by Кэтрин Фишер
‘What do I call you?’ she muttered.
He grinned. 'Men like me change their names like coats.
I’ve been Silentio the Silent Seer, and Alixia the One-eyed Witch of Demonia. One year I was the Wandering Felon, the next, the Elastic Outlaw of the Ash Wing. The Enchanter is a new direction. Confers a certain dignity, I feel.’ He flicked the reins; the ox plodded patiently round a hole in the metallic track.
‘You must have a real name’
‘Must I?’ He grinned at her. ‘Like Attia? Call that real?’ Annoyed, she dumped her bundle of possessions at her feet. ‘Real enough.’
‘Call me Ishmael he said and then laughed, a sudden throaty bark that startled her.
‘What?’
‘From a patchbook I once read. About a man obsessed with a great white rabbit. He chases it down a hole and it eats him and he’s in its belly for forty days.’ He gazed out at the featureless plain of tilted metal, its few spiny shrubs. ‘Guess my name. Riddle me my name, Attia mine.’ She scowled, silent.
‘Is my name Adrax, or Malevin, or Korrestan? Is it Torn Tat Tot or Rumpelstiltsker? Is it—’
‘Forget it,’ she said. There was a crazy glint in his eye now; he was staring at her in a way that she didn’t like. To her alarm he leapt up and yelled out, ‘Is it Wild Edric who rides upon the wind?’ The ox strode on, unbothered. One of the seven identical jugglers ran alongside. ‘All right, Rix?’ The magician blinked. As if he had lost balance he sat down heavily. ‘Now you’ve told her. And it’s Master Rix to you, fumblefingers.’ The man shrugged and glanced at Attia. Discreetly he tapped his forehead, rolled his eyes and walked on.
She frowned. She had thought he was high on ket, but maybe she’d got herself mixed up with a lunatic. There were plenty of those in Incarceron. Half-brained or broken cell-borns. The thought made her think of Finn, and she bit her lip. But whatever this Rix was, there was something about him. Did he really have Sapphique’s Glove, or was it just some stage-prop? And if he did, how was she going to steal it?
He was silent now, gloomy all at once. His moods seemed to change swiftly. She didn’t speak either, staring out at the grim landscape of the Prison.
In this Wing the light was a muted, fiery glow, as if something burnt just out of sight. The roof here was too high to see, but as the waggons rumbled down the track they swerved around the end of a vast chain hanging down; she gazed up, but its top was lost in rusty wisps of cloud.
She had once sailed up there, in a silver ship, with friends, with a Key. But like Sapphique, she had fallen low.
Ahead, a range of hills rose up, their shapes odd and jagged.
‘What are those?’ she said.
Rix shrugged. ‘Those are the Dice. There’s no way over them. The road goes under.' He glanced at her, sidelong. ‘So what brings an ex-slave to our little group?’
‘I told you. I need to eat.’ She bit her nail and said, ‘And I’m curious. I’d like to learn a few tricks.’ He nodded. ‘You and everyone else. But my secrets die with me, sister. Magician’s Pledge.
‘You won’t teach me?’
‘Only the Apprentice gets my secrets.’ She wasn’t that interested, but she needed to find out about the Glove. ‘That’s your son?’ His bark of laughter made her jump. ‘Son! I probably have a few of those around the Prison! No. Each magician teaches his life’s work to one person, their Apprentice. And that person comes once in a lifetime. It could be you. It could be anyone.’ He leant closer, and winked. ‘And I know them only by what they say.’
‘You mean, like a password?’ He swayed back, in exaggerated respect. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. A word, a phrase, that only I know. That my old master taught to me. One day, I will hear someone speak it. And that someone will be the one I teach
‘And pass your props on to?’ she said quietly.
His eyes slid to her. He jerked the reins; the ox bellowed, hauled to a clumsy standstill.
Attia’s hand shot to her knife.
Rix turned to her. Ignoring the shouts of the waggoners behind he watched her with sharp, suspicious eyes. ‘So that’s it,’ he said. ‘You want my Glove’ She shrugged. ‘If it was the real one...'.
‘Oh it’s real.’ She snorted. ‘Sure. And Sapphique gave it to you.’
