Sapphique

by Catherine Fisher

  “Please.” His ink-stained fingers lifted. “Please, Lady Claudia. Be discreet.”

  Fuming, she kept silent.

  He gazed across the wide lawns. Only peacocks strutted and squawked. There was a group of courtiers in the orangery; faint giggles drifted from the scented gardens.

  “We made no attack,” he said quietly. “Believe me, madam, if we had, Prince Giles—if he is Giles—would be dead. The Steel Wolves deserve their reputation.”

  “You failed to kill the Queen on several occasions.” She was scathing. “And you placed a dagger next to Finn …”

  “To ensure he remembers us. But the forest, no. If I may say so, you were unwise to ride out without an escort. The Realm is full of discontents. The poor suffer their injustices, but they don’t forgive them. It was probably a simple attempt at robbery.”

  She thought it was the Queen’s plot, though she had no intention of letting him know that. Instead she snapped a bud from the rosebush and said, “And the fire?”

  He looked stricken. “That is a disaster. You know who was responsible for that, madam. The Queen has never wanted the Portal reopened.”

  “And now she thinks she’s won.” Claudia jumped as a peacock rustled its magnificent tail into a fan. The hundred eyes watched her. “She thinks that my father is cut off.”

  “Without the Portal, he is.”

  “You knew my father well, Master Medlicote?”

  Medlicote frowned. “I was his secretary for ten years. But he was not an easy man to know.”

  “He kept his secrets?”

  “Always.”

  “About Incarceron?”

  “I knew nothing about the Prison.”

  She nodded and took her hand out of her pocket. “Do you recognize this?”

  He looked at it, wondering. “It’s the Warden’s pocketwatch. He always wore it.”

  She was watching him closely, alert for any glimmer of hidden recognition, of knowledge. In the glasses she saw the reflection of the open watchcase, the silver cube turning on the chain.

  “He left it for me. You have no idea then, where the Prison is?”

  “None. I wrote his correspondence. I ordered his affairs. But I never went there with him.”

  She clicked the case shut. He seemed puzzled, had given no sign of knowing what he was looking at.

  “How did he travel there?” she asked quietly.

  “I never discovered that. He would disappear, for a day, or a week. We … the Wolves … believe the Prison to be some sort of underground labyrinth, below the Court. Obviously the Portal gave access.” He looked at her curiously. “You know more about this than I do. There may be information in his study, at your house in the Wardenry. I was never allowed in there.”

  His study.

  She tried not to reveal by even a blink the shock his words sparked. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Hardly knowing what she said, she turned on her heel, but his voice stopped her.

  “Lady Claudia. Something else. We have learned that when the false prince is executed you will share his fate.”

  “What!”

  He was standing with his glasses in his hands, his dusty shoulders stooped. In the sunlight he seemed suddenly a halfblind, agitated man.

  “But she can’t …”

  “She will. I warned you, lady. You are an escaped Prisoner. She would not be breaking any laws.”

  Claudia was cold. She could hardly believe this. “Are you sure?”

  “One of the Privy Council has a mistress. The woman is one of our operatives. He told her that the Queen was adamant.”

  “Did she hear anything else? Whether the Queen had brought in this Pretender?”

  He stared at her. “That interests you more than your own death?”

  “Tell me!”

  “Unfortunately, no. The Queen professes ignorance as to which of the boys is her true stepson. She’s told the Council nothing.”

  Claudia paced, shredding the rosebud. “Well, I don’t intend to be executed, by her or your Wolves or anyone else. Thank you.” She had ducked under the rose arch when he took a step after her and said softly, “Master Jared was bribed to stop work on the Portal. Did you know that?”

  She stopped still as death, without turning. The roses were white, perfectly scented. Fat bees fumbled in their petals. There was a thorn in the bud she held; it hurt her fingers and she dropped it.

  He came no nearer. His voice was quiet. “The Queen offered him—”

  “There’s nothing”—she turned, almost spitting the words—“nothing, that she could offer that he would take. Nothing!”

