Sapphique - Incarceron 02 (5 page)

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. T
hen, 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: T
har 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.

5

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 glas
s. 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.

She was in a hurry. She wanted to find Jared, but still she stared at it. It had been opened, and read. He had left it lying around. It couldn't be a secret.

Still she hesitated. She would have read anyone else's letters without a scrap of remorse; in the Court everyone was a stranger, perhaps an enemy. They were part of the game. But Jared was her only friend. More than that. Her love for him was old and strong.

So when she crossed the room and opened the letter she told herself that it didn't matter, that he would only tell her about it anyway. They shared everything.

It was from the Queen. Claudia read it, her eyes widening.

My dear Master Jared,

I write to you because I feel I need to make things clear between us. You and I have been enemies in the past; that really no longer need be the case. I know you are busy with your work of trying to reactivate the Portal. Claudia must be desperate to have news of her dear father. But I wonder f you might find time to wait on me? I will expect you in my private rooms, at seven. Sia, Regina.

And in small letters underneath:
We could be of great help to each other.

Claudia frowned. She folded the note, jammed it back under the glass, and hurried out. The Queen was always plotting. But what did she want with Jared?

He had to be at the Portal.

As she grabbed a candle and shook it into life she tried not to feel so agitated. She opened the door in the panelling of the lavish corridor and pattered down the spiral staircase that led to the cellars, ducking cobwebs that regenerated themselves with irritating speed. The deep vaults were damp and chilly. Squeezing between the barrels and winecasks she hurried to the darkest corner where the high bronze doors reared to the roof and found to her horror that they were shut. The great snails that seemed to infest this place clung to the icy metal; their trails crisscrossed the damp surface.

'Master!' Claudia slammed her fist against the door. 'Let me in!'

Silence.

For a moment she knew for sure that he couldn't, that he was lying unconscious, that the slow illness that had been consuming him for years had crumpled him in pam. Then another fear stabbed her even harder; that he had finally got the Portal to work and had trapped himself in Incarceron.

The door sprang open with a click.

She slipped in and stared.

And then she laughed.

On his hands and knees, trying to pick up hundreds and hundreds of glistening blue feathers, Jared glanced up at her irritably. 'This is not funny, Claudia.'

She couldn't stop. She was silly with relief. She sat down in the single chair and let the giggles rise to a sort of hysteria that left her wiping her eyes with the silk of her skirt. Jared leant back on his hands in the blue ocean of plumage and watched her. He wore a dark green shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His Sapient coat, flung over the chair, was buried in feathers. His long hair was tangled. But his smile, when it came, was rueful and real. 'Well, all right. Perhaps it is.'

The room that had always been so pure and white looked as if a thousand kingfishers had been plucked in it. Feathers lay on the metal desk and coated the sleek silver shelves with their unknowable devices. The floor was ankle deep. Clouds of them rose and settled at every movement.

'Be careful. I knocked a flask over trying to grab them.'

'Why feathers?' she managed to say at last.

Jared sighed. 'One feather. I picked it up from the lawn. Small. Organic. Perfect for experimentation.'

She stared at him. 'One? Then...'

'Yes, Claudia. I finally managed to get something to happen. But not the right thing.'

Amazed, she gazed around. The Portal was the way into Incarceron, but only her father knew its secrets and he had sabotaged it in his escape inside. He had sat in t
his very
chair and disappeared, and she knew that he was lost somewhere within the miniaturized world that was the Prison. And since then nothing here had worked. Jared had spent months studying the controls of the desk, infuriating Finn with his care and delicate probing, but no switch or circuit had even lit.

'What happened?' She jumped up from the chair, suddenly afraid she might disappear.

Jared pulled a blue feather from his hair. 'I placed it on the chair. For the last few days I've been experimenting with replacing broken components with various substitutes; the last was an illicit plastic I acquired from a trader in the market.'

Claudia said immediately, 'Did anyone see you?'
'I was well cloaked, so I trust
not.'

But they both knew that he had probably been followed. 'Well?'

'It must have worked. Because there was a flash and a . . . shiver. But the feather did not disappear, nor did it miniaturize. It multiplied. They're all perfectly identical.' He looked round with a wan helplessness that suddenly struck Claudia; the smile went from her face. Quietly she said, 'You mustn't work yourself too hard, Master.'

He glanced up at her, his voice gentle. 'I am aware of that.'

'I know Finn is always prowling here, bothering you.'

'You should call him Prince Giles.' He stood, wincing slightly. 'Soon to be King'

They looked at each other. Claudia nodded. Glancing round, she found a sack that held tools; she emptied them out and began to stuff the feathers in, handful by handful. Jared sat on the chair and leant forward. 'Can Finn cope with such a pressure?' he asked quietly.

She paused. He saw how her hand stayed in the sack; when it came out she worked harder and faster.

'He'll have to. We brought him out of Incarceron to be King. We need him.' She looked up. 'It's strange. All I cared about when this started was not marrying Caspar. And getting the better of my father. All my life I've plotted and planned, been obsessed with those things... '

'And now you've achieved them you are not satisfied.' He nodded. 'Life is a series of stairs up which we climb, Claudia. You've read Zelon's Philosophies. Your horizons have moved.'

'Yes, but Master, I don't know. .

'You do.' He reached out his delicate hand and gripped hers, stopping her. 'What do you want of Finn, when he becomes King?'

For a long moment she was still, as if thinking. But she said exactly what he knew she would. 'I want him to overturn the Protocol. Not the way the Steel Wolves want, by killing the Queen. I want to find a way peacefully, so we can start time aga
in, live naturally without this
stagnation, this stifling false history'