Tribute (9 page)

That does it! Damn the lot of them! I sit upright on the hard seat and dig in with the spoon, ignoring my audience. The stew tastes of turnip; the meat is tough and sour. It's glorious. I swallow it down and wipe the bowl clean with the bread. In seconds the bread has gone the way of the meat and I gaze at the empty bowl sadly.

‘So,' says a Knowledge Seeker, a small, dumpy woman with black hair divided in the middle and smoothed behind her ears. ‘Mages don't live on human blood after all.'

The Knowledge Seeker smiles all the time she is talking.

‘I am Mistress Quint, head of the Apothecaries' Guild. And that was a joke.' She nods encouragingly. ‘Drinking blood is one of the myths about your kind. We are educated folk here. We know the stories are false. But it is always useful to have facts confirmed.' She nods, smiles and rubs her hands. There is a scent of madness hanging round her.

I draw breath and tear my gaze away to look at the others.

‘Let us keep to facts then,' snaps the Knowledge Seeker seated beside her – a blond man of middle years. His long face is clever; a sharp intelligence glares from blue eyes. His movements are slow and deliberate, and he wears a fine brown surcoat and frilled linen shirt my father would not have despised. This man turns his penetrating stare on me and my throat dries.

‘I am Philip, known as the Nonpareil, master artist and head of the Council of Knowledge Seekers of Asphodel.'

The Nonpareil! Here?
Even in my fear and anger, I gaze at him in wonder. The man is a legend – the greatest painter ever born. Feted even by mage society. It's said that his house in the artisan quarter is as large as my father's palazzo. That he lives as well as a mage. He is the last guildsman I would expect to have joined the Knowledge Seekers, let alone lead them.

Only  …  I remember the portrait of my father that hangs in the entrance hall of the palazzo. It was done shortly after my mother's death. I often look at it and wonder why my father hung the painting and not the painter. Benedict is acknowledged to be a handsome man, and the image shows a suave and elegant figure. But beneath the smooth, smiling surface – in the eyes and the curl of the mouth – the Nonpareil has painted my father's soul, eaten up with viciousness, cruelty and greed.

‘We are here to decide what is to be done with you, Mage,' Philip says in his dry, precise voice. ‘We face a time of crisis, and in such times the logical mind depends upon facts, not superstition!' He throws a dark glance at the apothecary, who smiles and nods happily.

‘Fact: you have, for personal reasons, spied on your own kind and colluded with the Knowledge Seekers for six years. In that time you have proved trustworthy and occasionally provided useful information.

‘Fact: your usefulness is now questionable, except as a hostage.

‘Fact: if your father finds out you are alive and in our keeping, he will renew his hunt for our safehold with all the resources at his command.

‘Fact: there are many here, especially members of the Thieves' Guild, who find your existence insupportable and desire to destroy you. Your presence here is at best a distraction and at worst a potential source of unrest and rebellion in our ranks.'

He counts off each new statement, then steeples his fingers and leans back, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘So, mage  …  why should we keep you alive? Now that you have fled your father's house, what use are you?'

I don't know.

I look from face to face. The silence lengthens.

Tabitha, who has been sitting quietly at the end of the table, leans forward and glances around at her colleagues. At last, she speaks: ‘This mage has served us.' Reluctance drags at the silversmith's voice. ‘She has risked her life for us. She saved Twiss last night, even though it meant fighting one of her own. If we ignore those facts, we are no better than our overlords.'

There is no liking in the troubled grey eyes that flicker to me, then quickly look away. I can feel the silversmith's pain even over my growing terror. She has suffered a great loss. I try to cut off her emotions: I can't afford distractions if I'm to survive another day.
Time's grace, help me to think!

The artist is right: what use am I to anyone? All my promises: to help Aidan, to free the Tribute children. I told Swift I would keep her safe forever. Am I going to die not having kept one of those promises?