‘Your scorn is meant to draw out my story’ He flicked the reins, and the ox lumbered on. ‘Well I’ll tell you, because I want to. It’s no secret. Three years ago, I was in a wing of the Prison known as the Tunnels of Madness.’
‘They exist?’
‘They exist, but you wouldn’t want to go there. Deep in one I met an old woman. She was sick, dying by the roadside. I gave her a cup of water. In return, she told me that when she was a girl, she had seen Sapphique. He had appeared to her in a vision, when she slept in a strange tilted room. He had knelt beside her, and taken from his right hand the Glove, and slid it under her fingers. Keep this safe for me until I return, he said.’
‘She was mad,’ Attia said quietly. ‘Everyone who goes there goes mad.’ Rix laughed his harsh bark. ‘Just so! I myself have never been quite the same. And I didn’t believe her. But she drew from her rags a Glove, and closed my fingers over it. ‘I have hidden it for a lifetime,’ she whispered, ‘and the Prison hunts for it, I know. You are a great magician. It will be safe with you.’ Attia wondered how much was true. Not the last sentence, for sure. ‘And you’ve kept it safe.’
‘Many have tried to steal it.’ His eyes flicked sideways. ‘No one has succeeded.’ He obviously had suspicions. She smiled, and went on the attack. ‘Last night, in that so-called act of yours. Where did you get that stuff about Finn?’
‘You told me, sweetkin.’
‘I told you I’d been a slave and that Finn. . . rescued me.
But what you said about betrayal. About love. Where did you get that?’
‘Ah.’ He made his fingers into a quick elaborate steeple.
‘I read your mind.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘You saw. The man, the sobbing woman
‘Oh I saw!’ She let a rich disgust enter her voice. ‘Tricking them with that junk! He is safe in the peace of Incarceron. How can you live with yourself?’
‘The woman wanted to hear it. And you do both love and hate this Finn’ The gleam was back in his eye. Then his face fell. ‘But the rumble of thunder! I admit that astonished me.
That has never happened before. Is Incarceron watching you, Attia? Is it interested in you?’
‘It’s watching us all,’ she growled.
From behind, a shrill voice screeched, ‘Speed up, Rix!’ The head of a giantess was peering from the starry cloth.
‘And that vision of a tiny keyhole?’ Attia had to know.
‘What keyhole?’
‘You said you could see Outside. The stars, you said, and a great palace.’
‘Did I?’ His eyes were puzzled; she had no idea if it was pretence or not. ‘I don’t remember. Sometimes when I wear the Glove 1 really think something takes over my mind.’ He shook the reins. She wanted to ask him more but he said, ‘I suggest you get down and stretch your legs.
We’ll be at the Dice soon, and then we all need to be on our guard It was a dismissal. Annoyed, Attia jumped from the cart.
‘About time,’ the giantess snarled.
Rix smiled his toothless smile. ‘Gigantia, darling. Go back to sleep.’ He whipped up the ox. Attia let the cart rumble ahead; in fact she let them all pass, the gaudy painted sides, the red and yellow spoked wheels, the pots and pans clattering underneath. Right at the back a donkey trailed on a long rope, and a few small children trudged wearily.
She followed, head down. She needed time to think. The only plan, when she had heard the rumours of a magician who claimed to own Sapphique’s Glove, had been to find him and steal it. If she had been abandoned by Finn, she would try anything to find her own way out. For a moment, as her feet tramped along the metal roadway, she allowed herself to relive the frill misery of those h
ours in the cell at the World’s end, Keiro’s scorn and his pity and his ‘He’s not coming back. Get used to it.’ She had turned on him then. ‘He promised’ He’s your brother!’ Even now, two months later, his cold shrug and his answer chilled her.
‘Not any more.’ Keiro had paused at the door. ‘Finn’s an expert liar. His speciality is getting people to feel sorry for him. Don’t waste your time. He’s got Claudia now, and his precious kingdom. We’ll never see him again.’
‘And where are you going?’ He had smiled. ‘To find my own kingdom. Catch me up.’ Then he had gone, shoving his way down the collapsed corridor.
But she had waited.
