Incarceron (Incarceron, Book 1)

by Catherine Fisher

  "I can hear them. Stop panicking."

  As she raced up the steps the carriage was rumbling over the timbers of the bridge; she saw its blackness flicker through the balustrade; then the cool dimness of the house was around her, with its scents of rosemary and lavender. A serving girl came out of the kitchens, dropped a hasty curtsy, and disappeared. Claudia hurtled up the stairs.

  In her room Alys was dragging clothes out of the closet. A silken petticoat, the blue and gold dress over it, the bodice

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  quickly laced. Claudia stood there and let herself be strapped and fastened into it, the hated cage she was kept in. Over her nurse's shoulder she saw the crystal bird in the tiny prison, its beak agape, and scowled at it.

  "Keep still."

  "I am still!"

  "I suppose you were with Jared."

  Claudia shrugged. Gloom was settling over her. She couldn't be bothered to explain.

  The bodice was too tight, but she was used to it. Her hair was fiercely brushed and the pearl net pinned into it; it crackled with static on the velvet of her shoulders. Breathless, the old woman stepped back. "You'd look better if you weren't scowling.

  "I'll scowl if I want to." Claudia turned to the door, feeling the whole dress sway. "One day I'll howl and scream and yell in his face."

  "I don't think so." Alys stuffed the old green dress into the chest. She glanced in the mirror and tucked the gray hairs back under her wimple, took a laser skinwand out, unscrewed it, and skillfully eliminated a wrinkle under her eye.

  "If I'm going to be Queen, who's to stop me?"

  "He is." Her nurse's retort followed her through the door. "And you're just as terrified of him as everyone else."

  It was true. Walking sedately down the stairs, she knew it had always been true. Her life was fractured into two; the time

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  when her father was here, and the time he was away. She lived two lives, and so did the servants, the whole house, the estate, the world.

  As she crossed the wooden floor between the breathless, sweating double row of gardeners and dairywomen, lackeys and link-men, toward the coach that had rumbled to a halt in the cobbled courtyard, she wondered if he had any idea of that. Probably. He didn't miss much.

  On the steps she waited. Horses snorted; the clatter of their hooves was huge in the enclosed space. Someone shouted, old Ralph hurried forward; two powdered men in livery leaped from the back of the coach, opened the door, snapped down the steps.

  For a moment the doorway was dark.

  Then his hand grasped the coachwork; his dark hat came out, his shoulders, a boot, black knee breeches.

  John Arlex, Warden of Incarceron, stood upright and flicked dust off himself with his gloves.

  He was a tall, straight man, his beard carefully trimmed, his frockcoat and waistcoat of the finest brocade. It had been six months since she had seen him, but he looked exactly the same. No one of his status need show signs of age, but he didn't even seem to use a skinwand. He looked at her and smiled graciously; his dark hair, tied in the black ribbon, was elegantly silvered.

  "Claudia. How well you look, my dear."

  She stepped forward and dropped a low curtsy, then his hand

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  raised her and she felt the cold kiss. His fingers were always cool and slightly clammy, unpleasant to touch; as if he was aware of it, he usually wore gloves, even in warm weather. She wondered if he thought she had changed. "As do you, Father," she muttered.

  For a moment he remained looking at her, the calm gray gaze hard and clear as ever. Then he turned.

  "Allow me to present our guest. The Queen's Chancellor. Lord Evian."

  The carriage rocked. An extremely fat man unfurled from it, and with him a wave of scent that seemed to roll almost visibly up the steps. Behind her Claudia sensed the servants' collective interest. She felt only dismay.

  The Chancellor wore a blue silk suit with an elaborate ruffle at the neck, so high she wondered how he could breathe. He was certainly red in the face, but his bow was assured and his smile carefully pleasant. "My lady Claudia. The last time I saw you, you were no more than a baby in arms. How delightful to see you again."

  She hadn't expected a visitor. The main guestroom was heaped with the half-sewn train of her wedding dress all over its unmade bed. She'd have to use delaying tactics.

