Tribute (11 page)

The young thief stares at me, her face a mask of loathing. ‘Filthy mage! Murderer!' She mutters the words over and over.

‘I didn't betray them, Twiss!' My voice is hoarse. It hurts to speak. ‘It wasn't me!'

She doesn't believe me. I see it in her eyes.

‘I promised,' she whispers, looking mad.

‘Shut it, Twiss!' Exasperation in Floster's voice. And worry. ‘You dare go against my safe-sworn? I'll beat the disobedience out of you myself! I should never have let you near the blacksmith once I saw how things were.' She looks at the Hound. ‘Thieves can't afford to love!' she says. ‘Not till the mages are driven from Asphodel.' Her eyes return to Twiss. ‘Bruin would be ashamed of you. Ashamed!'

This last pierces the child's madness. She gasps and grows silent and unresisting. But her eyes never leave my face and they speak of hatred and revenge. I have a new enemy: Twiss, the mage-killer.

‘You didn't kill her. Why?' Floster is seated once more at the table. Her face is stony.

I groan in frustration, wondering at the ability of kine and mage alike to only hear what they wish to hear. And say again: ‘Twiss saved my life.'

Floster shakes her head in exasperation. ‘A mage, attacked by a thief? She should have been dead in an eye-blink.'

I look at Twiss, standing quietly beside her mistress. The girl stares back with brown-stone eyes full of hatred. The sight is surprisingly painful. I shrug. Floster can believe me or not – I don't care any more. ‘I can't hurt Twiss – she saved my life. Besides, she's a child.'

Philip barks. It takes me a tick to realise he's laughing. ‘You are barely more,' he says.

‘I haven't been a child for years.'

‘Your father killed your mother, they say.' Floster's voice is tinged with smugness. She thinks she knows why I turned traitor to my own. She's wrong, but it doesn't matter.

‘Twiss has lost the person she loves too,' Floster continues. ‘She's not a child either. However  …  I think I must believe you.'

The flare of hope startles me with its fierceness.

The Mistress of Thieves looks at Philip, conferring: ‘I was wrong. It seems the mage hates her father more than she hates us. The traitor must be a Knowledge Seeker.'

‘Or a thief!' Philip lifts an eyebrow. ‘You cannot guarantee that Benedict has not bribed one of your own.'

‘It won't be a thief, Seeker.' Floster's voice is soft and deadly. ‘Our fight with magekind is to the death. It's one of you guildspeople. If they still live I'll sniff them out and make such an example of the bastard that middlings will scare themselves silly with the tale for generations to come.'

‘
No!
' Twiss grabs Floster's arm, tugging it frantically. ‘She's fooling you, like she did me! Mages are pure evil. Her heart's black with Bruin's blood. I should have left her to die.' Twiss breaks off and steps back. She glares at Floster, who seems, for once, lost for words.

Twiss whirls around to shout at the Hound: ‘You know I'm right. Tell the old fool!'

The words have hardly left her mouth before the leather-clad man lunges forward and slaps her face. Hard. Twiss flies backwards and sprawls on the floor. I freeze as Floster lifts a warning hand.

Twiss lifts her head and I see blood trickling from a cut lip. The Hound scoops her up with one hand, dangling the unresisting child by the scruff of her neck. He looks a question at his mistress.

‘No,' Floster says, weariness heavy in her voice. ‘Don't beat her. Just get her out of my sight. And Twiss, disobey me once more  …  dare to attack the mage again, and it won't be a beating you get from me. She wears my safe-sworn. You will be cast out.' Her face, her voice, are bleak.

Twiss's mouth falls open. Her bleeding lip quivers. The Hound drags her to the door and thrusts her out; turns and stands, his face once more wearing its sardonic mask.

The Knowledge Seekers shift in their chairs, glance at one another. The air is full of uncertainty.

‘Nothing's decided!' A bullish voice breaks the silence. ‘And in any case she'll not last a day down here now.'