  A bell chimed, then another from the Ivory Tower. It was the signal for the Inquisition of the Candidates. Medlicote kept his eyes on her. Then he put his spectacles back on and bowed clumsily. “My mistake, my lady,” he said.

  She watched him walk away. She was trembling. She didn’t know how much with anger, how much with fear.

  JARED LOOKED down with a rueful smile at the book in his hand. It had been a favorite of his when he had been a student here, a small red book of mysterious and cryptic poems that languished unread on the shelves. Now, opening the pages, he found the oak leaf he had once placed in it, on page forty-seven, at the sonnet about the dove that would cure the devastation of the Years of Rage, a flowering rose in its beak. Reading the lines now, he let his memories slip back to that time. It had not been so long ago. He had been the youngest graduate of the Academy since Protocol began, considered brilliant, assured of a great career.

  The oak leaf was as frail as cobweb, a skeleton of veins. His fingers trembling slightly, he closed the book and slid it back. He was certainly above such self-pity.

  The library of the Academy was a vast and hushed collection of rooms. Great oak cabinets of books, some of them chained, stood in ranks down the galleried halls.

  Sapienti sat huddled over manuscripts and illuminated volumes, quill nibs scraping, each stall lit by a small lamp that looked like a candle but was in fact a high intensity personal diode powered by the hidden underground generators. Jared estimated that at least a third of the precious remaining power of the Realm was consumed here. Not just in the library, of course. The apparent quills were linked to a central computer that also ran the lunar observatory and the extensive medical wing. The Queen, though he hated her, had been right. If there had once been a cure for him, this was the only place it might still be found.

  “Master?” The librarian had returned, the Queen’s letter in his hand. “This is all in order. Please follow me.”

  The Esoterica was the heart of the library. It was rumored to be a secret chamber, entered only by the First High Sapient and the Warden. Jared certainly had never been there. His heart fluttered a little with excitement.

  They walked through three rooms, through a hall of maps and up a winding stair into a small gallery that ran around above the reading room, under the dusty cornice. In the far corner was a shadowy alcove, containing a desk and a chair, the arms carved with winding snakes.

  The librarian bowed. “If you need anything, please ask one of my assistants.”

  Jared nodded and sat. He tried not to show his surprise and disappointment; he had expected something more secret, more impressive, but perhaps that had been foolish.

  He glanced around.

  There were no obvious watching devices, but they were here, he sensed that. He put his hand into his coat and slid out the disc he had prepared. He slipped the disc under the desk and it clasped itself on tight.

  The desk, despite appearances, was metal. He touched it, and a portion of the wainscoting became a screen that lit discreetly. It said YOU HAVE ENTERED THE ESOTERICA.

  He worked quickly. Soon diagrams of the lymphatic and nervous systems rippled over the screen. He studied them intently, cross-referencing with the fragments of medical research that the system still held. The room below was silent, formal busts of ancient Sapienti staring in stiff rigor from their marble pedest
als. Outside the distant casement, a few doves cooed.

  A librarian padded by, carrying a heap of parchment. Jared smiled gently.

  They were keeping a good watch on him.

  By three, the time for the brief afternoon rain shower, he was ready. As the light dimmed and the room grew gloomier, he slid his hand under the desk and touched the disc.

  At once, under the diagrams of the nervous system, writing appeared. It had taken a long time to find the encrypted files on Incarceron, and his eyes were tired, his thirst a torment. But as the first thunder rumbled, here they were.

  Reading one script below another was a skill he had perfected long ago. It needed concentration, and always gave him a headache, but that would be bearable. After ten minutes he had worked out one symbol that unlocked others, then recognized an old variant of the Sapient tongue he had once studied.

  As he translated, the words began to form out of the mass of strange glyphs.

  Rota of the original Prisoners.

  Sentences and Judicial reports.

  Criminal Records; Photoimages.

  Duties of the Warden.

  He touched the last line. The screen rearranged, and under its web of nerves informed him curtly: This material is classified. Speak the password.