  "The honor is ours," she said. "Perhaps you'd like to come into the parlor. We have cider and newly baked cakes as refreshment after your journey." Well, she hoped they did. Turning, she saw three of the servants had gone and the gaps in the line had

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  closed swiftly behind them. Her father gave her a cool look, then walked up the steps, nodding graciously along the row of faces that curtsied and bobbed and dropped their eyes before him.

  Smiling tightly, Claudia thought fast. Evian was the Queen's man. The witch must have sent him to look the bride over. Well, that was fine by her. She'd been preparing for this for years.

  At the door her father stopped. "No Jared?" he said lightly.

  "I hope he's well?"

  "I think he's working on a very delicate process. He probably hasn't even noticed you've arrived." It was true, but it sounded like an excuse. Annoyed at his wintry smile she led them, her skirts sweeping the bare boards, into the parlor. It was a wood-paneled room dark with a great mahogany sideboard, carved chairs, and a trestle table. She was relieved to see cider jugs and a platter of the cook's honeycakes among a scatter of lavender and rosemary.

  Lord Evian sniffed the sweet scents. "Wonderful," he said. "Even the Court couldn't match the authenticity."

  Probably because most of the Courts backdrop was computer-generated, she thought sweetly, and said, "At the Wardenry, my lord, we pride ourselves that everything is in Era. The house is truly old. It was restored fully after the Years of Rage."

  Her father was silent. He sat in the carved chair at the head of the table and watched gravely as Ralph poured the cider into

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  silver goblets. The old man's hand shook as he lifted the tray. "Welcome home, sir."

  "Good to see you, Ralph. A little more gray about the eyebrows, I think. And your wig fuller, with more powder."

  Ralph bowed. "I'll have it seen to, Warden, immediately."

  The Warden's eyes surveyed the room. She knew he wouldn't miss the single pane of Plastiglas in the corner of the casement, or the prefabricated spiderwebs on the pargeted ceiling. So she said hastily, "How is Her Gracious Majesty, my lord?"

  "The Queen's in excellent health." Evian spoke through a mouthful of cake. "She's very busy with arrangements for your wedding. It will be a great spectacle."

  Claudia frowned. "But surely ..."

  He waved a plump hand. "Of course your father hasn't had time to tell you about the change of plans."

  Something inside her went cold. "Change of plans?"

  "Nothing terrible, child. Nothing to concern yourself about. An alteration of dates, that's all. Because of the Earl's return horn the Academy."

  She cleared her face and tried to allow none of her anxiety to show itself. But her lips must have tightened or her knuckles gone white, because her father stood smoothly and said, "Show His Lordship to his room, Ralph."

  The old retainer bowed, went to the door, and creaked it open. Evian struggled up, a shower of crumbs cascading from his suit. As they hit the floor, they evaporated with minute flashes.

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  Claudia swore silently. Something else to get seen to.

  They listened to the heavy footsteps up the creaking stairs, to Ralph's respectful murmurs and the rumble of the fat man's hearty enjoyment of the staircase, the paintings, the urns from China, the damask hangings. When his voice had finally faded in the sunlit distances of the house Claudia looked at her father. Then she said, "You've brought the wedding forward."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Next year, this year, what's the difference? You knew it would come." "I'm not ready ..."

/>   "You've been ready for a long time."

  He took a step toward her, the silver cube on his watch chain catching the light. She stepped back. If he should drop the formal stiffness of the Era, it would be unbearable; the threat of his unveiled personality turned her cold. But he kept the smooth courtesy. "Let me explain. Last month a message came from the Sapienti. They've had enough of your fiancé. They've ... asked him to leave the Academy."

  She frowned. "For what?"

  "The usual vices. Drink, drugs, violence, getting serving girls pregnant. Sins of stupid young men throughout the centuries. He has no interest in education. Why should he? He's the Earl of Steen and when he is eighteen he will be King."

  He walked to the paneled wall and looked up at the portrait there. A freckled cheeky-faced boy of seven looked down at

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  them. He was dressed in a ruffled brown silk suit, and leaning against a tree.

  "Caspar, Earl of Steen. Crown Prince of the Realm. Fine titles. His face hasn't changed, has it? He was merely impudent then. Now he's feckless, brutal, and thinks he is beyond control." He looked at her. "A challenge, your future husband."

