The Traitor Game

by B. R. Collins

  For a horrible moment I know he’s going to tell me to go with him, to show him the way. When he strides off without a backward glance I have to drop my gaze to the floor to hide the look on my face. It’s worked. Levthe lyshe, it’s worked.

  But the other guard is still holding Columen’s arm, and Columen is in no state to fight anyone. What do I do? Attack the guard, so he’ll let go of Columen? Kill him? I’ve done it before: it should be easier this time, as long as I don’t think about it. I reach behind me for my dagger – for Columen’s dagger – and it slips from its sheath into my hand. The hilt fits perfectly into my palm. I walk towards the guard. It’s as if I’ve done this all before. I know how it’s going to be: the scuffle, the stab, the noise, the blood and the sudden heat on my hands. And this time, seeing him yank brutally at Columen’s sleeve, I don’t have any qualms.

  He watches me walk up to him; he starts to say, ‘What –?’

  And then he’s trying to shake me off, desperately pushing at me with one hand while he hangs on valiantly to Columen with the other. He’s shouting something, but I don’t hear what he says; it’s as if it’s in another language. I pull down at his wrist, push him back towards the window, yelling to Columen to get free, to run for it, to go . . . Then he’s let go of Columen and he’s fighting me with both hands, one hand across my mouth pushing me back, the other fumbling for his own knife. I’m trying to stab upwards, but I can’t get the angle to get underneath his jerkin, and the leather turns the blade aside. He’s not as tough as the Evgard man was, but he’s younger, and stronger. He’s going to kill me. All I can do is shove him backwards with all my strength, towards the window, pushing the way we’d push the carts when we harvested the marsh-reeds in Skyph, putting all our weight into it. I hear something crack in one of my shoulders. Backwards, you bastard, backwards – and he glances behind him, just for an instant. But it’s enough to catch him off balance; before I’ve even thought about it I’ve laced my leg between his ankles and he’s staggering backwards. Then he falls. He clutches at me, but it’s too late.

  He goes straight through the window as though it’s water. I hear the crack of his spine against the lead upright; he throws his hands out to try to break the momentum and I see them smash through the glass, splintering it into hundreds of gleaming ruby-red pieces. For a second he seems to hang there, against the black dark, while the breaking glass falls into dazzling splinters. Then he’s gone. The crash resonates briefly in the stone gallery. After that there’s nothing but the shining debris of the lightlead glass on the stone floor, burning with the sunset of half an hour ago. Outside there’s darkness.

  I hear myself breathing. I put the dagger back into its sheath; it’s still clean. I hardly even touched him with it.

  Iaspis says faintly, ‘Do you have any idea how much lightlead glass costs?’

  I walk to the other side of the room and pull the tapestry aside. I’ve never felt so tired in my life. It’s dark, now that most of the window is gone. I can still see the man hanging against that background of light, the shape of him before he fell, and I try to blink him away. I find the lever to unlock the secret door. I pull it down, and it moves smoothly, hardly offering any resistance. Someone must keep it oiled.

  I turn round and look at Columen. ‘Come on. This way.’

  He’s sitting on the floor, head on his knees, as though he just collapsed when the guard let go of him. He raises his head stiffly. ‘Where?’

  ‘To the Underlake. Then we can get to the Closed School, and out of Arcaster.’

  He rubs at his face, like a little boy. ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why? To get out. To escape.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘To . . . don’t you want to? Come on. We haven’t got time for this. You can’t stay here.’

  He shakes his head. He’s got one hand inside his mouth, checking his teeth with his fingers, so when he speaks it’s hard to hear what he’s saying. ‘No. Why you? Why now?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I stare at him. At least now he’s meeting my eyes. ‘Because I don’t want you to go to torture and certain death.’ I can’t stop myself from adding, ‘Obviously.’

  He doesn’t smile. ‘It didn’t bother you before.’

  ‘I’m Mereish, Columen, I had to help them . . . I couldn’t betray my people. I had to let them in. You’d have done the same, if they’d been Evgarders. Wouldn’t you?’ Would he? I don’t know any more. ‘I didn’t realise they’d – I thought – I don’t know. I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘But you’re betraying them now.’

  There’s so much I could say to that, and all of it would be useless. ‘Yes.’

  He pushes himself slowly to his feet. ‘Do you know where your loyalties lie, Argent?’

  I want to laugh with relief. They’re going to come with me. And the look in his eyes – not friendly, but . . . human, again; recognisable. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care, right now. Please, let’s go. Before anyone –’

  An arrow thumps into the tapestry behind me.

  It hangs there for a moment, the tip scraping on stone, then slips slowly downwards, tearing the cloth. Columen and I both watch it, mesmerised. It seems to take hours before it hits the ground. Then we turn round.