  He swore quietly.

  Incorrect, the screen said. You have two more attempts before an alarm will be sounded.

  Jared closed his eyes and tried not to groan. He glanced around; saw the rain slashing against the windows, the small lights on the desks below brighten imperceptibly. He made himself breathe slowly, felt sweat prickle his back.

  Then he whispered, “Incarceron.”

  Incorrect. You have one more attempt before an alarm will be sounded.

  He should withdraw and think about it. If they found out, he’d never get this far again. And yet time was against him. Time, which the Realm had been denied, was taking its revenge.

  Pages turned below. He leaned closer, seeing in the screen his own pale face, the dark hollows of his eyes. There was a word in his mind and he had no idea if it was the right one. But the face was both his and another’s, and it was narrow and its hair was dark and he opened his mouth and whispered its name.

  “Sapphique?”

  Lists. Rotas. Data.

  It spread like a virus over the page, over the diagrams, over everything. The strength and speed of the information astounded him; he tapped the disc to record it as it rapidly came and went.

  “Master?”

  Jared almost jumped.

  One of the Academy porters stood there, a big man, his dark coat shiny with age, his staff tipped with a white pearl. “Sorry to disturb you at work, Master, but this came. From the Court.”

  It was a parchment letter, sealed with Claudia’s black swan insignia.

  “Thank you.” Jared took it, gave the man a coin, and smiled calmly. Behind him the screen showed endless medical diagrams. Used to the austere ways of the Sapienti, the porter bowed and withdrew.

  The seal snapped as Jared opened it. And yet he knew it would have been read by the Queen’s spies.

  My dearest Master Jared,

  The most dreadful thing has happened! A fire broke out in the cellars of the East Court, and most of the ground and upper floors have collapsed. No one was hurt but the entrance to the Portal is buried under tons of rubble. The Queen’s Majesty assures me everything possible will be done but I am so dismayed! My father is lost to us, and Giles bemoans the fate of his friends. Today he faces the trial of the Inquisitors. Pray search hard, dear friend, for our only alternative lies in silence and secrecy.

  Your most loving and obedient pupil,

  Claudia Arlexa

  He smiled ruefully at the Protocol. She could do much better. But then, the note was not just for him, it was for the Queen. A fire! Sia was taking no chances—first removing him and then sealing the entrance to the Prison.

  But what the Queen presumably didn’t know and only he and Claudia did, was that there was another entrance to the Portal, through the Warden’s study at home in the sleepy manor house of the Wardenry. Our only alternative lies in silence and secrecy. She had known he would understand.

  The porter, fidgeting at a respectful distance, said, “The messenger returns to Court in an hour. Will there be any answer, Master?”

  “Yes. Please bring some ink and paper.”

  As the man went, Jared took out a tiny scanner and ran it across the vellum. Scrawled in red across the neatly written lines was IF FINN LOSES THEY INTEND TO KILL US BOTH. YOU KNOW WHERE WE’LL BE. I TRUST YOU.

  He drew in a sharp breath. The porter, anxious, placed the inkwell on the desk. “Master, are you in pain?”

  He sat, white. “Yes,” he said, crumpling the paper.

  He had never guessed they would kill her. And what had she meant by I trust you?

  THE QUEEN rose and all the diners stood hurriedly, even those still eating. The summer meal of cold meats and venison pasties, of lavender cream and syllabub lay scattered on the white-clothed tables.

  “Now.” She dabbed her lips with a kerchief. “You will all retire, except the Claimants.”

  Claudia curtsied. “I ask permission to attend the trial, Majesty.”

  The Queen’s lips made a perfect red pout. “I’m sorry, Claudia. Not this time.”

  “Nor me?” Caspar said, drinking.

  “Or you either, my sweet. Run away and shoot things.” But she was still looking at Claudia, and suddenly, almost mischievously, she took her by the arm. “Oh Claudia! It’s such a shame about the Portal! And you know I’m so sorry to have to appoint a new Warden. Your dear father was so … astute.”