She had waited alone in the dingy silent cell for three days, until thirst and hunger drove her away. Three days of refusal to believe, of doubt, of anger. Three days to imagine Finn out in that world where the stars were, in some great marble palace with people bowing to him. Why hadn’t he come back? It must have been Claudia. She must have persuaded him, put a spell on him, made him forget. Or the Key must have got broken, or lost.
But now it was harder to think like that. Two months was a long time. And there was another thought that hid in her mind, that crept out when she was tired or depressed. That he was dead. That his enemies out there had killed him.
Except that last night, in that moment of fake death, she had seen him.
A shout, ahead.
She looked up, and saw, towering over her, the Dice.
That was exactly what they were. A great tumble of them, vaster than mountains, their sides white and faintly gleaming, as if a giant had tipped a pile of sugar cubes in the way, with smooth hollows that might be arranged in sixes and fives. In places stunted stubby growths struggled to grow; deep in the clefts and valleys a faint moss clung like grass. No roads led up there; the cuboid hills must be hard as marble, and smooth, impossible to climb. Instead the track ran into a tunnel hacked into the base.
The waggons halted. Rix stood up, and said, ‘People.’ Quite suddenly faces were peering out from the waggons, all the stunted, enormous, shrivelled, dwarfish faces of the freakshow. The seven jugglers clustered round. Even the bearguard ambled back.
‘The rumour is that the gang that runs this road is greedy but thick.’ Rix took a coin from his pocket and spun it. It vanished into the air. ‘So we should get through without problems. If there are. . . obstructions, you all know what to do. Be alert, my friends. And remember, the Art Magicke is the art of illusion He made an elaborate bow and sat back down. Puzzled, Attia saw how the seven jugglers were distributing swords and knives, and small balls of blue and red. Then each of them climbed up by a driver. The carts closed together, a tight formation.
She climbed hastily behind Rix and his guard.
‘Are you seriously taking on some Scum gang with collapsible knives and fake swords?’ Rix didn’t answer. He just grinned his gappy grin.
As the tunnel entrance loomed Attia loosened her own knife and wished desperately that she had a firelock. These people were crazy, and she didn’t intend to die with them.
Ahead, the tunnel’s shadow loomed. Soon intense darkness closed over her.
Everything disappeared. No, not everything. With a wry smile she realized that if she leant out she could see the lettering on the waggon behind; that it was picked out in glowing luminous paint — The One, the Only, Travelling Extravaganza — that its wheels were whirling spokes of green. There was nothing else. The tunnel was narrow; from its roof the noise of rumbling axles reverberated into an echoing thunder.
The further in they went, the more worried she became. No road was without its owners; whoever held this one had a surefire ambush site. Glancing up she tried to make out the roof, whether any one was up there on walkways or hanging from nets, but apart from the web of one uberspider she could see nothing.
Except, of course, the Eyes.
They were very obvious in the darkness. Incarceron’s small red Eyes watched her at intervals, tiny starpoints of curiosity She remembered the books of images she had seen, imagined how she must look to the curious Prison, tiny and grainy, gazing up from the waggon.
Look at me, she thought, bitterly. Remember, I’ve heard you speak. I know there is a way Out from you.
‘They’re here,’ Rix muttered.
She stared at him. Then, with a crash that made her jump, a grid smashed down ahead in the darkness; and another, behind. Dust billowed up; the ox bellowed as Rix dragged it to a halt. The waggons creaked into a long straggling stillness.
‘Greetings!’ The shout came from the darkness ahead.
‘Welcome to the toll gate of Thar’s Butchers.’
‘Sit tight,’ Rix muttered. ‘And follow my lead.’ He jumped down, a lanky shadow in the darkness. Immediately a beam of light lit him. He shaded his eyes against it. ‘We’re more than willing to pay great Thar whatever he wants.’ A snort of laughter. Attia glanced up. Some of them were overhead, she was sure. Stealthily she drew her knife, remembering how the Comitatus had captured her with a flung net.
‘Just tell us, great one, what’s the fee?’ Rix sounded apprehensive.