I turn to look at Twiss. She gazes back at me, her face doubtful.

It is oddly freeing to lose all hope. I say: ‘Do you value human life only if it's useful to you?'

‘Are mages human?' the round woman shoots back.

I look her in the eyes. A small flare of victory lights the bleakness in my heart as her gaze shifts and drops. But then I realise – it's only because she fears me.

‘I'm as human as you are,' I tell her. ‘Although some mages would deny your humanity. They believe that only magic users are truly human – chosen by the gods to have dominion over animals and kine alike.'

‘Don't all mages think so?' The round woman nods as though answering her own question.

‘I don't!'

‘And what do you believe?' Mistress Floster asks.

I no longer trust beliefs. I only have memories. I remember Swift laughing, running ahead of me down a corridor. Remember her whispering one of her stories in my ear, trying to comfort me in the dark nights of our childhood.

‘I don't know why the gods gave some magic and denied it to others,' I say at last. ‘But I don't think lacking magic makes you less human than me. Most of my kind have allowed themselves to believe a great evil. They convince themselves that they are chosen by the gods and can do as they wish. I want it to stop.' I pause, struggling to make them understand. ‘I want a world where there are no Tribute children.'

‘Why?' Philip leans forward, real interest lighting his eyes for the first time. ‘The blood of Tribute children keeps you alive. Without foot soldiers to die in their hundreds on the dark Wall, the mages will lose the war with the Makers. You will be overrun, hunted down and killed until the last mage is gone from our world. Why would you seek your own doom?'

Oh, clever man. To ask
that
of all questions. The one thing I cannot answer, which has tormented me from the night my father murdered Swift. I shake my head, helplessly.

‘We're wasting time we can ill afford.' The artist sighs. ‘The choice is –'

‘Anything but clear, Philip!' Floster breaks in. ‘This mage helped kill one of her own to save Twiss. That's a blood duty I can't overlook. I say she can be of use. She knows her father's black heart better than any other. Knowing your enemy is the first step to beating them. My spy tells me she's nearly as talented as her father.'

Spy?
Who can Floster mean? I was their spy in the palazzo. And then I understand: she must mean Gerontius. Doing me a good turn even in death.

‘A bit of magic on our side for once wouldn't go amiss,' the Mistress continues. ‘I'll not throw away a good weapon without a better reason than fear of Benedict! He's been hunting us thieves for years; he fears us  …  and he has reason to.' Floster smiles a cold, deadly smile and I realise she hates him as much as I do.

‘And can you guarantee that your middlings will obey your orders?' This from a slab-faced man dressed in a blacksmith's leather apron. The sneer in his voice verges on insult. The man is either stupid or very brave: I would not dare insult Floster. ‘Those brats of yours nearly tore the girl from limb to limb last night.' He makes the sign of warding. ‘A
mage
? Here? And Benedict's daughter to boot? More trouble than she's worth. Kill the bitch and be done.' He glares at me, loathing plain in his face.

‘No!' Tabitha cries. ‘We are the Council of the Knowledge Seekers. We are sworn to seek truth and justice. And you are forsworn, Hammeth! You are not fit to sit in Bruin's place.'

And now I know who she's mourning. Oh gods. The silversmith was Bruin's lover.

The room explodes with angry voices. Floster jumps to her feet, her face flushed with fury.

‘Tell 'em about the Maker!' Twiss's husky voice cuts through the noise and the others fall silent, turning to look at the middling. ‘Go on,' she urges me. ‘The Maker. I never told 'em. You do it.'

‘Maker?' Philip leans forward, his attention sharpened. ‘What Maker?'

I frown in confusion at Twiss. Why hasn't she passed on my news? Whatever happens to me, the Knowledge Seekers need to know about Aidan. They're his only chance.

‘My father has a hostage. A Maker.'

A gasp of disbelief circles the table. Philip sits bolt upright.