  She shrugged, making the dress rustle. "I can deal with him."

  "Of course you can. I've made sure of that." He came over to her and stood before her, and his gray gaze appraised her. She stared straight back.

  "I created you for this marriage, Claudia. Gave you taste, intelligence, ruthlessness. Your education has been more rigorous than anyone's in the Realm. Languages, music, swordplay, riding, every talent you even hinted at possessing I have nurtured. Expense is nothing to the Warden of Incarceron. You are an heiress of great estates. I've bred you as a queen and Queen you will be. In every marriage, one leads, one follows. Though this is merely a dynastic arrangement, it will be so here."

  She looked up at the portrait. "I can handle Caspar. But his mother ..."

  "Leave the Queen to me. She and I understand each other." He took her hand, holding her ring finger lightly between two of his; tense, she held herself still.

  "It will be easy," he breathed.

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  In the stillness of the warm room a wood pigeon cooed outside the casement.

  Carefully, she took her hand from his and drew herself up. "So, when?"

  "Next week."

  "Next week!"

  "The Queen has already begun preparations. In two days we set off for Court. Make sure you're ready."

  Claudia said nothing. She felt empty, and stunned.

  John Arlex turned toward the door. "You've done well here. The Era is impeccable, except for that window. Get it changed."

  Without moving she said quietly, "How was your time at Court?"

  "Wearisome."

  "And your work? How is Incarceron?"

  For a fraction of a second he paused. Her heart thudded. Then he turned and his voice was cold and curious. "The Prison is in excellent order. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason." She tried to smile, wanting to know how he monitored the Prison, where it was, because all her spies had told her he never left the Court. But the mysteries of Incarceron were the least of her worries now.

  "Ah yes. I nearly forgot." He crossed to a leather bag on the table and tugged it open. "I bring a gift from your future mother-in-law." He pulled it out and set it down.

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  They both looked at it.

  A sandalwood box, tied with ribbon.

  Reluctant, Claudia reached out for the tiny bow, but he said, "Wait," took out a small scanning wand, and moved it over the box. Images flashed down its stem. "Harmless." He folded the wand. "Open it."

  She lifted the lid. Inside, in a frame of gold and pearls, was an enameled miniature of a black swan on a lake, the emblem of her house. She took it out and smiled, pleased despite herself by the delicate blue of the water, the bird's long elegant neck. It's pretty.

  "Yes, but watch."

  The swan was moving. It seemed to glide, peacefully at first; then it reared up, flapping its great wings, and she saw how an arrow came slowly out of the trees and pierced its breast. It opened its golden beak and sang, an eerie, terrible music. Then it sank under the water and vanished.

  Her father's smile was acid. "How very charming," he said.

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  3

  ***

  The experiment will be a bold one and there

  may well be risks we have not foreseen. But

  Incarceron will be a system of great complexity and intelligence. There could be no kinder or more compassionate guardian for its inmates.

  --Project report; Martor Sapiens

  ***

  It was a long way back to the shaft, and the tunnels were low. The Maestra walked with her head bent; she was silent , her arms hugging herself. Keiro had put Big Arko to watch her, Finn stayed right at the back behind the wounded.

  In this part of the wing, Incarceron was dark and mostly uninhabited. Here the Prison rarely bothered itself to stir, putting its lights on infrequently and sending few Beetles out. Unlike the stone transitway above, these floors were made of a metallic mesh that gave slightly underfoot; as Finn walked he saw the gleam of a rat's eyes where it crouched, dust falling on its metal scales.

  He was stiff and sore, and as always after an ambush, angry. For everyone else the pent-up tension had burst; even the injured chattered as they stumbled, and their loud laughter had the energy of relief in it. He turned his head and looked back. Behind them the tunnel was windblown and echoing. Incarceron would be listening.

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  He couldn't talk and he didn't want to laugh. A bleak stare at a few joking remarks warned the others off; he saw Lis nudge Amoz and raise her eyebrows. Finn didn't care. The anger was inside, at himself, and it was mixed with fear and a hot, scorching pride, because no one else had had the guts to be chained like that, to lie there in all that silence and wait for death to come rolling over him.

