Incarceron (Incarceron, Book 1)

by Catherine Fisher

  ***

  WHEN THE carriage dipped as he climbed in, Claudia sighed with relief. "I thought you'd never come."

  She turned from the window and the words died in her mouth.

  "I'm touched," her father said dryly.

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  He pulled off one glove and flicked dust from the seat. Then he laid his stick and a book beside him, and called, "Drive on.

  The carriage creaked as the horses were whipped up. In a moment of jangling harness and the swaying turn in the inn-yard Claudia tried to stop herself falling into his trap. But the anxiety was too much. "Where's Jared? I thought..."

  "I asked him to travel with Alys in the third coach this morning. I felt we should talk."

  It was an insult, of course, though Jared wouldn't care and Alys would be thrilled to have him to herself. But to treat a Sapient like a servant... She was rigid with fury.

  Her father watched her a moment, then gazed out of the window, and she saw that he had allowed a little more gray into his beard, so that his look of grave distinction was stronger than ever.

  He said, "Claudia, a few days ago you asked me about your mother."

  If he had struck her, she couldn't have been more astonished. Then, instantly, she was on the alert. It was just like him to take the initiative, to turn the game around, to attack. He was a master chess player at the Court. She was a pawn on his board, a pawn he would make a queen, despite everything.

  Outside, a soft summer rain was drenching the fields. It smelled sweet and fresh. She said, "Yes I did."

  He gazed out at the countryside, his fingers playing with

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  the black gloves. "It is very hard for me to speak about her, but today, on this journey toward everything I have always worked for, perhaps the time has come." Claudia bit her lip.

  All she felt was fear. And for a moment, just a fragment of time, something she had never felt before. She felt sorry for him.

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  18

  ***

  We have paid the tribute of the dearest and best and now we await the outcome. If it takes

  centuries, we will not forget. Like wolves we will stand guard. If revenge must be taken we

  will take it.

  --The Steel Wolves

  ***

  "I married in middle age." John Arlex watched the heavy foliage of summer shadow the interior of the coach with glints of sunlight. "I was a wealthy man--our family has always been part of the Court--and the post of Warden had been mine from youth. A great responsibility, Claudia. You have no idea how great."

  He sighed briefly.

  The coach jolted over stones. In the pocket of her traveling coat, she felt the crystal Key tap against her knee, remembered Finns fear, his starved face. Were they all like that, the Prisoners her father watched over?

  "Helena was a beautiful and elegant woman. Ours was not an arranged marriage, but a chance meeting at a winter ball at the Court. She was a Lady of the Chamber to the last Queen, Giles's mother, an orphan, the last of her line."

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  He paused, as if he wanted her to say something, but she didn't. She felt that if she spoke it would break the spell, that he might stop. He didn't look at her. Softly he said, "I was very much in love with her."

  Her hands were clenched together. She made them relax.

  "After a short courtship we were married at Court. A quiet wedding, not like yours will be, but there was a discreet banquet later, and Helena sat at the head of my table and laughed. She looked very much like you, Claudia, if a little shorter. Her hair was fair and smooth. She always wore a black velvet ribbon around her neck, with a portrait of us both inside it."

  He smoothed his knee absently.

  "When she told me she was pregnant I was more happy than I can say. Perhaps I had thought the time was gone, that I would never have an heir. That the care of Incarceron would pass from the family, that the line of the Arlexi would die out with me. In any case, I took even greater care of her. She was strong, but the constraints of Protocol had to be observed."

  He looked up. "We had so little time together."

  Claudia took a breath. "She died."

  "When the child was born." He looked away, out of the window. Leaf shadows flashed over his face. "We had a midwife and one of the most renowned of the Sapienti in attendance, but nothing could be done."

  She had no idea what to say. Nothing had prepared her for this. He had never talked to her like this before. Her fingers

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  were knotted back together. She said, "I never saw her then."

  "Never." His dark glance turned to her. "And afterward I could not bear to see her image. There was a portrait, but I had it locked away. Now there is only this."

