Sapphique

by Catherine Fisher

  As he turned Attia caught a flash of panic under his makeup, but his voice was as smooth as ever.

  “You search for an Enchanter of power, a Sapient who will show you the way out of Incarceron. All of you search for that!” He swung on them, challenging, daring them to deny it.

  “I am that man! The way that Sapphique took lies through the Door of Death. I will take this girl through that door. And I will bring her back!”

  She didn’t have to pretend. Her heart was thudding hard.

  There was no roar from the crowd, but the silence was different now. It had become a threat, a force of such desire it scared her. As Rix led her to the couch she glanced out at the muffled faces and knew that this was no audience happy to be fooled. They wanted Escape like a starving man craves food. Rix was playing with fire here.

  “Pull out,” she breathed.

  “Can’t.” His lips barely moved. “Show must go on.”

  Faces pressed forward to see. Someone fell, and was trampled. A soft ice thaw dripped from the roof, on Rix’s makeup, on her hands gripping the couch, on the black glove. The crowd’s breath was a frosted contagion.

  “Death,” he said. “We fear it. We would do anything to avoid it. And yet Death is a doorway that opens both ways. Before your eyes, you will see the dead live!”

  He drew the sword out of the air. It was real. It gleamed with ice as he held it up.

  This time there was no rumble, no lightning from the roof. Maybe Incarceron had seen the act too often. The crowd stared at the steel blade greedily. In the front row a man scratched endlessly, muttering under his breath.

  Rix turned. He fastened the links around Attia’s hands. “We may have to leave fast. Be ready.”

  The loops went around her neck and waist. They were false, she realized, and was glad.

  He turned to the crowd and held up the sword. “Behold! I will release her. And I will bring her back!”

  He’d switched it. It was fake too. She only had seconds to notice, before he plunged it into her heart.

  This time there was no vision of Outside.

  She lay rigid, unbreathing, feeling the blade retract, the cold damp of fake blood spread on her skin.

  Rix was facing the silent mob. Now he turned; she sensed him come near, his warmth bending over her.

  He tugged the sword away. “Now,” he breathed.

  She opened her eyes. She felt unsteady, but not like the first time. As he helped her stand and the blood shriveled miraculously on her coat she felt a strange release; she took his hand and was shown to the crowd and she bowed and smiled in relief, forgetting for a moment that she was not supposed to be part of the act.

  Rix bowed too, but quickly. And as her euphoria drained away, she saw why.

  No one was applauding.

  Hundreds of eyes were fixed on Rix. As if they waited for more.

  Even he was thrown. He bowed again, lifted the black glove, stepped backward on the creaking boards of the stage.

  The crowd was agitated; someone shouted. A man shoved himself forward, a thin gangly man muffled up to the eyes; he tore himself out from the crowd and they saw he held one end of a thick chain. And a knife.

  Rix swore briefly; out of the corner of her eye Attia saw the seven jugglers scurrying for weapons backstage.

  The man climbed up on the boards. “So Sapphique’s Glove brings men back to life.”

  Rix drew himself up. “Sir, I assure you—”

  “Then prove it again. Because we need it.”

  He hauled on the chain, and a slave fell forward onto the boards, an iron collar around his neck, his skin raw with hideous sores. Whatever the disease was, it looked terrible.

  “Can you bring him back? I’ve already lost—”

  “He’s not dead,” Rix said.

  The slave owner shrugged. Then quickly, before anyone could move, he cut the man’s throat. “He is now.”

  Attia gasped, her hands over her mouth.

  The red slash overflowed, the slave fell choking and writhing. All the crowd murmured. Rix did not move.

  For a moment Attia had the sense he was frozen with horror, but when he spoke his voice had not a tremor. “Put him on the couch.”

  “I’m not touching him. You touch him. You bring him back.”

  The people were shouting. Now they were crying out and crawling up the sides of the stage, all around, closing in.

  “I’ve lost my children,” one cried.

  “My son is dead,” another screamed.

  Attia looked around, backing away, but there was nowhere to go. Rix grabbed her hand with his black-gloved fingers. “Hold tight,” he whispered. Aloud he said, “Stand well back, sir.”

