Sappique

by Catherine Fisher

  how the youngest coughed and the oldest was bow-legged with rickets.

  The waggon rumbled into the lee of the buildings. Rafe yelled at the children to find the horses and they scattered, and then he ducked under one of the low doorways. Claudia and Finn waited for the older man to climb down. His hunched back was even more evident when he stood, no taller than Finn’s shoulder.

  ‘This way, lord’s groom and lady’s maid. We don’t have much, but we do have a fire.’

  Claudia frowned. She followed him down the steps under the wooden lintel.

  At first she saw nothing but the fire. The interior was black. Then the stink rose up and hit her with its full force, and it was so bad she gasped and stopped dead, and only Finn’s shove in her back made her stumble on. The Court had its share of bad smells but there was nothing like this; a stench of animal dung and urine and sour milk and the fly-buzzed remnants of bones that cracked in the straw under her feet. And above all, the sweet smell of damp, as if the whole hovel was settling deep into the earth, tilting and softening, its wooden posts rotten and beetle-bored.

  As her eyes became used to the gloom she saw sparse furnishings — a table, joint-stools, a box-bed built into the wall. There were two windows, small and wood-slatted, a branch of ivy growing in through one.

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  The old man dragged up a stool for her. ‘Sit, missy, and dry yourself. You too, lad. They call me Tom. Old Tom.’

  She didn’t want to sit. There were certainly fleas in the straw The miserable poverty of the place sickened her. But she sat, holding out her hands to the paltry fire.

  ‘Put some kindling on.’ Tom shuffled to the table.

  ‘You live here alone?’ Finn asked, tossing on dry sticks.

  ‘My wife died these five years. But some of Rafe’s young ones sleep here. He has six, and his sick mother to care for

  …’

  Claudia noticed something in a dim doorway; she realized after a moment that it was a pig, snuffling the straw of the adjoining room. That would be the byre.

  She shivered. ‘You should glass the windows. The draught is terrible.’

  The old man laughed, pouring out thin ale. ‘But that wouldn’t be Protocol, would it? And we must abide by the Protocol, even as it kills us.’

  ‘There are ways round it,’ Finn said softly.

  ‘Not for us.’ He pushed the pottery cups towards them.

  ‘For the Queen maybe, because them that make the rules can break them, but not for the poor. Era is no pretence for us, no playing at the past with all its edges softened. It’s real. We have no skinwands, lad, none of the precious electricity or plastiglas. The picturesque squalor the Queen likes to ride past is where we live. You play at history. We endure it.’

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  Claudia sipped the sour beer. She realized she had always known this. Jared had taught her, and she had visited the poor of the Wardenry, ruled over by her father’s strict regime. Once, in a snowy January; seeing beggars from the coach, she had asked him if more couldn’t be done for them. He had smiled his remote smile, smoothed his dark gloves.

  ‘They are the price we pay, Claudia, for peace. For the tranquillity of our time.’

  A small cold flame of anger burned in her now,

  remembering. But she said nothing. It was Finn who asked,

  ‘Is there resentment?’

  ‘There is.’ The old man drank, and rapped his pipe on the table. ‘Now, I have little food but...’

  ‘We’re not hungry.’ Finn hadn’t missed the evasion, but Claudia’s voice interrupted him.

  ‘May I ask you, sir. What is that?’

  She was staring at a small image in the darkest corner of the room. A slant of sunlight caught it; showed a crude carving of a man, his face shadowy; his hair dark.

  Tom was still. He seemed dismayed; for a moment Finn was sure he would yell for the brawny neighbour. Then he went on knocking dust from his pipe. ‘That is the Nine-Fingered One, missy.’

  Claudia put down her cup. ‘He has another name.’

  ‘A name to be spoken in whispers.’

  She met his eye. ‘Sapphique.’

  The old man looked at her, then Finn. ‘His name

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  is known in the Court then. You surprise me, Miss lady’s maid.’

  ‘Only among the servants: Finn said quickly. ‘And we know very little of him. Except that he Escaped from Encarceron.’ His hand shook on the cup. He wondered what the old man would say if he knew that he, Finn, had spoken to Sapphique in visions.

