Incarceron (Incarceron, Book 1)

by Catherine Fisher

  Keiro stared at Finn. "I don't leave my brother."

  Finn struggled to get up but couldn't. For a moment the whole nightmare of being chained before the trucks of the Civicry crashed back into his mind; then he gasped, "Do as he says."

  "We can get that thing off you." Keiro looked around wildly. "If we had some sort of pivot."

  Attia grabbed a metal strut from the wall. It fell to rust in her hands and she flung it down with a wail.

  Keiro hauled at the net. The dark oil blackened his hands and coat; he swore bur kept pulling, and Finn heaved from below, but after a second they all collapsed, defeated by the weight.

  Keiro crouched at the net. "I'll find you. I'll rescue you. Give me the Key."

  "What?"

  "Give it to me. Or they'll find it on you and take it."

  Finn's fingers closed on the warm crystal. For a moment he saw Gildas's startled gaze through the mesh; the Sapient said, "Finn, no. We'll never see him again."

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  "Shut your mouth, old man." Furious, Keiro turned. "Give it to me, Finn. Now."

  Voices outside. The barking of dogs down the track.

  Finn wriggled. He squeezed the Key between the oily mesh; Keiro grabbed it and pulled it out, his fingers smearing oil on the perfect eagle. He shoved it inside his jacket, then tugged off one of Jormanric's rings and jammed it on Finn's finger. "One for you. Two for me."

  The alarm stopped.

  Keiro backed, glancing around, but Attia had already vanished. "I'll find you, I swear."

  Finn didn't move. But just as Keiro faded into the night of the Prison, he gripped the chains and whispered, "It will only work for me. Sapphique speaks only to me."

  If Keiro heard him, he didn't know. Because just then the doors crashed in, lights were beamed in his eyes, the teeth of dogs were snapping and growling at his hands and face.

  ***

  JARED LOOKED at her aghast. "Claudia, this is madness ..."

  "It could be him. It could be Giles. Oh yes, he looks different. Thinner. More worn. Older. But it could easily be him. Right age, right build. Hair." She smiled. "Right eyes."

  She paced the room, consumed with restlessness. She didn't want to say how the boy's condition had appalled her. She knew that the failure of the Incarceron Experiment was a terrible blow, that all the Sapienti would be rocked by it.

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  Crouching suddenly by the dying fire, she said, "Master, you need to sleep and so do I. Tomorrow I'll insist you travel with me. We can read Alegon's Histories till Alys falls asleep and then we can talk. Tonight, I'll just say this. If he isn't Giles, he could be. We could make a case out that he is. With the old man's testament and the mark on the boy's wrist, there would be doubt. Enough doubt to stop the marriage."

  "His DNA..."

  "Not Protocol. You know that."

  He shook his head. "Claudia, I can't believe ... This is impossible ..."

  "Think about it." She got up and crossed to the door. "Because even if this boy is not Giles, Giles is in there somewhere. Caspar's not the Heir, Jared. And I intend to prove that. If it means taking on the Queen and my father, I'll do it."

  At the door she paused, not wanting to leave him in this pain, wanting to say something that would ease his distress. "We have to help him. We have to help all of them in that hell."

  He had his back to her, but he nodded. Bleakly he said, "Go to bed, Claudia."

  She slipped out into the dim corridor. One candle burned far down in an alcove. As she walked her dress swished the dry rushes on the floor, and at her door she paused and looked back.

  The inn seemed silent. But outside the door that must be

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  Caspar's, a sudden small movement made her stare, and she bit her lip in dismay.

  The big man, Fax, was lying there across two chairs.

  He was looking straight at her. Ironically, with a leer that chilled her, he waved the tankard in his hand.

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  17

  ***

  In ancient statutes Justice was always blind. But what if it sees, sees everything, and its Eye is cold and without Mercy? Who would be safe from such a gaze?

  Year by year Incarceron tightened its grip. It made a hell of what should have been Heaven.

  The Gate is locked; those Outside cannot hear our cries. So, in secret, I began to fashion a key.

  --Lord Calliston's Diary

  ***

  As he passed under the gate of the City, Finn saw it had teeth.