  He raised his hand, clicked his fingers.

  And the floor collapsed.

  Attia fell through the trapdoor with a suddenness that knocked the breath out of her, and crashed on a mat stuffed with horsehair.

  “Move!” Rix yelled. He was already on his feet; hauling her up, he ran, crouched under the planking of the stage.

  The noise above them was a fury; running footsteps, shouts and wails, a clash of blades. Attia scrambled over the joists; there was a curtain at the back and Rix dived under it, tugging off wig and makeup, false nose, fake sword.

  Gasping, he whipped his coat off, turned it inside out, and put it back on, tied it with string, became a bent, hunched beggar before her eyes.

  “They’re all bloody mad!”

  “What about me?” she gasped.

  “Take your chance. Meet outside the gate, if you make it.”

  And he was gone, hobbling into a snow tunnel.

  For a moment she was too furious to move. But a head and shoulders came down the trapdoor behind her. She hissed with fear and ran.

  Dodging into a side cavern she saw that the wagons were gone, their tracks deep in the snow. They hadn’t waited for the end. She scrambled after them, but there were too many people down that way, people surging out of the dome, some fleeing, some a mob smashing everything within reach. She turned back, cursing. To have come all this way and then to lose the Glove to a baying crowd!

  And in her mind the red slash of the slave’s throat opened over and over.

  The tunnel led out between the snow-domes. The settlement was in chaos; strange cries echoed, the sickly smoke burned everywhere. She ducked into a quiet alley and ran down it, wishing desperately for her knife.

  The snow here was thick, but hard-packed, as if from many feet. At the end of the lane was a large dark building; she ducked inside.

  It was dim, and icy cold.

  For a while she just crouched behind the door, breathing hard, waiting for pursuers. Distant shouts came to her. Her face against the frozen wood, she stared through a crack. Nothing but darkness came down the lane … And a light, falling snow.

  Finally, she stood, stiff, brushing ice from her knees, and turned.

  The first thing she saw was the Eye.

  Incarceron gazed at her from the roof, its small curious scrutiny. And under it, on the ground, were the boxes.

  She knew what they were as soon as she saw them.

  A stack of coffins, hastily built, stinking of disinfectant.

  Kindling was piled all around them.

  She stopped breathing, flung her arm over nose and mouth, gave a wail of horror.

  Plague!

  It explained everything: the people falling, the cowed and muffled silence, the desperation for Rix’s magic to be real.

  She stumbled out backward, sobbing with dread, grabbing snow, scrubbing her hands, her face, her mouth and nose. Had she caught it? Had she breathed it in? Oh god, had she touched anyone?

  Breathless, she turned to run.

  And saw Rix.

  He was stumbling toward her. “No way out,” he gasped. “Can we hide in there?”

  “No!” She caught his arm. “This is a plague village. We have to get out of here.”

  “So that’s it!” To her amazement he l
aughed in relief. “Just for a minute there, sweetie, I thought I was losing my touch. But if it’s just—”

  “We could already be infected! Come on!”

  He shrugged, turned.

  But as he faced the darkness he stopped.

  A horse stepped out from the smoky shadows of the lane, a horse dark as midnight, its rider tall, wearing a tricorn hat. He wore a black mask with narrow eyeholes. His coat was long and his boots supple and fine. He carried a firelock, and now he pointed it with practiced skill straight at Rix’s head.

  Rix froze.

  “The Glove,” the shadow whispered. “Now.”

  Rix wiped his face with one black hand, then spread his fingers. His voice adopted its cringing whine. “This, lord? It’s just a prop. A stage prop. Take anything from me, sir, but please, not—”

  “Cut the act, Enchanter.” The highwayman’s voice was amused and cold. Attia watched, alert. “I want the real Glove. Now.”

  Reluctant, Rix slowly took a small black bundle from his inside pocket.

  “Give it to the girl.” The firelock edged slightly toward her. “She brings it to me. You make any move and I kill both of you.”