It's the blacksmith, Hammeth, Bruin's successor. His hair is plastered to his broad forehead with sweat and dirt, and the smell of frustrated inactivity comes off him like the stink of a polecat.

‘Your cubs'll tear the bitch to shreds and eat her.' He smiles a nasty smile but his face remains carefully averted from mine.

Coward!
I stare at him, daring him to meet my eyes.

‘And best thing too!' His voice grows louder, belligerent. ‘The traitor's not yet been caught. And that's because she stands before us bold as brass, with her red hair like the devil she is. She'll sell us to Benedict, Floster, and you're an old fool!'

A movement behind Floster, of violence suppressed. I can almost feel the Hound force himself back into stillness. Floster herself ignores Hammeth. Her eyes are fastened on me. I see speculation in her face. ‘You said you could spy for me inside an animal. What did you mean?'

The flood of relief almost washes away the pain in my throat. ‘It's called mind magic. I can send part of my awareness – my consciousness – into an animal. I can make it go where I want it to, listen and see through its ears and eyes.'

‘Mind-control!' growls the smith. ‘That's what she's talking about.'

‘It would help us if you could control your tongue, Hammeth.' Philip turns his head to spear the smith with a chilly look. ‘Continue  …  Zara.' His eyes are speculative.

The smith subsides, muttering and throwing dark looks in my direction.

‘Any animal?' asks Floster.

‘Yes. Although I have the most experience with birds. Hawks. But a cat  …  a rat, even. They get everywhere in the palazzo.'

‘Places our spy cannot go.' Philip's eyes kindle. ‘I like it. Mistress, what say you?'

This is it. My life depends on this woman and her next words.

The Mistress of Thieves stares at me. Her face gives nothing away. At last, she speaks: ‘I'm sure in my mind that this mage is not the traitor. But happen I'm mistaken, Marcus will have his instructions.' The smile she gives me now is cold as death.

Marcus? Who's Marcus?
And then I realise:
She means the Hound!

‘Marcus will be her “Guardian”,' Foster continues. She pronounces the mage word with dark enjoyment. ‘He'll not leave her side.'

I stiffen. Before I can stop them, my eyes dart a glance at the Hound. He's watching me, his face unreadable.

‘Even the redoubtable Marcus is no match for a mage!' A plump man in the pale blue tunic of a counter speaks for the first time. ‘Whether or not we can trust the female, disaster might strike at any moment. Do we imagine that, at the point of capture, the mage will offer her neck to your man's knife? We must weigh the risk against possible advantage. Put them into the scales and see which weighs heavier.' His stubby-fingered hands mime the action, eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘Our lives depend upon secrecy. If the Archmage should decide to investigate the catacombs  … ' He shudders. ‘We'd be as rats for the slaying.'

‘Rats give a nasty bite in the dark,' Floster says. ‘Benedict would find flushing us out harder than you or he can imagine, Barnum. Do you think I've no defences? But if the Archmage knew about catacombs he would have attacked by now. The traitor's a Knowledge Seeker, as I said. Someone who knew about the foundry. And they're either still in the city or among the dead.'

She shrugs. ‘But the war continues. You guildsfolk cannot go back, cannot live in the city again until we defeat Benedict. This mage offers me a way of getting vital information. Do you want to return to your homes, or do you want to run to the Maker world, hoping the mages don't slaughter you as you attempt to cross the plains? Even supposing the Makers would take you in.'

‘I am eager to make an expedition to contact the Makers as soon as may reasonably be undertaken.' Philip leans forward, his eyes alight. ‘But that is not possible yet. Mistress Floster is right. Our options are limited. Time is running out. Benedict will find us sooner or later. I prefer to carry the fight to the Archmage, and this girl is our main hope of that. I think we have no choice.'

Tabitha the silversmith has been sitting silently this whole time. I had thought her in a dream of despair, unaware of the arguments around her. But now she leans forward.

‘Mistress, a word. I have known the mage, Zara, longer than any other in this room. I was her primary contact in the city. I cannot say other than the truth. You know, all of you, I have reason more than most to hate the traitor.' Her voice is quiet. ‘It was not this girl. That is what I believe.' She slumps back in her chair again, into silence.