  ‘Escaped?’The old man shook his head. ‘I know nothing about that. Sapphique appeared from nowhere in a flash of blinding light. He possessed great powers of magic

  — they say he turned stones into cakes, that he danced with the children. He promised to renew the moon and free the Prisoners.’

  Claudia glanced at Finn. She was desperate to know more, but if they asked too much the old man would stop. ‘Where exactly did he appear?’

  ‘Some say the Forest. Others a cave, far to the north, where a charred circle is still burnt on the mountainside. But how can you pin down such a happening?’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Finn asked.

  The old man stared. ‘You don’t know? They tried to silence him, of course. But he turned himself into a swan. He sang his final song and flew away to the stars. One day he will return and end the Era for ever.’

  The fetid room was silent. Only the fire crackled. Claudia didn’t look at Finn. When he spoke again his question shocked her.

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  ‘So what do you know of the Steel Wolves, old man?’

  Tom paled. ‘I know nothing of them.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I don’t talk of them.’

  ‘Because they plan revolution, like your loose-tongued neighbour? Because they want to murder the Queen and the Prince, and destroy Protocol?’ Finn nodded. ‘Wise to keep silent then. I suppose they tell you when that happens the Prison will be opened and there will be no more hunger. Do you believe them?’

  The hunchback stared back evenly at him across the table.

  ‘Do you?’ he whispered.

  A tense silence. It was broken by the stamp and rattle of hooves, a child’s shout.

  Tom rose slowly. ‘Rafe’s boys have found your horses: He looked at Claudia, then back at Finn and said, ‘I think perhaps too much has been said here. You’re no groom, lad. Are you a prince?’

  Finn smiled ruefully. ‘I’m a Prisoner, old man. Just like you.’

  They mounted and rode back as quickly as they could. Claudia had given all the coins she had to the children. Neither spoke. Finn was alert for another ambush, Claudia still brooding over the injustice of Era, her own unthinking acceptance of riches. Why should she be rich? She had been born in Incarceron. If it hadn’t been for the Warden’s ambitions she would be there still.

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  ‘Claudia, look,’ Finn said.

  He was staring through the trees, and glancing up at the alarm in his voice she saw a tall plume of smoke rising ahead.

  ‘It looks like a fire.’

  Anxious, she urged her horse on. As they emerged from the forest and clattered under the barbican the acrid smell grew. Smoke filled the inner courtyards of the Palace and as they galloped in the wind was crackling. A frenzied army of ostlers and grooms and servants were running, dragging out horses and squawking hawks, hauling pumps, buckets of water.

  ‘Where is it?’ Claudia swung down.

  But she could already see where it was. The whole ground floor of the East Wing was ablaze, furniture and hangings being tossed out of windows, the great bell ringing, flocks of disturbed doves flapping in the hot air.

  Someone came up beside her and Caspar’s voice said,

  ‘Such a pity, Claudia. After all dear Jared’s hard work: The cellars. The Portal. She gasped, and raced after Finn. He was already at one of the doorways, black smoke billowing out into his face, flames flickering deep in the
building. She grabbed him and he shook her away. Then she grabbed him again and hauled him back and he turned, his face white with shock. ‘Keiro! It’s our only way to him!’

  ‘It’s finished; she said. ‘Don’t you see? The ambush was to keep us away. They’ve done this.’

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  Following her gaze, he looked behind.

  Queen Sia stood on the balcony, a white lace

  handkerchief to her face. Behind her, calm and

  unconcerned, his eyes on the collapsing crash of stone and flame, was the Pretender.

  ‘They’ve sealed the Portal,’ Claudia said bleakly. ‘And it’s not only Keiro. They’ve trapped my father Inside.’

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  16

  A great Fimbulwinter will close down on the world.

  Darkness and cold will spread from Wing to Wing. There will come one called the Unsapient, from far away,

  from Outside.

  He wiIl plot and scheme with Incarceron.