  Claudia kept the smile plastered to her face. “As Your Majesty wishes.” She wouldn’t beg. That was what Sia wanted.

  “If only you’d married Caspar! In fact, even now—”

  She couldn’t stand this. She couldn’t pull away either, so she stood rigid and said, “That choice is over, Majesty.”

  “Too right,” Caspar muttered. “You had your chance, Claudia. I wouldn’t touch you now—”

  “Even for twice the dowry?” his mother said.

  He stared. “Are you serious?”

  Sia’s lips twitched. “You are so easy to tease, Caspar, darling.”

  The doors at the end of the room opened. Beyond them Claudia saw the Court of Inquisition.

  The Queen’s throne was a vast eagle, its spread wings forming the back, its raised beak open in a harsh cry. The crown of the Havaarna encircled its neck.

  The Privy Council sat in a circle around it, but on either side of the throne were two empty seats, one white and one black. As the Council filed in, Claudia watched a small door in the wall open and two figures emerge. She had expected Finn and Giles. Instead she saw the Inquisitors of Sun and Shadow.

  The Shadow Lord wore black velvet lined with sable, and his hair and beard were as jet as his clothes. His face was harsh and unreadable. The other, in white, was graceful and smiling, his robe satin, edged with pearls.

  She had never seen either of them before.

  “My Lord of Shadow.” The Queen went to her throne and turned formally. “And my Lord Sun. Your duty here is to question and draw out the truth, so that we and our Council may come to our verdict. Do you swear to deal faithfully in this inquiry?”

  Both men knelt and kissed her hand. Then they walked, one to the black chair, one to the white, and sat. The Queen smoothed her dress, pulling a small lace fan out of her sleeve.

  “Excellent. Then let’s begin. Close the doors.”

  A gong rang.

  Finn and the Pretender were ushered in.

  Claudia frowned. Finn wore his usual dark colors, without ornament. He looked defiant and anxious. The Pretender wore a coat of purest yellow silk, as expensive as could be made. The two stood and faced each other on the tiled floor.

  “Your name?” the Lord Shadow snapped.

  As the doors slammed in her face Claudia heard t
heir joint response.

  “Giles Alexander Ferdinand Havaarna.”

  She stared at the carved wood, then turned and walked quickly away through the crowd. And like a whisper in her ear her father’s voice came to her, coldly amused. “Do you see them, Claudia? Pieces on the chessboard. How sad that only one can win the game.”

  18

  What makes a prince?

  A sunny sky, an open door.

  What makes a prisoner?

  A question with no answer.

  —Songs of Sapphique

  “Get me out, Attia.”

  “I can’t yet.” She crouched by the wooden bars of the cage. “You’ll have to be patient.”

  “Having too nice a time with your pretty new friends?” Keiro sat lounged against the far wall, arms folded, legs stretched out. He looked cool and scornful but she knew him well enough to see that, inside, he was blazing.

  “I need to keep in with them. You can see that.”

  “So who are they?”

  “All women. Most of them seem to hate men—they’ve probably suffered at their hands. They call themselves the Cygni. They each have a sort of number for a name. The number of a star.”

  “How poetic.” Keiro tipped his head. “Now tell me when they’re going to kill me.”

  “They’re considering. I’ve begged them not to.”

  “And the Glove?”

  “Rho’s got it.”

  “Get it back.”

  “I’m working on it.” She glanced at the door of the room warily. “This nest is a sort of hanging structure. Rooms and passages, all woven together. I think there’s some way down to the floor of the hall but I haven’t found it yet.”

  Keiro was silent a moment. “The horse?”

  “No idea.”

  “Great. All our stuff.”

  “All your stuff.” She pushed her tangled hair back. “There’s something else. They work for the Warden. They call him the Unsapient.”

  His blue eyes stared at her. “They want to take him the Glove!”

  He was always so quick, she thought. “Yes, but—”

  “Attia, you have to get it back!” He was up on his feet now, gripping the bars. “The Glove is our only way to Incarceron.”