‘It's true! He's a young man given as guarantee of a new truce between Benedict and the Maker city of Gengst-on-the-Wall.' All eyes are on me. I need more to tell them – I need to know Benedict's secret plan. But I have nothing. ‘The Maker is young. My age. His name is Aidan and he's the son of the head of the Maker Council – a clockmaker.

‘My father claims he sued for peace with the Makers, but I don't believe it. Aidan is repairing our clocks and training an apprentice. But I'm sure my father doesn't want peace. He's plotting something. Something to do with the Maker. We must rescue him!'

‘A Maker.' Philip's eyes slide past me and he slumps backwards, staring into his own thoughts. His face has come alive. The change is startling; he was formidable before, but now it's as though he's woken from a half-sleep.

‘Truce?' Floster leans forward too, but in alarm. ‘The Archmage has brokered a truce with the Makers?' She frowns. ‘What nasty worm lies wriggling at the heart of that, I wonder?' Her eyes, sharp as bone needles, stab at me. ‘There's more to this  … ' She breaks off.

The tension in the room has changed.

‘You say you spoke with this Maker?' asks Philip.

I nod.

‘Benedict allowed that?'

‘He forbade it. But I wanted to find out what my father was up to.'

‘Presumably the Maker is guarded.'

I shrug, and see Twiss grin in approval. Philip sees her too – he notices everything – and his mouth twitches. ‘Your bravery and initiative are not in question, mage,' he says. ‘And why, young Twiss, did you not report the existence of the Maker to us earlier?'

Twiss's grin fades and her eyes widen in fear as she glances at her mistress. ‘I  …  I forgot. Br-Bruin n-needed me to be his eyes and ears at the foundry.' She is stammering, her face stricken. ‘I failed them. I didn't f-feel them coming in time.' A sob escapes her and she covers her face with her hands. Her pain cuts sharper than any knife, and I wince.

‘Enough, Twiss! The smith is dead. You're not to speak of it.' Floster's voice cuts like a lash and Twiss flinches. ‘You'll be punished for forgetting the Maker, never fear. But for now, I've a job needs doing and you're the only one can do it.' She addresses the leader of the Knowledge Seekers. ‘You agree, Philip? The Maker changes everything.'

He nods. His eyes find me. ‘I will want to question the mage carefully. I need to know everything about the Maker. How often did you speak to him, mage?'

‘Twice.' I frown. ‘His name is Aidan. And mine is Zara. I am a person, you know.'

‘Are you? Are you, indeed?' For the first time Philip smiles.

‘You understand?' Floster asks.

I am still in the makeshift Council Chamber. Philip and Twiss are here too  …  and of course Floster's Hound, ever watchful. All the others have left. There has been more food, and many many more questions; about my father, about Aidan.

‘If I obey you, work with you to defeat the Archmage, you will let me live,' I reply, hearing the growing tiredness in my voice. ‘It's not a difficult concept. You should know by now that Benedict is my enemy as much as yours.'

‘Why do you hate your father so much?' Philip asks.

‘My reasons are my own.' Swift is too private a pain to be shared here.

‘You own nothing now,' Floster says coldly. ‘Not your life, nor your past; not memories, hopes or fears. I own you and them. If you live on, you live at my pleasure, as an adopted member of my guild. None of the others would have you.'

‘Should I be grateful to you?' My temper flares at last.

She smiles. ‘I don't believe in miracles, child. But you're not a fool. I know you, Zara, daughter of Benedict, he who is the scourge of my guild. Your father has killed more thieves in his reign than the past ten archmages combined. Did you know that?'

She's dropped her guard at last. Emotion pounds me from across the room and I wince.

Her eyes glow with scorching hatred and I try to shield myself from the blaze. And then, like the passing of a storm cloud, the emotions shut off, and her voice becomes matter-of-fact. ‘I'm giving you to Twiss to train. You will obey her in everything. And work hard, mage. Your life depends upon it.'