‘A vote, then.' Floster's voice rings out. ‘I move that the mage, Zara, be allowed out of the catacombs to work under my orders. I take full responsibility for her safety and the safety of the community. If I fail, I will submit to the appropriate punishment.' She raises her hand.

One by one, other Council members lift their arms. Philip is first. Tabitha puts her hand up slowly, her eyes focused elsewhere. Mistress Quint bounces in her chair like a smug black cat, nodding and smiling, as she lifts her hand. The counter holds his hands before him like the scales of a balance, a frown of concentration on his face. Then he too, raises an arm. Five votes for yes. The blacksmith scowls from his chair. The last member of the Knowledge Seeker Council is the head of the Tailors' Guild. The woman shakes her head in worry. Then cries: ‘I don't know! Oh very well. If the rest of you  … ' And reluctantly lifts her arm.

‘Six for. One against. The vote is carried.'

I barely hear Philip's voice over the roar of the blood in my head. I am to live!

‘You're fools, the lot of you!' The blacksmith pushes back from the table, sending his chair flying. ‘I'll have nothing to do with it.'

‘Concentrate on making spear points then!' Tabitha snaps. The silversmith is transformed. Her blonde head lifts and her eyes burn, lit by a silver fire. ‘It's all you're fit for in any case. Do your work so we can get out of this hellhole someday. If the mage can help us return to Asphodel then I will give her whatever support I can.'

Her eyes meet mine. Taken unprepared, I'm defenceless as her emotions blast me: a flash of stomach-twisting revulsion, followed by such guilt and despair it's like being burnt. I look away, shaken.

The blacksmith glowers for a moment, then stamps from the room.

‘Well,' Philip says after several ticks of silence. ‘I'd best take charge of the mage. The further she's kept away from Twiss and the rest of your middlings the better, Mistress. Zara can lodge in my quarters and help with my studies on the Makers.'

‘Very well,' says Floster. ‘I'm trusting you, Zara, daughter of Benedict. Mind you honour that trust. Marcus!' She keeps her eyes locked on mine as she gives her orders. ‘If she tries to escape the catacombs, kill her.'

I tear my gaze away and stare at the Hound. His expression hasn't changed but something in his eyes makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

‘It will take time before we are ready to test your abilities,' Floster says to me. ‘We need to contact our spy in the city, make our plans, get a suitable animal. Stay with Philip and do as he tells you until we're ready. Then you can prove whether or not you're worth your keep.'

She strides from the room. For once, the Hound does not follow her. He waits as the remaining Council members drift from the room one by one. Then he hooks a chair with his leg, draws it beneath him and slumps into it. His eyes never leave me. My mouth grows dry and I find it hard to concentrate on what the Nonpareil is saying.

‘You also have work to do with me,' Philip continues. ‘I want to know all you remember about the Maker and what he told you of his world. You must teach me about your magic and the weaknesses of your tribe. And of any books you may have read in your father's library.' His eyes grow eager. ‘Especially those about the Maker world: their machines. The old war. Oh yes, and you can tutor me on my reading and writing.'

Shocked, I can only stare.

‘I've taught myself the rudiments, from books the thieves have stolen for me. But I'm not fluent yet. I am convinced you will make an excellent tutor.'

I look at this tall thin man, peering at me like an eager child. The hunger for knowledge blazes in his eyes. It's too familiar. I both love and fear that hunger. It's as vast and all-consuming as the ocean.

‘The last person I taught to read died,' I say. ‘The Archmage killed her.'

I'm not free yet. Mine is a prison of candlelight and mirrors. As well as me, it holds paper and quill pens, detailed drawings of gears, wheels and levers scattered on every surface  …  and a strange man. Philip the artist is unlike anyone else I've ever met. His cleverness shines like mage light behind his clear blue eyes, but it devours him as it burns.

I watch him now, bent over a drawing of a monstrous mechanical bow, a machine of diabolical cleverness, and shudder at the horrors the human mind is cable of inventing.