  It was designed like a mouth, gaping wide, fanged with metal incisors that looked razor-sharp. He guessed there was some mechanism that closed it in emergencies, creating an impassible interlocking bite.

  He glanced at Gildas, leaning wearily on the wagon. The old man was bruised and his lip swollen from the blow they had given him. Finn said, "There must be some of your people here."

  The Sapient scratched his face with his tied hands and said dryly, "If so, they don't command much respect."

  Finn frowned. This was all Keiro's fault. The first thing the

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  Crane-men had done after dragging them out of the trap had been to search Gildas's pack. They had tipped out the powders and ointments, the carefully wrapped quills, the book of the Songs of Sapphique he always carried. None of those mattered. But when they had found the packets of meat, they had looked at one another. One of them, a thin scrawny man, had turned on his stilts and snapped, "So you're the thieves."

  "Listen, friend," Gildas had said darkly, "we had no idea the sheep was yours. Everyone has to eat. I'll pay you, with my learning. I am a Sapient of some skill."

  "Oh, you'll pay, old man." The man's stare had been level. He had looked at his comrades; they had seemed amused. "With your hands, I would think, when the Justices see this."

  Finn had been tied up, so tightly, the cords burned his skin. Dragged outside, he had seen a small cart harnessed to a donkey; the Crane-men leaped up onto it, sliding expertly out of the strange metal calipers.

  Roped behind, Finn had stumbled beside the old man along the road that led to the City. Twice he had glanced back, hoping to see Keiro or perhaps Attia, just a glimpse, a brief wave, but the forest was far away now, a distant glimmering of impossible colors, and the road ran straight as an arrow down the long metallic slope, the ground on each side studded with spikes and jagged with chasms.

  Amazed at such defenses, he muttered, "What are they so scared of?"

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  Gildas scowled. "Attack, clearly. They're anxious to be in before Lightsout."

  More than anxious. Almost all of the great crowds they had seen earlier were already inside the wall; as they hurried to the gate, a horn rang out in the citadel, and the Crane-men had urged the donkey on fiercely, so that Gildas was breathless with the pace, and almost fell.

  Now, safe inside, Finn heard the clang of a portcullis and the rattle of chains. Had Keiro and Attia gotten here too? Or were they out there in the wood? He knew the Crane-men would have found the Key if he'd kept it, but the thought of Keiro having it, perhaps speaking to Claudia with it, made him nervous. And there was another thought that nagged at him, but he would not think of that. Not yet.

  "Come on." The leader of the foraging party pulled him upright. "We have to do this tonight. Before the Festival."

  As he trudged through the streets, Finn thought he had never seen such a hive of people. The lanes and alleyways were festooned with small lanterns; when the Prison lights went off the world was transformed instantly into a network of tiny twinkling silver sparks, beautiful and brilliant. There were thousands of inmates, setting up tents, bargaining in vast bazaars, searching for shelter, herding sheep and cyber-horses into corrals and market squares. He saw beggars without hands, blinded, missing lips and ears. He saw disfiguring diseases that made him gasp and turn away. And yet no

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  half-men. Here too it seemed, that abomination was restricted to animals.

  The no
ise of clattering hooves was deafening; the stink of dung and sweat, of crushed straw and the sudden, vivid sweetness of sandalwood, of lemons. Dogs ran everywhere, tugging over food sacks, rummaging in drains, and slyly behind them the small copper-scaled rats that bred so fast slunk into cracks and doorways, their tiny eyes red.

  And he saw that images of Sapphique were on every corner, mounted above doorways and windows, a Sapphique who held out his right hand to show the missing finger, who held in the left what Finn recognized, with a silent leap of his heart, as a crystal Key.

  "Do you see that?"

  "I see it." Gildas sat breathlessly on a step while one of their captors moved into the crowd. "This is obviously some sort of festival. Perhaps in Sapphique's honor."

  "These Justices ..."

  "Leave the talking to me." Gildas straightened, tried to adjust his robe. "Don't say a word. Once they know what I am, we'll be released and this whole mess will be sorted. A Sapient will be listened to."

