wanted to find his family.
The Overseer stood and closed his ledger. “Escort the tool to his station, Mobrik, then come back quickly. We’re off to Tilling Court again.” The Overseer removed his hat and whip from the wall. “Word has come that the bereaved have collected more tools for exchange. And Mobrik?”
“Sir?”
“Do keep an eye on your fruit this time. The tool here is a sneaky one.”
Mobrik bowed and pushed Janner out of the office behind the Overseer.
“I’d like you to drive tonight, Mobrik. I’ll be in the carriage,” the Overseer said as he crossed the large room with his hat and whip in hand. Mobrik prodded Janner toward the double doors that led to the factory.
The moment had come. Janner had to decide. Either keep quiet, obey the Overseer, and learn to become a Maintenance Manager, or run like mad and pray that young Sara Cobbler was as brave as her eyes were beautiful. But he hadn’t counted on the Overseer leaving. He was supposed to stay at his desk in the office, like last time. Janner’s heart thudded like a galloping horse. If anything went wrong, it would be the coffin again, and not just for him but for Sara Cobbler too.
He couldn’t do it. Even if he was willing to endure the box again, he couldn’t bear the thought of Sara in the coffin, all because of his foolish, hasty plan to escape.
As he approached the double doors, he clenched his fists and his jaw with frustration. He hated the thought, but maybe it would be best to bide his time as a Maintenance Manager, learn the ways of the factory better in order to find its weak spots. Then he would find a way out that didn’t put Sara at risk. Of course, he would have to treat the children with as much cruelty as the other managers or they would demote him to the paring station again.
Janner looked at his hands. The blisters had healed and left knotty, leathery calluses on his palms and fingers. They reminded him of Podo’s hands, and Janner stopped in his tracks.
At the thought of his grandfather, some hidden, reckless strength that ran in Janner’s blood came alive and crackled like lightning. Energy flamed in his joints and straightened his bones. If Mobrik had been watching Janner instead of the floor, he would have seen the boy grow two inches before his eyes.
In his mind’s eye, Janner sensed a swirl of color and heat that spun like a water mill for a moment and then settled into an image. He saw his sister, as real as the double doors in front of him. Leeli sat in a bright place, surrounded by snowy mountains, holding her whistleharp to her lips. Janner saw blurry figures in the background but couldn’t be sure who they were. Then one of the figures limped past, unmistakably Podo wrapped in furs.
But where was Tink? The image swirled again and made him so dizzy that he staggered.
As if from far away, he heard Mobrik say, “What’s wrong, tool? Too long in the box this time?”
The image settled again, this time on Tink’s face. He looked afraid; his eyes were bruised and swollen. Where is he? Janner thought. As if in answer, the image widened and he saw that his brother was in a cage. Shackles bound his ankles and wrists, and in the hazy edges of the image, Janner saw several figures, so dirty and muddy that they could only be Stranders. The nearest of them bent over the cage and spoke to Tink. Janner couldn’t hear the voice, but he knew even before the Strander in the image turned that it was Claxton Weaver. The image swirled again and was gone as fast as it had come.
Janner blinked and shook his head, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. He felt a rush of emotion: exhilaration at the sight of his sister on the icy peak and fear for Tink in the cage. But was this something happening now? Was this just a dream or another vision like the one Leeli had caused at the cliffs, when the sea dragons had spoken?
It didn’t matter. All uncertainty was gone. Janner felt as though he could burst through the portcullis with his bare hands and run all the way to the burrow as fast as a horse.
“Tool!” Mobrik yelled.
“What? Sorry,” Janner stammered, pretending to still be dizzy.
“What’s the matter?” called the Overseer. Janner turned to see him leaning out the carriage door, hat in hand.
“The tool stopped walking, sir. Nearly fell over,” said the ridgerunner over his shoulder.
“Do you need the sting of the whip to wake you, tool?” the Overseer called.
Janner shook his head.
“Then hurry up. The hour grows late, Mobrik.” The Overseer disappeared into the carriage again.
Janner pushed through the double doors and into the long dark corridor to the factory floor. Mobrik prodded Janner on the back again and again, eager to turn him over to the Maintenance Managers and return to the carriage where the Overseer waited.
But halfway down the dark corridor, Janner stopped. If there had been more light, Mobrik would’ve seen that Janner’s eyes were as fiery as the windows in the near distance. He would’ve seen that his fists were clenched and his jaw was set. In fact, the little ridgerunner would probably have run.