  He drew from inside his shirt a small gold locket, tugged the black ribbon over his head and held it out. For a moment she was almost afraid to take it; when she did, it was warm from his body heat.

  "Open it," he said.

  She undid the fastening. Inside, facing each other in two oval frames were two miniatures, exquisitely painted. On the right, her father, looking grave and younger, his hair a rich brown. And opposite, in a low-cut gown of crimson silk, a woman with a sweet, delicate face, smiling, a tiny flower held to her mouth.

  Her mother.

  Her fingers trembled; glancing up to see if he noticed, she saw he was watching her. He said, "I will have a copy made for you at Court. Master Alan the painter is a fine workman."

  She wanted him to break down, to cry out. She wanted him to be angry, to be scorched with grief, something, anything she could respond to. But there was only his grave calm.

  She knew he had won this round of the game. Silently she gave the medallion back.

  He slid it into his pocket.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. The coach rumbled along

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  the high road; they passed through a village of tumbledown cottages and a pond where geese rose up and flapped white wings in fright. Then the road ran uphill, into the green shade of a wood.

  Claudia felt hot and embarrassed. A wasp blundered through the open window; she waved it out and wiped her hands and face with a small handkerchief noticing how the brown dust of the road came off on the white linen.

  Finally she said, "Fm glad you've told me. Why now?"

  "I am not a demonstrative man, Claudia. But only now am I ready to speak of it." His voice was gravelly and hoarse. "This wedding will be the pinnacle of my life. Of hers too, had she lived. We must think of her, of how proud and happy she would have felt." He raised his eyes and they were gray as steel. "Nothing must be allowed to spoil things, Claudia. Nothing must get in the way of our success."

  She met his eyes; he smiled his slow smile. "Now. I am sure you would prefer Jared's company to mine." There was an edge to the words that she did not miss. He picked up his stick and thumped on the carriage roof; outside, the coachman gave a low call, drawing the horses to a restless, stamping, snorting halt. When they were still, the Warden leaned over and opened the door. He climbed down and stretched. "What a beautiful view. Look, my dear."

  She stepped out beside him.

  A great river ran below them, glinting in the summer

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  sunshine. It ran through rich farmlands, the fields golden with the ripening barley, and she saw that butterflies were rising in clouds from the flowery meadows beside the road. The sun was hot on her arms; she raised her face to it gratefully, closing her eyes and seeing only a red heat, smelling the dust and some pungent crushed yarrow in the hedge.

  When she opened them again he was gone, walking back to the following coaches, swishing his stick, speaking a pleasant word to Lord Evian, who climbed out and mopped perspiration from his red face.

  And the Realm stretched before her to the distant misty heat of the horizon, and she wished for a second that she could run into its summer stillness, escape into the peace of the empty land. Somewhere no one else would be.
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  Somewhere she would be free.

  A movement at her elbow. Lord Evian stood there, sipping from a small wine flask. "Beautiful," he breathed. He pointed a plump finger. "Do you see?"

  She saw a glitter miles away in the distant hills. A brilliant diamond-white reflection. And she knew it was the sunlight on the roof of the great Glass Court.

  ***

  KEIRO ATE the last scrap of meat and leaned back, replete. He drank the dregs of beer and looked around for someone to refill the tankard.

  Attia was still sitting by the door; he ignored her. The tavern

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  was full; he had to call twice to get attention. Then the alewife came over with a jug and as she filled said, "What about your friend? Doesn't she eat?"

  "She's no friend of mine."

  "She came in behind you."

  He shrugged. "Can't help being followed by girls. I mean, look at me."

  The woman laughed and shook her head. "All right, handsome. Pay up."

  He counted out a few coins, drank the beer, and stood, stretching. He felt better after the wash, and the flame-red jerkin had always looked good on him. Striding between the tables he ignored Attia as she scrambled up to follow and was halfway down the dim alleyway before her voice made him stop.