‘I don't believe you forgot to tell them about Aidan.' I pause in the middle of pulling on leather leggings, balanced on one leg like a heron, and shoot a look at Twiss. ‘What did Bruin say to you after I left the foundry?'

She holds out a leather tunic. I slide the leggings up over my hips and tie the lacing. My grubby mage robes lie in a heap on the floor.

‘Sharp, ain't you?' Twiss growls. ‘Bruin was waitin' for you to find out what your daddy wants with the Maker. Which you never done. Then he planned to set up a meet with Floster. I reckon he wanted the Maker to help with the foundry.' Her jaw clenches and she looks away.

‘It ain't your place to ask me questions!' she suddenly shouts. ‘You ain't “Lady” no more. You're my 'prentice. You'll give me respect or I'll have you beaten.' She looks smug for a moment, then her face crumples. ‘And don't you talk about Bruin. I swore  …  and I meant it. No matter what.' She stares at me, her eyes hard and flat.

‘What did you swear?'

But she shakes her head and shoves the tunic at me again. It's patched, the leather worn to thin suppleness. ‘Finish gettin' dressed.'

The tunic fits snugly over a coarse linen shift. My arms and feet are bare. Twiss frowns at them. ‘You're whiter than a drowned slug.' Her nose wrinkles. She looks just like one of the scornful half-wild tabby cats that keeps the palazzo free of mice. ‘No matter.' She shrugs. ‘If you was a real thief you'd rub soot and oil over yourself before you went out on a job. That's what the fair ones do. Them marks on your face is what worries me. Can you magic 'em away?'

I stare at her. Count the heartbeats ringing in my ears until I can speak.

‘No!  …  Magicking your own body is hard – even simple healing isn't easy. Something as complicated as removing your own mage marks? No!' I shudder at the thought of my face stripped of its marks.
Who would I be?

‘Are you born like that – with them swirls on your face?'

‘The marks are put there on our naming day.' I force the words out of my mouth. ‘It takes six adepts to perform the ritual. Only the parents are allowed to watch. It's very sacred. I can't talk of it to a  …  I can't talk about it.' Surely she'll stop now. Surely she understands  … 

‘Are they like tattoos, then? They shine.'

The thief crouches on the floor, staring at me, asking things no kine should dare think, let alone speak of.

Strike the creature down!

I hear my father's voice in my head, demanding obedience. I wait till the urge drains away. To punish myself, I tell her as much as I can bear: ‘Silver. Inlaid in my skin. Fine strands of silver.'

‘Oooh.' Twiss stares at my face in wonder. But her eyes turn to flint almost at once. ‘We have to hide 'em, silver or not. The Mistress says we gotta get rid of any stink of the mage about you. You wait here and don't you dare move! I'll be back 'fore you can scratch your arse.' She bounces up and races off, banging the door behind her.

I consider disobedience for all of three ticks, before settling down to wait. Twiss carries Floster's authority, and I don't feel like testing the Mistress of Thieves' tolerance of me just yet. In any case, Twiss is nearly as quick as her boast. She slams back into the room, plops down on the ground beside me and holds out a jar stoppered with a cork bung.

‘Mistress Quint of the 'Pothecaries makes this herself. For folks what can afford it, it'll hide any scar.'

Quint. The mad Knowledge Seeker. The one who nods her head and wrings her hands and asks me if I drink blood.

My fingers cover my mother's mage mark. I can feel the thin silver lines  …  almost remember her face. I was three when she died. I stare at the pot Twiss holds out.

‘No.' I shake my head.

Who would I be? What would I be  …  without my marks?

Twiss's eyes narrow. ‘Don't fancy looking like kine?' Her nose wrinkles in contempt.

‘That's not why  … '

‘Ain't it?' She shrugs. ‘Don't matter. You can't live down here marked like that – middlings don't always remember to do what they're told. Best not to remind 'em what you are till they get used to you. Or do you want to die? I can't fight off the whole lot of 'em, and I ain't gonna die for a scummy mage in no case.'