  ‘Don’t move. Argent. Stand apart from the prisoners. First one to make a false move gets an arrow in their throat.’

  Ryn.

  It can’t be. She can’t have . . . but she’s standing there, with five or ten men behind her, three with arrows already nocked to their bows. Her face is still white, but flaming white, the colour of sunlight on snow. She tilts her head to one side, still looking at us, and says, ‘I want them alive. All three, but especially the two dark ones. If they get away, you’ll regret it.’ Then, in a softer, warmer voice, like a thaw, she says, ‘Argent, wormhead, why did you have to . . . ?’

  I don’t answer.

  She shakes her head. ‘I knew something was up. I knew you were a traitor – but to kill one of ours, for this . . . how could you, Argeshya?’

  I flick a look at Columen. He’s very still. But the look on his face isn’t despair, any more. He looks like a hunter waiting for his prey – or, at least, a man who’s going to go down fighting. And Iaspis is the same, poised, like a hawk about to take off.

  I say softly, in Evgard, ‘Iaspis, the door’s three paces to your left. Columen, it’s directly behind you.’

  Columen’s still watching Ryn. He murmurs, ‘But the lever to lock it shut is at the bottom of the steps. We wouldn’t reach it in time.’

  Ryn says, in Mereish, ‘Step forward, slowly.’ She glances swiftly to right and left, at the archers. ‘Argent, tell them what to do.’

  I bite my lip. ‘You can lock it with the lever here, right? The one I used to unlock it?’

  A ghost of a frown crosses Columen’s face. ‘Yes. But you’d be closing yourself out.’

  ‘All right.’ I turn my head and look at Columen, taking in the ruined face, the discoloured skin, the scars that he’ll always bear, his amazing autumnal eyes. ‘When I say go – run for it.’

  He turns to look at me sharply, meeting my gaze straight on. ‘What are you talking about, Argent?’

  ‘Run for it. With Iaspis. Shut the door behind you.’

  Ryn narrows her eyes. ‘I said, step forward! Argent, tell them. Go on. Now.’ She raises her finger to the archer on her left, as if she’s warning him to be ready.

  ‘Columen – go.’ I don’t look to see if he’s moved; I’m already running, throwing myself towards the edge of the tapestry, falling sideways against the stone and pulling desperately at the folds of cloth to get to the lever behind. There’s noise, suddenly, shouting, the sounds of feet scrabbling on stone, a door swinging open, a twanging like the strings of a harp. I grab at the lever, start to pull it upwards, desperate to feel the mechanism lock, but it won’t move. The door hasn’t closed properly. I can’t lock it. I crane my head to look at the doorway.

  Columen�
�s there, his body braced against the door, not letting it shut completely. The door’s shielding him from the arrows – but he has to go. If he doesn’t go now he won’t have time to get to safety before someone pulls him back. I say, ‘Go, for hell’s sake, Columen, go, go . . .’

  ‘I’m waiting for you, idiot.’ I can’t believe the exhilaration in his voice, as though it’s all a joke or a game. ‘I’m not leaving you behind, Argent. They’ll kill you.’

  ‘I don’t care – please, go, just go –’ I twist round, my back flat against the wall, one of my hands still on the lever. ‘Go, go, go!’

  An arrow slams into the door, just at the height of Columen’s head. He pulls back, laughing, like a man who’s almost been beaten at shek and seen the trap just in time. But it knocks the breath out of me. What if it had hit him? I can’t breathe, suddenly. It’s as if I can feel it in my own body: the impact of it, the sound, the slow nauseating warmth of blood spreading out from the wound . . .

  Columen’s face goes white.

  I say, ‘Hath er badh, min lyshe?’ because for some reason I can’t think straight. I shake my head and try to concentrate. Say it in Evgard, you fool, he doesn’t understand . . . but the words keep coming in Mereish. ‘Eir du gweuthed, min lyshe? Min levthe, min heird . . .’ I hear myself say again, ‘Min heird . . .’ as though it’s someone else’s voice. He’s gone so pale, suddenly. What’s wrong with him? Is he wounded? But there’s nothing, no arrow, no blood. What’s the matter? I try to speak, but my mouth’s gone dry.

  He says, ‘Argent. Argent. Come here. Please. Please . . .’

  Why is he . . . ? I don’t understand. I shake my head; try to say, ‘No, my lord, you go.’ But somehow I don’t have enough breath. I push at the air, as though I could force him back through the doorway just by gesturing at him. Any moment now, the soldiers will capture him. He has to go. He has to. I take a step forward, keeping one hand on the lever, and try to shout, but my legs give way. I’m sitting on the floor, my chin on my chest.