‘Gold or women or metal. Whatever we choose, showman.’ Rix bowed, and let relief creep into his voice. ‘Then come forward and take what you want, masters. All I ask is that the properties of our art are left us.’ Attia hissed, ‘You’re just going to let them—’
‘Shut up,’ he muttered. Then, to the juggler, ‘Which one are you?’
‘Quintus.’
‘Your brothers?’
‘Ready, boss.’ Someone was coming out of the dark. In the red glimmer of the Eyes, Attia saw him in flickers, a bald head, stocky shoulders, the glint of metal strapped all over him. Behind, in a sinister line, other figures.
On each side, green lights flared with a sizzle.
Attia stared; even Rix swore.
The gangleader was a halfman.
Most of his bald skull was a metal plate, one ear a gaping hole meshed with filaments of skin.
In his hands he held a fearsome weapon, part axe, part cleaver. The men behind him were all shaven-headed, as if that was their tribemark.
Rix swallowed. Then he held up a hand and said, ‘We’re poor folk, Winglord. Some thin silver coins, a few precious stones. Take them. Take anything. Just leave us our pathetic props.’ The halfman reached out and gripped Rix by the throat.
‘You talk too much.’ His henchmen were already climbing all over the waggons, pushing the jugglers aside, ducking under the canvas.
Several of them came straight back out.
‘Hell’s teeth,’ one muttered. ‘These are beasts not men.’ Rix smiled wanly at the Winglord. ‘People will pay to see ugliness. It makes them feel human.’ A stupid thing to say, Attia thought, watching Thar’s grim face.
The Winglord narrowed his eyes. ‘So you’ll pay us coins.’
‘Any amount.’
‘And women?’
‘Indeed, lord
‘Even your children?’
‘Take your pick.’ The Winglord sneered. ‘What a stinking coward you are: Rix pulled a rueful face. The man dropped him in disgust.
He flicked a glance at Attia. ‘What about you, girl?’
‘Touch me she said quietly, ‘and I’ll cut your throat.’ Thar grunted. ‘Now that’s what I like. Guts.’ He stepped forward and fingered the edge of his blade. ‘So tell me, coward. What are these . . . props?’ Rix paled. ‘Things we use in our act:
‘And what makes them so precious?’
‘They’re not. I mean...' Rix stuttered. ‘To us, yes, but. .
The Winglord pushed his face close to the magician’s.
‘Then you won’t mind me looking at them, will you?’ Rix looked stricken. His own fault, Attia thought sourly. The Winglord pushed past him. He reached into the waggon, wrenched open the cavity that was hidden under the driver’s footboard, and dragged out a box.
‘No.’ Rix licked cracked lips. ‘Sir, please! Take anything we have, but
not that! Without these trinkets we can’t perform. .
‘I have heard: Thar smashed the hasp of the box thoughtfully, ‘tales about you. About a certain Glove: Rix was silent. He looked panic-stricken.
The halfman tore the box lid off and looked inside.
Reaching in, he drew out a small black object.
Attia drew a breath. The glove was tiny in the man’s paw; it was worn and had been mended, and the forefinger was marked with what might have once been bloodstains. She made a move; the man glanced at her and she froze. ‘So,’ he said greedily. ‘Sapphique’s Glove.’
‘Please.’ Rix had lost all his bluster. ‘Anything but that: The Winglord grinned. With mocking slowness, he began to pull the glove on over his fat fingers.
4
We have been most careful in setting the locks of the Prison. No one can break in or out. The Warden will hold the sole Key. Should he die without passing on his knowledge the Esoterica must be opened. But only by his successor. For these things are forbidden now .
PROJECT REPORT; MARTOR SAPLENS
‘Jared?’ Breathless, Claudia burst through the door into her tutor’s room and stared round.
It was empty.
The bed was neatly made, the spartan shelves lined with a few books. On the wooden floor sweet rushes were scattered, and a tray on the table had a plate with crumbs on it and an empty wineglass.
As she whirled to go the draught of her skirt lifted a paper.
She stared at it. It looked like a letter, on thick vellum, tucked under the glass. Even from here she could see the royal insignia on the back, the crowned Havaarna eagle, its raised talon holding the world. And the Queen’s white rose.