  They will make the Winged Man …

  SAPPHIQUE’S PROPHESY OF THE WORLD’S END

  Attia, holding tight to Keiro on the horse, stared past his shoulder.

  They had finally reached what seemed the end of the spiny jungle, because the road led out and downhill. The horse stood wearily, snorting frosty breath.

  Framing the road was a black archway. It bristled with spikes, and on its top perched a long-necked bird.

  Keiro frowned. ‘I hate this. Incarceron is leading us by the nose.’

  She said, ‘Maybe it’ll lead us to some food then. We’ve eaten nearly everything.’

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  Keiro kicked the horse on.

  As they neared it, the black arch seemed to grow, its massive shadow stretching out towards them until they entered its darkness. Here the road glittered with frost; the horse’s hooves rang with metallic clarity on the iron paving. Attia stared up. The bird on the summit was enormous, dark wings spread wide, and just as she rode under it she realized it was a statue, and not of a bird but a man with great wings, as if he was ready to leap, and fly.

  ‘Sapphique,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The statue . . . it’s Sapphique.’

  Keiro snorted. ‘What a surprise.’ His voice doubled, echoing. They were well under the vault; it smelt of urine and damp, and green slime ran down its walls. She was so stiff she wanted to stop, to climb down and walk, but Keiro was in no mood to linger. Since they had spoken to Finn he had been silent and moody, his answers viciously sharp. Or he had ignored her altogether.

  But then she hadn’t wanted to talk much either. Hearing Finn’s voice had been a sudden joy, but almost at once it had soured, because he had sounded so different, so full of anxiety.

  I haven’t abandoned you. I think about you all the time. Was that true? Was his new life really not the Paradise he’d expected?

  In the darkness of the vault she said angrily, ‘You should 215

  have let me tell them about the Glove. The Sapient knew there was something. It might have helped...’

  ‘The Glove is mine. Don’t forget it.’

  ‘Ours.’

  ‘Don’t push me too far, Attia.’ He was silent a moment, then muttered, ‘Find the Warden, Jared said. Well, that’s just what we’re doing. If Finn’s failed us we have to look out for ourselves.’

  ‘So it wasn’t that you were scared to tell them,’ she said acidly.

  His shoulders tightened. ‘No. It wasn’t. The Glove is none of Finn’s business.’

  ‘I thought oathbrothers shared everything.’

  ‘Finn has freedom. He isn’t sharing that.’

  Suddenly they rode out from the archway, and the horse stopped, as if in astonishment.

  In this Wing the light was a dull red. Below them was a hall larger than any Attia had ever seen, its distant floor crisscrossed by transitways and tracks. They were high in its roof, and from their feet a great curving viaduct carried the road across, so that Attia could see its arches and tapering columns disappearing into the mirk. Fires burned like tiny Eyes on the floor of the hail.

  ‘I’m stiff.’

  ‘Get down then.’

  She slid from the horse and the road felt unsteady under her feet. She crossed to the rusty railing and looked over. 216

  There were people down there, thousands of them. Great migrations of people, pushing trucks and waggons, carrying children. She saw flocks of sheep, a few goats, some precious cattle, the herders’ armour gleaming in the coppery light.

  ‘Look at this. Where are they all going?’

  ‘The opposite way to us.’ Keiro didn’t dismount. He sat tall, gazing down. ‘People are always moving in the Prison. They always think there’s somewhere better. The next Wing, the next level. They’re fools.’

  He was right. Unlike the Realm, Incarceron was always in a state of change; Wings were reabsorbed, doors and gates sealed themselves, steel bars sprang up in tunnels. But she wondered what cataclysm had caused such numbers to

  travel, what force drove them on. Was this the result of the dying light? The growing cold?

  ‘ Come on,’ Keiro said. ‘We have to cross this thing, so let’s get on with it.’

  She didn’t like the idea. The viaduct was barely wide enough for a waggon. It had no parapets, just a surface potholed with rust and a gulf of air on each side. It was so high faint wisps of cloud hung unmoving across it.