The hatred simmering under the surface flares once more. She's right: I have no friends here, least of all this strange girl who can't seem to decide if she wants to keep me alive or kill me herself.

But to obliterate my marks  … 

Fear. If I give in to it I lose everything. All I have is my hate. All I have is Swift. I have to live to avenge her  …  to stop what happened to her – to me – happening over and over to the end of Time.

Time's grace, help me!

I reach out without another word and take the pot of ointment from Twiss. The cream inside is thick and oily. It feels cold on my skin as I trace it over my mage marks, covering them slowly, line by line. My hand shakes.

Sometimes the child dies when they are marked. I don't remember the pain. The adepts carved my mother's mark on my right cheek, Benedict's on my left. My own mark – the symbol of my soul – sits in the middle of my forehead. I wipe out my marks and it is like being unborn.

When I've finished, I look at Twiss, happy there's no mirror in the room. The thought of my naked face makes me dizzy. I blink hotness from my eyes. Twiss peers at my cheeks and forehead. ‘That's done it.' She smiles, satisfied. I see her power over me in that smile. I am a thief's apprentice now.

I am born again: new and bare and totally alone.

Middlings surround me, crouched on bony haunches like underfed dogs. Fear holds them back. A hand's span of air, carved like a battle trench around my sweating body, is the only thing keeping me safe, keeping me from reaching for my magic and using it to get out  …  to run back to my own kind and hope to be forgiven. Perhaps my father is right and there can never be anything but war between us and those without magic.

I sit among them in my patched leathers – hair covered, mage marks hidden, Mistress Floster's safe-sworn hanging around my neck beside Swift's letter – and feel each hating glance strike its blow. I taste their longing to tear my arms and legs from my body and scrape my eyes from their sockets. My heart is thudding as though I've been running, and sweat drips and drips down my backbone.

Watch Twiss. Listen to Twiss. Concentrate.

The eyes dart between us. Twiss, as I've discovered, is a storyteller. She has the whole cavern full of smelly, dirty little thieves drooling for her next words as though they were morsels of tender capon.

But the tale she's telling
 … 
The hair on the back of my neck bristles at each word.

‘
 …  and the mage squeezed all the air from the Mer's body and she died with the scream stuck in her gullet. He sucked the marrow from her bones. Blood dribbled down his chin 'til his long black beard was stained the colour of rust. And that was two brave thieves dead and their middlings cryin' lonesome in the den. Only Peet was left, littlest of the three. Peet was small but she was clever  … '

Twiss pauses; her eyes circle the room. She smiles at the sight of wide eyes and open mouths.

‘
Does no good trying to be not-seen: the mage's magic eyes sees too much, Peet thinks to herself. Does no good trying to be not-heard. His magic ears be too big. Then Peet grins to herself, for she's thought of a bang clever plan.'

No one is looking at me now. All of us stare at Twiss.

‘
So off she goes into the town and she steals herself a fine robe from the house of a counter.'

Snorts of derision at the word ‘counter'. I jerk my foot out of the way as a middling beside me spits. The gob of saliva plops onto a stone beside my foot and quivers with outrage at the counters and their special privileges.

‘
Peet washes up her face and hands, polishin' 'em with sand till they're smooth and fine as any lady's. Then she goes and steals a rich jewel from a goldsmith's shop.'

Nods and mutters of approval. They know this story. Dozens of hindquarters wriggle down into the dirt. The middlings settle themselves in anticipation, like puppies waiting to be tossed a juicy scrap.

‘
Off Peet goes to the palazzo of the mage. And when she gets there the ghosts of her brother and sister are screaming at her to turn tail and run. “Go on home, Peet! Our middlings got no mum nor dad now. You gotta look after 'em. Go on home, Peet. Or the mage'll suck your marrow too!” So what d'ya think Peet does? Does she turn tail and go on back home?'