  "When are we going to find them?"

  He didn't turn.

  "God knows what's happening to them. You promised ..."

  Keiro swung around. "Why don't you get lost?"

  The girl stared back. She was a timid little thing, he'd thought, but this was the second time she'd confronted him, and it was getting annoying. "I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly.

  Keiro grinned. "You think I'm going to desert them, don't your

  "Yes."

  Her directness threw him. It made him angry. He turned

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  and walked on, but she came after him like a shadow. Like a dog.

  "I think you want to, but I won't let you. I won't let you take the Key."

  He told himself he wouldn't answer her, but the words came out anyway. "You have no idea what I'll do. Finn and I are oathbrothers. That means everything. And I keep my word."

  "Do you?" Her voice slid into a sly copy of Jormanric's. " I haven't kept my word since I was ten and knifed my own brother. Is that how it works, Keiro? Is that how the Comitatus is still with us, inside you?"

  He turned on her then, but she was ready for him. She leaped, scratching his face, kicking and pushing him so that he staggered and crashed back against the wall. The Key fell out, a clatter on the filthy cobbles; they both grabbed for it, but she was quicker.

  Keiro hissed with anger. He caught her hair, dragged it back savagely. "Give it to me!"

  She screamed and squirmed.

  "Let go of it!"

  He pulled harder. With a howl of pain Attia threw the Key into the darkness; instantly Keiro let her go and scrambled after it, but as soon as he picked it up, he dropped it with a yell.

  It lay on the ground, small blue lights traveling inside it.

  Suddenly, with alarming silence, an image field sprang up around it. They saw a girl dressed in a sumptuous dress, her

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  back against a tree, lit by a glorious brilliance of light. She stared at them both. When she spoke, her voice was sharp with suspicion.

  "Where's Finn? Who the hell are you?"

  ***

  THEY HAD given him a meal of honeycakes and some strange seeds and a hot drink that bubbled slightly, but he had been afraid to taste it in case it was drugged. Whatever he was going into, he wanted a clear head.

  They had also given him clean clothes and water to wash in. Outside the door of the room two of the Crane-men stood, leaning against the wall.

  He crossed to the window. There was a long drop. Below was a narrow street, crowded with people even now, begging and selling and setting up makeshift camps in the street, sleeping under sacks, their animals wandering everywhere. The noise was appalling.

  He put his hands on the sill and leaned out, looking up at the roofs. They were mostly straw, with some metal patched here and there. There was no way he could climb out on them; the house leaned outward as if it would fall, and he certainly would. For a moment he wondered if it might not be better to break his neck here than have to face some nameless creature, but there was still time. Things might change.

  He ducked inside and sat on the stool trying to think. Where

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  was Keiro? What was he doing? What plan did he have? Keiro was willful and wild, but he was a great plotter. The ambush of the Civicry had been his idea. He was bound to think of something good. Already Finn missed his brashness, his utter self-certainty.

  The door opened; Gildas squeezed in.

  "You!" Finn jumped up. "You've got a nerve ..."

  The Sapient held up both hands. "You're angry. Finn, I had no choice. You saw what would have happened to us." He sounded grim, went and sat heavily on the stool. "Besides, Fm coming with you."

  "They said only me."

  "Silver coins do much." He grunted tetchily. "Most people try to bribe their way out of being taken to the Cave, it seems, not in."

  There was only one seat in the room; Finn sat on the floor among the straw and wrapped his arms around his knees. "I thought I was on my own," he said softly.

  "Well, you're not. I am not Keiro, and I will not desert my seer."

  Finn scowled. Then he said, "Would you desert me if I saw nothing?"

  Gildas rubbed his dry hands together, making a papery sound. "Of course not."

  They were silent a moment, listening to the babble of the street. Then Finn said, "Tell me about the Cave."

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  "I thought you knew the story. Sapphique came to the Citadel of the Justices, which must be where we are. He learned that the people here pay a Tribute every month to a being they only know as the Beast--the tribute is a young man or woman of the town. They go into a cave on the mountainside; none ever return."