Philip works surrounded by candles. Their holders have curved backs of silvered glass which collect the light and reflect it onto his table. It's a clever idea, like all of his inventions. Including the one he draws now: a bow held sideways in a wooden frame, the bowstring bent not by the strength of an archer's arm but by a wooden screw. An arrow shot from such a bow could pierce armour or shoot a mage in the back from hundreds of feet away.

Philip glances up, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a gesture which I've learnt means he is impatient with some imperfection in his work. Before I can turn away he catches the expression of horror on my face.

‘We
are
in the business of killing, you know.' His smile is both gentle and wry. ‘There is no pleasant way to kill another human being.'

‘I know.' My voice is a whisper. I force myself to think of the mother I don't remember, who died fighting for change. Of Swift. Of all the enslaved Tribute children in the palazzo and city – those I noticed and those I didn't, because before Swift I never thought of them as human at all. Of the child soldiers who die every day on the Wall. Of the public executions of thieves or kine convicted of capital crimes, where mages bet on how long the victim will survive as their bones are slowly heated inside their flesh, or their skin peeled from their bodies layer by layer, like an onion.

I do hate my father. I want him dead. But the rest? Must every mage die? My mother wasn't evil. And she was not the only one.

‘In my father's library  … ' I begin.

Philip drops his pencil at once – as I knew he would. He drains the cup of sweet-smelling mead that always sits beside him. ‘Tell me,' he asks. ‘Please.'

As I talk, he begins to draw once more. The point of his pencil is made of pure silver. It leaves faint lines on the paper, lines that will grow darker and stronger over the coming days as the silver tarnishes. I touch the mage mark on my right cheek, feeling, beneath the thick paste of cosmetic, the lines of silver laid in my skin. I trace the swirling pattern that was the soul-sign of my mother and am calmed.

I tell Philip of the writings I found, records of rebellious mages exiled or put to death. Tales of the Maker cities, of the ancient war there. Of the world when mages ruled every country and land. Of the great rebellion. Of the massacre of the mages and the death of magic. Of the Wall and the rise of the Makers. Of their infernal machines and devices of war. Of the extermination of engineers in our own world.

The candles flicker and go out, one by one. I kindle mage light. It shines down upon us as I talk. I talk and the Seeker listens long into the night, until dawn chases the darkness from the unseen city overhead.

Hail. Beating on the roof of my bedchamber. The percussion of ice shattering on tile: brittle, sharp. The rattle grows to a hammering, a pounding, a drilling. It hounds me from my sleep. And with a lurch in my belly I realise, yet again, that I'm not safe in my bed in the palazzo, but huddled beneath a scratchy blanket on a straw pallet in a corner of a damp, chill cavern in the catacombs beneath Asphodel. Far beneath. Out of reach of hailstorms. So what  …  ?

I push upright, tug aside the curtain hung round my bed. The pattering noise continues. The door! It's under attack, pelted with what sounds like  …  small rocks? Mud? And now the sound of voices, human wolves: ‘
Come out, mage! Traitor! Filth! Blood sucker!
'

My throat dries to choking; it's like Twiss is strangling me all over again. The mob has come. Is it her voice I hear beneath the shrill cries of the younger ones? Tears burn in my eyes and I shake them away. Why should I care if Twiss hates me?

I jump to my feet, conjure a ghostly finger of mage light.

‘Zara?' Philip lurches from the other chamber, his bare white legs and feet extending stork-like beneath his nightshirt. I want to laugh and cry.

‘What is it, Zara?' He looks terrified.

‘Middlings,' I say. ‘Twiss must have convinced the whole tribe that I betrayed the foundry workers.'

The door is shaking on its hinges. The shower of pebbles has been replaced by a pounding thud. A battering ram! I gather my thoughts; I have not done proper magic for so long. But it's easy. I send a thought, find the slender pole of pine and in a moment the wood is decayed and crumbling. The middlings' howl deepens in fury. Dozens of voices rise in a scream that seems to come from one throat.