  Finn scowled. "I hope so."

  "What else did you see, back there in the ruin? What else did Sapphique say?"

  "Nothing." He had run out of lies, and his arms ached from

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  being tied in front of him. Fear was threading into his mind like a cold trickle.

  "Not that we'll see the Key again," Gildas said bitterly. "Or that liar Keiro."

  "I trust him," Finn said between gritted teeth.

  "More fool you."

  The men came back. They tugged their prisoners to one side, pushed them through an archway in a wall and up a broad dim staircase that curved to the left. At the top a great wooden door confronted them; by the light of the two lanterns that guarded it, Finn saw that an enormous eye had been carved deep in the black wood; the eye stared out at him and he thought for a moment that it was alive, that it watched him, that it was the Eye of Incarceron that had studied him curiously all his life.

  Then the Crane-man rapped on the wood and the door opened. Finn and Gildas were led inside, a man on each side of them.

  The room, if it was a room, was pitch-black.

  Finn stopped instantly. He breathed hard, hearing echoes, a strange rustle. His senses warned him of a great emptiness, before him, or perhaps to the side; he was terrified of taking another step in case he plummeted into some unknown depths. A faint memory stirred in his mind, a whisper of someplace without light, without air. He pulled himself upright. He had to keep alert.

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  The men stepped away, and he felt isolated, seeing nothing, touching no one.

  Then, not very far in front of him, a voice spoke.

  "We are all criminals here. Is that not so?"

  It was a low, quiet question, modulated. He had no idea if the speaker was male or female.

  Gildas said immediately, "Not so. I am not a criminal, nor were my forebears. I am Gildas Sapiens, son of Amos, son of Gildas, who entered Incarceron on the Day of Closure."

  Silence. Then, "I did not think any of you were left." The same voice. Or was it? It came from slightly to the left now; Finn stared in that direction, but saw nothing.

  "Neither I nor the boy have stolen from you," Gildas snapped. "Another of our companions killed the animal. It was a mistake but--"

  "Be silent."

  Finn gasped. The third voice, identical to the first two, came from the right. There must be three of them.

  Gildas drew in a breath of annoyance. His very silence was angry.

  The central voice said heavily, "We are all criminals here. We are all guilty. Even Sapphique, who Escaped, had to pay the debt to Incarceron. You too will pay the debt in your flesh and with your blood. Both of you."

  Perhaps the light was growing, or perhaps Finn's eyes were adjusting. Because now he could make them out; three

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  shadows seated before him, dressed in robes of black that covered their whole bodies, wearing strange headdresses of black that he realized all at once were wigs. Wigs of raven-dark, straight hair. The effect was grotesque because the speakers were ancient. He had never seen women so old.

  Their skin was leathery with wrinkles, their eyes milky white. Each of them had her head lowered; as his foot scraped uneasily he saw how their faces turned to follow the sound, and he realized they were blind.

  "Please ..." he muttered.

  "There is no appeal. That is the sentence."

  He glanced at Gildas. The Sapient was staring at some objects at the women's feet. On the steps in front of the first lay a rough wooden spindle, and from it a thread spilled, a fine silvery weave. It coiled and tangled around the feet of the second woman, as if she never moved from the stool where she sat, and hidden in its skein was a measuring stick. The thread, dirty by now and frayed, ran under the chair of the third, to where a sharp pair of shears leaned.

  Gildas looked stricken. "I have heard of you," he whispered.

  "Then you will know we are the Three Without Mercy, the Implacable Ones. Our justice is blind and deals only in facts. You have stolen from these men, the evidence is presented." The middle crone tipped her head. "You agree, my sisters?"

  One each side, identical voices whispered, "We agree."

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  "Then let the punishment for thieves be carried out."

  The men came forward, grabbed Gildas, and forced him to his knees. In the dimness Finn saw the outline of a wooden block; the old man's arms were pulled down and held across it at the wrist. "No!" he gasped. "Listen to me ..."

  "It wasn't us!" Finn tried to struggle. "This is wrong!"

  The three identical faces seemed deaf as well as blind. The central one raised a thin finger; a knife blade glimmered in the darkness.