  ‘We should lead the horse. If it panics …’

  Keiro shrugged and dismounted. ‘Fine. I’ll lead, you come behind. Stay alert.’

  ‘No one’s going to attack us up here!’

  ‘That remark shows why you were a dog-slave and I 217

  was . . . almost . . . Winglord. This is a track, right?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Then someone owns it. Someone always does. If we’re lucky there’ll be a toll to pay at the far end.’

  ‘And if we’re unlucky?’

  He laughed, as if the danger had cheered him. ‘We make e quick descent. Though maybe not, because the Prison’s on our side now. It has reasons to keep us safe.’

  Attia watched him lead the horse on to the viaduct before she said quietly, ‘Incarceron wants the Glove. I don’t suppose it cares who brings it.’

  He heard her, she was sure. But he didn’t look back. Crossing the rusting structure was precarious. The horse was nervous; it whickered and once sidestepped, and Keiro soothed it continuously in a low irritated mutter,

  swearwords merging seamlessly with comfort. Atha tried not to look to either side. There was a strong wind that nudged slyly against her; she braced her body, aware that with one gust Incarceron could topple her over the edge. There was nothing to hold on to. She paced in terror, foot before foot.

  The surface was corroded. Debris lay on it, scraps of metal, abandoned filth, snags of cloth caught from the wind and fluttering like ragged flags. Her feet crunched the frail bones of a bird.

  She concentrated on walking, barely lifting her

  head. Gradually she became aware of empty space, a

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  giddiness of air. Small dark tendrils began to sprawl across the track.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ivy.’ Keiro’s mutter was tight with tension. ‘Growing up from below.’

  How could it grow this far? She glanced briefly to the right and giddiness swept her like sweat. Tiny people moved beneath, the sound of wheels and voices faint on the wind. Her coat flapped against her.

  The ivy thickened. It became a treacherous tangle of glossy leaves. In places it was impassable; Keiro had to coax the terrified horse along the very edge of the viaduct, its hooves clanging on metal. His voice was a low mutter.

  ‘Come on, you scrawny nag. Come on, you useless beggar.’

  Then he stopped.

  His voice was snatched by the wind. ‘There’s a big hole here. Be careful.’

  When she came to it she saw its charred edge first, crumbling wi
th rust. Wind howled up through it. Below, iron girders corroded, old bird’s-nests in their joists. A heavy chain looped into emptiness.

  Soon there were other holes. The track became a yielding nightmare, creaking ominously wherever the horse trod. After a few minutes, she realized Keiro had stopped.

  ‘Is it blocked?’

  ‘As good as.’ His voice was tight, oddly breathless. His 219

  breath frosted as he looked back at her, ‘We should go back. We’ll never cross this.’

  ‘We’ve come too far!’

  ‘The horse is on the edge of panic.’

  Was he scared? His voice was low, his face set. For a moment she sensed weakness, but then his hissed anger reassured her. ‘Back up, Attia!’

  She turned.

  And saw the impossible.

  Masked figures were swarming up over the sides of the viaduct, through holes, up chains and bines of ivy. The horse gave a whinny of fear and reared. Keiro dropped the reins and leapt back.

  She knew it was over. The horse plunged in terror; it would fall, and far below the starving people would butcher its body.

  Then one of the masked people grabbed it, flung a cloak over its eyes and expertly led it away into the dark. There were about ten of them. They were small and shin, and wore feathered helms, all black, except for a

  tagged lightning flash across the right eye. They held Keiro in a ring of aimed firelocks. But none of them came near Attia.

  She stood, poised, the knife ready.

  Keiro drew himself up, his blue eyes fierce. His hand dropped to his sword.

  ‘Don’t touch that.’ The tallest raider took the weapon, 220

  then turned to Attia. ‘Is he your slave?’

  The voice was a girl’s. The eyes in the mask were mismatched — one alive and grey, the other with a pupil of gold, an unseeing stone.

  At once Attia said, ‘Yes. Don’t kill him. He belongs to me.’

  Keiro snorted but didn’t move. She hoped he’d have the sense to stay silent.

  The masked girls — for Attia was sure they were all girls