My stomach turns over. ‘It's all right,' I say, not believing it myself. ‘I can hold them off, and Floster will stop them soon. Won't she?' I glance at Philip and he looks back at me with troubled eyes.

‘She must! You're far too valuable.' Outrage in his voice. Valuable. That's all I am to the Seeker: a useful tool.

Another sound outside: the scuffle of bare feet running away. And then a new knocking on the door, but a human fist this time.

‘Zara? Philip?' It's the Hound. His voice is unmistakeable, rich and dark as winter honey. ‘They're gone,' he says. ‘They won't bother you again.'

Philip stumbles to the door and unlocks it. He eases it open, struggling against some obstruction. A rattling, crunching sound as the Seeker pushes the door wide. And now I see what has made his shoulders stiffen beneath the nightshirt. Although I avoid touching the kine, as they do me, I push Philip gently to one side and step out into a scene from my father's book of the Underworld.

A skull grins up at me, its lower jaw torn away. It lolls, king of the hill, atop a tumble of human bones. Creamy-white in the blue flare of my mage light: leg bones and arm bones, shattered, amputated by battering on the door; skulls dinted and cracked by impact.

A hailstorm of bones.

I'm not horrified or frightened or disgusted. The emotion that seizes me is blacker than any of those. Despair is a bottomless pit and I feel myself tumbling.

A hand grabs my elbow. The Hound holds my arms and gives me a small but sharp shake. ‘That's enough of that, girl. You'll see worse before this is over. But you're not a quitter nor a weakling. Do yourself honour. No one else will.'

His face is inches from mine and, as my head stops spinning, my chest tightens. I'm breathless as I stare at him.

The sternness in his eyes softens. ‘You'll do now,' he says and lets me go. Almost, I see him smirk. The bastard! He's used to eliciting a response in females, I can tell. And enjoys it.

I snuff out my mage light to hide my burning face. I washed off Quint's cosmetic before retiring to bed so my embarrassment is as plain to see on my cheeks as my mage marks.

The Hound watches me in the light of the torch he must have brought with him. He lifts it from the wall bracket and turns to me, an amused smile hooking one corner of his mouth. ‘Go back to bed. I'll stand watch tonight. I recognised a goodly number of the little arsewipes and they'll not dare come back when Floster and I've done with them. Nor will the others.'

His smile turns grim and he's suddenly terrifying. I shudder and hope that Twiss isn't one of the middlings who will face Floster's wrath tomorrow.

‘Please talk to the Mistress, Philip. She must have forgotten about me.'

A sevenday has crawled into Time's belly since I have been allowed to leave these two small rooms. I live on morsels of information and rumours teased from Philip. Things are bad in the city. Raids, intimidation, daily executions. I wonder if my father intends to kill all the kine. Even he cannot want such a thing, surely. Who would do the work? The catacombs have been silent as Death since the night of bones. I asked Philip if Twiss was one of the mob, but he shrugged and said our time is too precious to worry about such things.

‘Zara.' Philip frowns in irritation at my pestering. ‘The Mistress will tell you when you are needed. Until then you are to stay safely here and help me. You have not finished recounting the aftermath of the Maker war. I need to know about their machines, anything you remember. I don't understand why you did not question the young Maker when you had the chance!'

I can't help it: I burst out laughing at the idea of Aidan and me sitting on his hard, narrow cot in the prison and discussing what war machines his ancestors built three generations before.

‘I don't see what is so humorous.' His voice is peevish.

‘Sorry, Philip. But does Mistress Floster really understand that I can enter the mind of any animal – a hawk, a bat or even a rat? That I can see what they see, hear what they hear? Think of the places I could go, what I could overhear, if I shared the mind of one of the palazzo rats.'

He frowns. His eyes shift and slide away, back to the wooden model of a catapult he's testing, using lumps of clay dug from the walls and flinging them at a target. He makes an adjustment to a wooden cog, shaving off a paper-thin curl of wood.