‘NO!' screams the room.

Twiss smiles a slow, wicked smile.

‘
Peet sings the sorrow song and sends her brother and sister's spirits off to Sanctory. Then she marches up to the front door and sees a silver death's head right in the middle of the door with eyes made out of diamonds. The eyes watch her as she reaches out and tugs the bell pull.'

‘Ohhh!' The small middling next to me stops picking its nose to sigh in delighted horror.

‘
DONG! The bell rings once.

‘
DONG! It rings twice.

‘
DONG! It rings three times.

‘
A Tribute child, a poor shivery thing, opens the door and bows low to Peet, thinking her a grand lady. Peet shows her the jewel and says it's a present for the mage. Peet's took to wait in a room where the table and chairs is made of solid gold and the floor is covered with the hides of people, tanned and stitched together. When she sees that, Peet's tum goes all squirmy and she's near to puking but she just grips her hands tight and waits for the Tribute child to fetch the mage.'

‘She'll smell him comin'!' shouts someone in the crowd.

Twiss glares at the culprit, hands on hips. ‘You wanna tell this story, Biter?'

‘NO!' scream a dozen voices, and a gangly boy with close-shaved white-blond hair winces at several well-aimed blows from his neighbours. Twiss lifts her chin and waits for silence to settle.

‘Everyone knows you can smell a mage. They stink from drinking blood and their teeth is rotten from sugar cakes and plum puddings.'

The nose-picking child groans with longing.

‘Peet smells Death and she knows the mage is coming. She hears silk shoes whispering over dead folks' skins and she knows the mage is outside the door. The door swings open and he's right in front of her: six feet tall with a beard long as himself and every hair of it rusty with blood. His robes is black as his heart and his eyes is silver and sparkling like the diamonds in the death's head. Peet sees those diamond eyes shining at her and she knows the mage is battling for her soul.'

Memory sweeps Twiss away and in her place I see my father, his brown eyes glistening like pebbles in a mountain stream. My blood turns to ice as his mind cracks mine to pieces like a rotten walnut hull.

I'm on my feet, pushing my way out of the cave-like den. I dodge around some children, leap over others, ignoring the shouts of anger and threats. I'm shivering and sweating, hot and cold. It's too dark, too smelly. I can't breathe.

I shove past the taller children lounging in the doorway, careful to use my hands and not my mind. No magic. Even in full-flown panic part of me knows that if I use magic they will tear me to pieces. And then I'm in the tunnel. Running.
But where?
I don't know or care.

It's good to run. To run as hard and fast as you can. Through dark tunnels, stumbling over the uneven ground, dodging holes and broken masonry half seen in the dim light of the oil lamps. Soon my lungs are gasping for air and I have a stitch in my side. Normal, real, solid pain. The nightmare fades and I slow to a walk. That's when I hear my pursuer.

I barely have time to turn around before a body pelts into me, knocking us both down. I land on my back, painfully, and someone sits on my chest and grabs two handfuls of my hair.

‘Ow! Get off, Twiss!'

‘What the hell d'you think you're doing, running away like that?' She lifts my head by my hair and thunks it back onto the ground. Gently for her, but I see stars. ‘You gone mad?' Twiss leans down until she's close enough to bite off my nose. Which she is probably capable of doing. ‘Well? Are you mad?'

‘No. Get off. You're hurting.'

‘Don't care.'

‘Well, I do. Get off, Twiss.'

‘Promise you won't run?'

‘Yes.'

She may be thin as a starved kitten, but Twiss is heavier than she looks. I groan in relief as she jumps to her feet. I lay on my back, staring up at her, still dazed from the fall and head-banging. The thief proffers a hand. ‘Come on,' she says and tugs me to my feet.

‘How come you're so strong?' I mutter. She's half my size but I don't doubt who would win in a physical fight.