Janner grabbed Mobrik by the shirt collar. He lifted the little creature and pinned him against the wall, clamping a hand over his mouth before he had time to scream for help. Janner leaned close.
“I don’t intend to stay here another moment, ridgerunner. There’s much to do and far to go. Now, I’m glad you kept your oath by the Holes and the Hollows, and I’m offering you another chance to do your race proud.”
Mobrik’s eyes widened.
Good, Janner thought. He has reason to be afraid.
Strength like a cool wind flowed through him, as if he were more than a twelve-year-old boy or was being made into more than one with every surge of the royal blood in his veins.
“If you swear to keep quiet and give me time to escape, then we’ll leave it at that. I think you’d rather the Overseer didn’t make you wear that ridiculous suit or order you about like he does. I think you wish you were still in the Killridge Mountains, trying with your kinsmen to outwit the Hollowsfolk of their fruit. Am I right? Then you remember what it was like before Gnag and his Fangs upset everything. If I can get out of here, there’s a chance that—that things can go back to the way they were. You and your people could go home. Do you understand?”
Janner hardly understood himself, but Mobrik nodded.
“So are you going to keep quiet? I just need ten minutes. Can you give me that?”
Mobrik nodded again.
“Good. Now I’m going to let you go. Stay here in the corridor for ten minutes, and the Overseer won’t know you helped me. Tell him—tell him I punched you and left you unconscious or something.” Mobrik nodded again. Janner released Mobrik’s mouth, though he kept his fist balled and ready to strike should the little man try to raise an alarm.
Instead, Mobrik asked, “Who are you?”
Janner took a deep breath. “My name is Janner Wingfeather, Throne Warden of Anniera.”
Mobrik gasped. “You’re one of the jewels!”
“That’s right. Now swear it, by the Holes and the Hollows.”
“Certainly, child. I have no love for Gnag or the Overseer. Go, and do whatever it is that’s so important.” Janner studied the little man’s shadowy face. He would have to trust him.
“All right. Ten minutes, then sound whatever alarm you wish. I’ll be long gone.”
Janner released him.
So suddenly that it took Janner a moment to understand what was happening, the ridgerunner dashed toward the doors that led to the carriage, screaming at the top of his lungs.
45
The Fate of Sara Cobbler
No!” Janner cried. He ran after Mobrik as fast as his aching legs would carry him, but few men could outrun a ridgerunner. Just as Mobrik slammed into the swinging double doors, Janner gathered all his strength and dove after him. His fingers snagged just enough of Mobrik’s boot to trip him, and the two of them struggled in the doorway. Janner dragged him back into the dark corridor, noticing as he did that the door of t
he carriage swung open.
To catch a ridgerunner is nigh impossible. However, subduing one once caught, while not an enjoyable experience, is easy enough. Much as he hated to do it, Janner closed his eyes, reared back his fist, and socked Mobrik in the face with all his might.
Janner had fought with Tink many times, but they had an unspoken rule that punching or slapping the face was unacceptable. This was the first time Janner’s fist had ever been employed in this way. He felt a dull ache in his knuckles, and the ridgerunner went limp. The Overseer’s footsteps approached the door.
Janner dragged Mobrik to the wall and looked around frantically, wondering what to do. The Overseer wasn’t a big man, but he was much bigger than Janner, and he had the whip. Mobrik had no weapon; Janner had no weapon. His only advantage was his speed.
That was it, then. As soon as the Overseer opened the door, Janner would run for it.
He backed away from the doors, dropped into a sprinting position, and waited.
The Overseer stopped on the other side of the door. “Mobrik?” he called. “Are you there?”
Janner waited. Through the dirty window he could see the top hat tilting as the man listened.
The Overseer shifted and took a step nearer the door. “Mobrik?”
Janner could stand it no longer. He ran with every ounce of strength he could gather. He closed his eyes, bared his teeth, and rammed his shoulder into the swinging door. It hit the Overseer in the face, knocking him backward. He landed hard on his back.
Janner’s feet barely touched the ground as he ran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw pain and confusion on the Overseer’s face, and without thinking or knowing why, Janner swept up the top hat from where it had fallen.
“Sara!” Janner screamed. “Open the portcullis! Now!” Janner ran straight for the gate, praying with every step that Sara was one of the two children in the cleft and that she would find the courage to follow through with the plan.
“TOOL!” howled the Overseer.
North! Or Be Eaten Page 25