  In his mind he felt the huge wheels again, high above his head.

  And he was angry with the Maestra.

  The Comitatus took no prisoners. It was one of the rules. Keiro was one thing, but when they got back to the Den he'd have to explain her to Jormanric, and that turned him cold. But the woman knew something about the tattoo on his wrist, and he had to find out what that was. He might never have another chance.

  Walking, he thought about that flash of vision. As always it had hurt, as if the memory--if it was one--had sparked and struggled up from some deep, sore place, a lost pit of the past. And it was hard to keep it clear; already he had forgotten most of it, except the cake on a plate, decorated with silver balls. Stupid and useless. Telling him nothing about who he was, or where he had come from.

  The shaft had a ladder down its side; the scouts swarmed over first, then the Prisoners and the warband, lowering goods and the wounded. Last of all Finn climbed down, noticing how

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  the smooth sides were cracked here and there where shriveled black ferns broke out. Those would have to be cleared, otherwise the Prison might sense them, seal off this duct, and reabsorb the whole tunnel, as it had last year when they'd come back from a raid to find the old Den gone, and only a wide white passageway decorated with abstract images of red and gold.

  "Incarceron has shrugged its shoulders," Gildas had said grimly.

  That was the first time he had heard the Prison laugh.

  He shivered, remembering it now, a cold, amused chuckle that had echoed down the corridors. It had silenced Jormanric in mid-fury, had made the hairs on his own skin prickle with terror. The Prison was alive. It was cruel and careless, and he was inside it.

  He leaped down the last rungs into the Den. The great chamber was as noisy and untidy as ever, the warmth of its blazing fires overwhelming. As people clustered anxiously around the plunder, pulling the grain sacks open, tugging out food, he pushed through the crowd and made straight for the tiny cell he shared with Keiro. No one stopped him.

  Inside, he lat
ched the flimsy door and sat on the bed. The room was cold and smelled of unwashed clothes, but it was quiet. Slowly, he let himself lie back.

  He breathed in, and inhaled terror. It came over him in a wave, appalling; he knew the hammering of his heart would kill him, felt cold sweat ice his back and upper lip. Until now

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  he had kept it at bay, but these shuddering heartbeats were the vibrations of the giant wheels; as he jammed his palms into his closed eyes he saw the metal rims looming above him, lay in a screeching fountain of sparks.

  He could have been killed. Or, worse still, crushed and maimed. Why had he said he would do it? Why did he always have to live up to their stupid, reckless reputation?

  "Finn?"

  He opened his eyes.

  After a moment, he rolled over.

  Keiro was standing with his back to the door.

  "How long have you been there?" Finns voice cracked; he cleared his throat hastily.

  "Long enough." His oathbrother came and sat on the other bed. "Tired?"

  "That's one word for it."

  Keiro nodded. Then he said, "There's always a price to pay. Any Prisoner knows that." He looked at the door. "None of them out there could have done what you did."

  "I'm not a Prisoner."

  "You are now."

  Finn sat up and rubbed his dirty hair. "You could have done

  it."

  "Well, yes, I could." Keiro smiled. "But then, I'm extraordinary, Finn, an artist of theft. Devastatingly handsome, utterly ruthless, totally fearless." He tipped his head sideways, as if

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  waiting for the snort of scorn; when it didn't come he laughed and pulled off his dark coat and jerkin. Unlocking the chest, he dropped the sword and firelock in, then searched among the heap of clothes and dragged out a red shirt flamboyantly laced with black.

  Finn said, "Next time you, then."

  "Have you ever known me not take my turn, brother? The Comitatus have to have our reputation pounded into their thick heads. Keiro and Finn. The fearless. The best." He poured water from the jug and washed. Finn watched wearily. Keiro had smooth skin, lithe muscles. In all this hell of deformed and starved people, of halfmen and pock-beggars, his oathbrother was perfect. And he took great care to stay that way. Now, pulling the red shirt on, Keiro threaded a stolen trinket into his mane of hair and looked at himself carefully in the fragment of mirror. Without turning he said, "Jormanric wants you."