  "I am a Sapient of the Academy." Gildas's voice was raw and terrified. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead. "I will not be treated like a thief. You have no right..."

  He was held in a rigid grip; one man at his back, another grasping his tied wrists. The knife blade was lifted. "Shut up, old fool," one of them muttered.

  "We can pay. We have money. I can cure illnesses. The boy ... the boy is a seer. He speaks to Sapphique. He has seen the stars!"

  It came out like a cry of desperation. At once the man with the knife paused; his gaze flashed to the crones.

  Together they said, "The stars?" The words were an overlapping murmur, a wondering whisper. Gildas, gasping for breath, saw his chance. "The stars, Wise Women. The lights Sapphique speaks of. Ask him! He's a cell-born, a son of Incarceron."

  They were silent now. Their blind faces turned toward Finn; the central one held out her hand, beckoning, and the

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  Crane-man shoved him forward so that she touched his arm and grabbed it. Finn kept very still. The old woman's hands were bony and dried the fingernails long and broken. She groped down his arms, over his chest, reached up to his face. He wanted to break away, to shudder, but he kept still, enduring the cool, rough fingers on his forehead, over his eyes.

  The other women faced him, as if one felt for them all. Then, both hands pressed against his chest, the central Justice murmured, "I feel his heart. It beats boldly, flesh of the Prison, bone of the Prison. I feel the emptiness in him, the torn skies of the mind."

  "We feel the sorrow."

  "We feel the loss."

  "He serves me." Gildas heaved himself up and stood hastily. "Only me. But I give him to you, sisters, I offer him to you in reparation for our crime. A fair exchange."

  Finn glared at him, astonished. "No! You can't do that!"

  Gildas turned. He was a small shrunken shape in the darkness, but his eyes were hard and crafty with sudden inspiration, his breathing ragged. He looked meaningfully at the ring on Finn's finger. "I have no choice."

  The three crones turned to one another. They did not speak, bur some knowledge seemed to pass between them. One cackled a sudden laugh that made Finn sweat and the man behind him mutter with terror.

  "Shall we?"

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  "Should
we?"

  "Could we?"

  "We accept." They spoke it in unison. Then the crone on the left bent and picked up the spindle. Her cracked fingers spun it; she took the thread and pulled it out between finger and thumb. "He will be the One. He will be the Tribute."

  Finn swallowed. He felt weak, his back sheened with cold sweat. "What tribute?"

  The second sister measured the thread, a short span. The third crone took the shears. Carefully she cut the thread and it fell silently in the dust.

  "The Tribute we owe," she whispered, "to the Beast."

  ***

  KEIRO AND Attia reached the City just before Lightsout, the last league on the back of a wagon whose driver never even noticed them. Outside the gate they jumped off.

  "Now what?" she whispered.

  "We go straight in. Everyone else is."

  He strode off and she glared at his back, then ran after him.

  There was a smaller gate, and to the left a narrow slit in the wall. She wondered what it was for, then she saw that the guards were making everyone walk through it.

  She looked back. The road was empty. Far out in the silent plain the defenses waited; high above, what might have been a bird circled like a silver spark in the dim mists.

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  Keiro pushed her forward. "You first."

  As they walked up, the guard ran a practiced eye over them, then jerked his head toward the slit. Attia walked through. It was a dim, smelly passageway, and she emerged in the cobbled street of the City.

  Keiro took one step after her.

  Instantly, an alarm rang. Keiro turned. A soft, urgent bleep in the wall. Just above, Incarceron opened an Eye and stared.

  The guard, who had been closing the gate, stopped. He spun around, drawing his sword. "Well, you don't look like ..."

  With one blow to the stomach Keiro doubled him up; another sent him crashing against the wall. He lay crumpled. Keiro took a breath, then crossed to the panel and flicked the alarm off. When he turned Attia was staring at him. "Why you? Why not me?"

  "Who cares?" He strode quickly past her. "It probably sensed the Key."

  She stared at his back, at the rich jerkin and the mane of hair he pushed so carelessly back. Quietly, so he couldn't hear her, she said, "So why are you so scared?"