  He scratched his beard. "Sapphique came before the Justices and offered himself in place of the girl whose life was due. They say she wept at his feet. As he went out all the people of the town watched him go, in silence. He entered the Cave alone, without weapons."

  Finn said, "And?"

  Gildas was silent a moment. When he went on, his voice was lower. "For three days nothing happened. Then, on the fourth, news went around like wildfire that the stranger had emerged from the Cave. The townspeople lined the walls, threw open the gates. Sapphique walked slowly up the road. When he reached the gates he lifted up his hand, and they saw that the index finger on the right was missing, and that the hand bled into the dust. He said, 'The debt has not been paid. There is not enough of me to pay the debt. What lives in the Cave is a hunger that can never be satisfied. An emptiness that can never be filled.' Then he turned and walked away and the people let him go. But the girl, the one whose life he saved, she ran after him, and traveled with him for a while. She was the first of his Followers."

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  Finn said, "What--?" but the door slammed open before he could finish. The Crane-men beckoned. "Out. The boy must sleep now. At Lightson we leave."

  Gildas went, with one swift look. The man threw Finn some blankets; he dragged them around himself and sat huddled against the wall, listening to the voices and singing and barking in the street.

  He felt cold and utterly alone. He tried to think of Keiro, of Claudia, the girl the Key had shown him. And Attia, would she forget him? Would they all leave him to his fate?

  He rolled over and curled up.

  And then he saw the Eye.

  It was very tiny, up near the ceiling, half hidden in cobwebs.

  It watched him steadily and he stared back, then sat up and faced it. "Speak to me," he said, his voice soft with anger and scorn. "Are you too scared to speak to me? If I was born from you, then talk to me. Tell me what to do. Spring the doors open."

  The Eye was a
red spark, unblinking.

  "I know you're there. I know you can hear me. I've always known. The others forget, but I don't." He was standing now; he came over and reached up, but the Eye was, as always, too high. "I told her about you, the Maestra, the woman that was killed, that I killed. Did you see that? Did you see her fall, did you catch her? Have you got her somewhere, alive?"

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  His voice was shaking, his mouth was dry; he knew the signs but was too angry and scared to stop.

  "I will Escape from you. I will, I swear it. There must be somewhere to go. Where you can't see me. Where you don't exist!

  He was sweating, sick. He had to sit down, lie down, let the dizziness sweep over him, the patchwork of images, a room, a table, a boat on a dark lake. He choked on them, fought them off, drowned in them. "No," he said. "No." The Eye was a star. A red star. It fell slowly into his open mouth. And as it burned inside him, he heard it speak in the faintest of breaths, the murmur of dust in deserted corridors, the scorch of ashes in the heart of the fire.

  "I am everywhere" it whispered. "Everywhere."

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  19

  ***

  Down the endless halls of guilt

  My silver thread of tears is spilt.

  My fingerbone the key that broke

  My blood the oil that smoothes the lock.

  ---Songs of Sapphique

  ***

  Claudia stared at the holo-image in dismay. "What do you mean imprisoned? You're all in Prison, aren't you?" The boy grinned, a soft mockery she already disliked. He sat on the curb of what looked like some sort of dark alleyway and leaned back, gazing at her with a considering scrutiny. "Are we, indeed? And where are you then, Princess?"

  She frowned. In fact she had run into the garderobe of the hostelry where the carriages had stopped for lunch, a stinking stone chamber too close to Protocol for comfort. But she wasn't going to waste time explaining. "Listen to me, whatever your name is--"

  "Keiro."

  "Well, Keiro. It's vital I speak to Finn. How did you get this Key from him anyway? Did you steal it?"

  He had very blue eyes, and his hair was blond and long. He was handsome and he certainly knew it. He said, "Finn and

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  I are oathbrothers, sworn to each other. He gave it to me for safety."