  Attia surprised herself, and both of them, by her harsh laugh. The masked man glanced quickly at her, and she caught his blue eyes. She said, “That’s not the Glove either. The real one he keeps in a small pouch under his shirt. Close to his heart.”

  Rix hissed with fury. “What is this? Attia!”

  The masked man clicked the trigger back. “Then get it.”

  Attia grabbed Rix, tugged the robe open, and dragged the string from around his neck. His face close to hers, he whispered, “So you were a plant all along.”

  The pocket was small, of white silk.

  She stepped back, thrust it into her coat. “I’m sorry, Rix, but—”

  “I believed in you, Attia. I even thought you might turn out to be my Apprentice.” His eyes were hard; he stabbed a bony finger at her. “And you’ve betrayed me.”

  “The Art Magicke is the art of illusion. You said it.”

  Rix’s face contorted in white fury. “I won’t forget this. You’ve made a mistake crossing me, sweetie. And believe me, I’ll have my revenge on you.”

  “I need the Glove. I need to find Finn.”

  “Do you? Keep it safe, Sapphique said. Is he safe, your thief friend? What does he want it for, Attia? What harm will he do with it?”

  “Maybe I’ll wear it.” The highwayman’s eyes were cold through his mask.

  Rix nodded. “Then you will control the Prison. And the Prison will control you.”

  “Take care of yourself, Rix,” Attia said. She put up her arm, and Keiro leaned down and pulled her up behind him.

  They turned the horse in a circle of sparks. Then they galloped away into the icy dark.

  THE BOY IN THE YELLOW COAT

  8

  Our Realm will be splendid. We will live as men should live, and the land will be tilled for us by a million yeomen. Above us the ruined moon will be our emblem of the Years of Rage. It will flicker through the clouds like a lost memory.

  —King Endor’s Decree

  Finn lay deep in a softness of pillows so comfortable that his whole body was relaxed. Sleep was a drowsy content; he wanted to slip back into it, but already it was receding, withdrawing from him like a shadow from the sun.

  The Prison was quiet. His cell was white and empty, and only a small red Eye watched him from the ceiling.

  “Finn?” Keiro’s voice came from somewhere close.

  Behind it the Prison remarked, “He looks younger when he sleeps.”

  Bees hummed through an open window. There was a sweet scent of flowers he had no name for.

  “Finn? Can you hear me?”

  He turned, licked dry lips.

  When he opened his eyes the sun dazzled him.

  The figure bending over him was tall and fair, but it was not Keiro.

  Claudia sat back with relief. “He’s awake.”

  Finn felt all the knowledge of where he was flood him like a wave of despair. He tried to sit, but Jared’s hand came down gently on his shoulder. “Not yet. Take your time.”

  He lay in an enormous four-poster bed, on soft white pillows. Above him the dusty canopy was embroidered with suns and stars and intricate twining briar roses.

  Something sweet smoldered in the hearth. Servants moved discreetly around, bringing water, a tray.

  “Get them out,” he croaked.

  Claudia said, “Stay calm.” She turned. “Thank you all. Please tell the Queen’s Majesty that His Highness is quite recovered. He will attend the Proclamation.”

  The chamberlain bowed, ushered the footmen and maids out, and closed the double doors.

  At once Finn struggled up. “What did I say? Who saw me?”

  “Don’t distress yourself.” Jared sat on the bed. “Only Claudia. When the seizure ended she summoned two of the groundsmen. They brought you up the back stairs. No one saw.”

  “But they all know.” He felt sick with anger and shame.

  “Drink this.” The Sapient poured a cordial into a crystal glass; he held it out and Finn took it quickly. His throat was parched with thirst. It always was, afterward.

  He didn’t want to meet Claudia’s eyes, but she seemed unembarrassed; when he looked up she was pacing impatiently at the foot of the bed.

  “I wanted to wake you, but Jared wouldn’t let me. You slept all night and half the morning! The ceremony is in less than an hour.”

  “I’m sure they can wait for me.” His voice was sour. Then, slowly, he gripped the empty glass and looked at Jared. “Is it true? What she told me? That the Prison … that Keiro … are so small?”