‘But it would be very dangerous, and you have become useful to me.' He's pouting like a stubborn child. My heart sinks. He won't remind Floster about my mind magic. Not yet. Not until he's drained my memory of the knowledge he seeks.

I press my lips together too. I won't plead again. But nor will I tell him more about the Makers. I ignore the Seeker's increasingly irritable questions and at last he falls silent. I retreat to my bed, draw the curtains around it and begin to plan.

Philip has a sweet tooth; he is never without his cup of honey-mead at his elbow. I have noticed that it is not only honey he craves, but the mixture from the smoked glass bottle in the locked cupboard. Six careful drops he adds to his cup. If he is tired or work is going badly, he will add three more. Syrup of poppy. It's only a guess, but a fair one. Many, many mages are poppy addicts. Those who find the luxurious ease of their lives has become tedious; and tormenting kine, eating and drinking and bedding are no longer enough.

After our evening meal, taken in awkward silence, I unlock the cabinet, extract six drops of liquid from the bottle and enclose it in a capsule of crystallised air. It is such pleasure to use magic again!

Philip sits quietly at his table, reading a book the thieves stole for him. I clear the remains of our dinner and smile at the irony of the child of Benedict performing the tasks of a house slave for a kine. And as I remove his empty dish, I drop the capsule of poppy syrup into his cup of mead. I soften the crystallised air and mingle the syrup with the liquid in the cup. Philip will sleep deep and long this night.

When I go to bed, I don't wash the cosmetic from my face. I keep my leather tunic and leggings on and sit upright behind my curtain wall, waiting until the light in the next chamber goes out and the darkness is broken by the sound of slow, heavy snores.

I set mage light flickering to light my way and send a tendril of thought out into the corridor, searching for middlings. But the one I truly fear is the Hound. Will I feel him if he's there? ‘Not-seen, not-heard', they call it. Thieves  …  they are uncanny. I'll have to chance it: I'm going to remind Floster of her promise to use me as a spy. To convince her that I am too useful to leave rotting down here in the house of the dead.

I unbar the door and slip out into the corridor. From the other side I find the stout oak bar with my mind and make myself invisible hands of thick air to lift it back into place. I turn to face the silent maze of catacombs, half expecting to find the Hound's lean shape rear out of the darkness to confront me, a contemptuous smile on his lips. But I'm alone.

Emotion rises in my head like wine vapour and I grin at the darkness before me, feeling my chest swell with excitement. My heart is thudding and my hands are sweaty, but I could laugh out loud with joy. It's like the times I hurried through the markets of Asphodel, spying for the Knowledge Seekers. I feel alive again.

Philip's lodgings in the catacombs lie only a few twisting corridors from Floster's chamber. I think I know the way, but I keep careful track of each turning in case I'm wrong. I don't intend to take any chance of getting lost in these endless tunnels. The corridors are lined with shelves, resting places of the city's dead. The bones of kine shine in my mage light, the skulls grinning at me.

I can't help you,
I whisper to the bones as I slide along the corridor, trying to imitate Twiss's way of moving silently. I can't help Swift. Where do her bones lie? The thought squeezes my heart.

It's stupidly easy. Almost before I can see past my dark thoughts, I am entering the long, curving earthen tunnel that leads to Floster's chamber. It should be dark as a womb, but as I edge round a bend I see the smoky orange-yellow glow of torchlight!

I lunge behind one of the ancient oak supports holding up the ceiling. My mage light pops out and I stand listening to the silence, heart thudding. Nothing. Perhaps Floster always keeps torches lit in her corridor. Perhaps the Mistress of Thieves is scared of the dark. I clap a hand over my mouth to stop a nervous giggle. And then all desire to laugh drains as a man veers into sight. He is outlined in smoky orange light: broad shoulders, long, strong legs striding swiftly towards me.

He pauses, only feet from my pitiful hiding place, and wrenches one of the torches from the wall. And as he does so, I press my hand against my mouth until it feels my teeth will break. Am I mad? It can't be him, but it is.

Otter, my father's Guardian. Otter, creature of the Archmage.

Here, in the catacombs.