  “It’s true.” Jared refilled the glass.

  “It’s not possible.”

  “It was only too possible for the Sapienti of old. But Finn, listen to me. I want you to try not to think of it, not now. You have to prepare yourself for the ceremony.”

  Finn shook his head. Astonishment was like a trapdoor inside him; it had opened under him and he could not stop falling into it. Then he said, “I remembered something.”

  Claudia stopped. “What?” She came around the bed. “What was it?”

  He lay back and glared at her. “You sound just like Gildas. All he ever cared about were the visions. Not about me.”

  “Of course I care.” She made a real effort to calm her voice. “When I saw you were ill I—”

  “I’m not ill.” He swung his feet out of bed. “I’m a Starseer.”

  They were silent. Then Jared said, “The seizures have an epileptic nature but I suspect they were triggered by whatever drug they gave you to forget your past.”

  “They? You mean the Queen.”

  “Or the Warden. Or indeed the Prison itself. If it’s any consolation, I do think the fits will become less severe with time.”

  Finn scowled. “Fine. Meanwhile the Crown Prince of the Realm collapses into a twitching cripple every few weeks.”

  “This is not the Prison,” Jared said quietly. “Illness is not a crime here.” His voice was sharper than usual. Claudia frowned, annoyed at Finn’s clumsiness.

  Finn put the glass on the table and his head in his hands, dragging his fingers through his tangled hair. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry, Master. I’m always thinking only of myself.”

  “But what did you remember?” Claudia was impatient. She leaned against the bedpost, staring at him, her face tense with expectation.

  Finn tried to think. “The only things I’ve ever been sure of as memories have been blowing out the candles on the cake, and the boats on the lake …”

  “Your seventh birthday. When we were betrothed.”

  “So you say. But this time, it was different.” He wrapped his arms around his chest; Claudia took the silk robe from the chair and brought it quickly. He put it on, concentrating. “I think … I’m sure really, that I was older this time. I was certainly ridin
g a horse. A gray horse. There was undergrowth whipping against my legs … bracken, very high. The horse crashed through it. There were trees.”

  Claudia took a breath; Jared’s hand came up to keep her silent. Calmly he said, “The Great Forest?”

  “Maybe. Bracken and brambles. But there were Beetles too.”

  “Beetles?”

  “They’re in the Prison. Small metal things; they clear away rubbish, eat metal and plastic and flesh. I don’t know if this was a forest here, or Inside. How could they have been here … ?”

  “You just might be mixing things up.” Claudia couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a real memory. What happened?”

  Jared took a small scanner from his pocket and placed it on the bedclothes. He made an adjustment to it, and it beeped. “The room is almost certainly full of listening devices. This will give us some protection, if you speak quietly.”

  Finn stared at it. “The horse jumped. There was a pain in my ankle. I fell.”

  “A pain?” Claudia came and sat next to him. “What sort of pain?”

  “Sharp. Like a sting. It was …” He paused, as if the memory was flickering, just beyond reach. “Orange. Orange and black. Small.”

  “A wasp? A bee?”

  “It hurt. I looked down at it.” He shrugged. “Then nothing.”

  Hurriedly he pulled up his ankle and examined it. “Just here. It went through the boot leather.”

  There were many old marks and scars. Claudia said, “Could it have been some sort of tranquilizer? Like your false insects, Master.”

  “If it was,” Jared said slowly, “the maker was skillful, and unbothered by Protocol.”

  Claudia snorted. “The Queen uses Protocol to control others, not herself.”

  Jared fingered the collar of his robe. “But Finn, you have ridden in the forest many times since you left the Prison. This may not be an old memory. It may not even be a memory at all.” He paused, seeing the defiance come into the boy’s face. “I say this because others may say it. They’ll say you dreamed it.”

  “I know the difference.” Finn’s voice was angry. He stood up, tying the robe around him. “Gildas always said the visions came from Sapphique. But this was memory. It was so … sharp. It happened, Jared. I fell. I remember falling.” His eyes held Claudia’s. “Wait for me. I’ll get ready.”