  There’s an arrow in my shirt.

  There’s an arrow, sticking out, over my breastbone. Horizontally. Sticking out of my shirt. The feathered end. Almost as though the other end of it is –

  And blood. Not much; just a bit of blood. Nothing serious. Just a little circle of blood, round my breastbone. Probably about where my heart is. But not much. Not as much as you’d expect, if you had an arrow sticking out of you.

  Somewhere a long way away Ryn says, ‘Oh, meidburuchtts – I said alive, you stupid ryglyng!’ I give a little helpless giggle.

  Columen’s still there. I wish he’d go, but he says, ‘Please – Argent – we can get you to the Closed School – you’ll be fine –’

  My hand won’t stay on the lever for the door. It’s too heavy. ‘Columen, please . . . go . . .’ I summon another breath from somewhere and say, ‘Go, go, go . . .’ Or at least, that’s what I mean to say. But I hear my voice, and I’m saying something else.

  Columen shakes his head frantically. A lock of hair falls over his face. ‘No, Argent, no, it’s all right, it’s all right, I promise.’

  ‘Then go. Please.’

  He looks at me for a long moment, a moment that feels as long as the months since the Sundark, as long as my life. Then the door shuts.

  And I pull the lever upwards as hard as I can, and there’s the sound of the lock engaging. They’re safe.

  .

  My breathing is very loud. I let myself slip further down the wall and put my head on my knees, like I’m going to sleep. The arrow in my chest feels odd, as though I’ve grown an extra bone. It doesn’t hurt much; I’m just tired. I close my eyes and think of Columen and Iaspis, running down the stairs now, to the Underlake, to the Closed School, to safety. I did that. I saved them.

  There’s a babble of Mereish cursing. Ryn: Varesh meither, shudfargtte . . . and someone else, replying, not sounding much happier. Not that it matters, any of it. The game’s over, now. That’s it. I take a deep breath and taste something metallic. No Evgard-Marydd treaty, then . . . no Treaty of Arcaster . . . and somewhere below me Columen and Iaspis are safe, they’re safe . . . The darkness behind my eyelids billows and sucks me down. That’s it, then. It’s . . .

  .

  .

  Thirteen

  It was over. That was it. No Evgard, no Marydd. No Arcaster.

  And in a way it was a relief. Michael kept telling himself that, anyway. At least now . . . well, there wasn’t anyone, anything else he cared about. Not properly. It was like he’d been in prison or something, tunnelling out of his cell, and he’d finally come up against solid rock. You pushed for a bit, until you were exhausted and sweaty and defeated, and then all you could do was turn round and go back. And in a sort of way it was good for you, because you stopped thinking you could have something better. You just had to get on with it. You looked round at the dungeon and started thinking, Well, maybe I could tame some vermin or something . . .

  He’d never noticed before how much St Anselm’s looked like a prison. When he walked through the front gates the next day in the pouring rain it was like he was seeing it for the first time. Jesus. It really was like a prison. Like a really classy, red-brick, Victorian prison, with well-kept lawns and a music block and a cricket pavilion. Then he had to smile in spite of himself, because for a second it was like he’d said it aloud and he could actually hear Francis’s voice, taking the piss: Oh yes, one of those prisons . . .

  He turned left automatically, the way he always did, to go down past the music block to the trees. It was a rule: you had to have a cigarette before school, like you had to bunk off early on Friday afternoon . . . even if it was raining, and you ended up squelching for the rest of the day. It was programmed in; so Michael wasn’t even thinking about it, not even wondering if he’d be able to light a cigarette at all in this weather, just walking. And he still had that smile on his face, like he’d left it there and forgotten about it. Or like he was still talking to Francis. Yeah, yeah, Harris, you know what I mean . . . But it does, anyway, it does look like a prison. Oh, by the way, can I scab a cigarette? He actually caught himself glancing to one side, as though Francis was there, like some kind of imaginary friend.

  It brick-walled him.

  It wasn’t that he remembered, all of a sudden. It wasn’t like that. It was just . . . just the flat, merciless, sickening impact of it all, slamming into him. It stopped him dead, half reeling, aching, with a sharp precise pain in his larynx as though someone was squeezing it between two fingers. It hurt to breathe in. He crossed his arms over his stomach and pressed, like he could hold himself together, like he’d been stabbed.

  He was crying. He couldn’t help it. He was fighting the tears, driving his fists into his gut as though he could stop them that way, thinking, Stop it, stop it, you pathetic fuck . . . but he couldn’t help it. He had just enough presence of mind to stumble past the window and lean against the wall, out of sight. Then he was sobbing, gasping for breath, drowning.

  He hadn’t cried for years. Not since he told his mum about . . . not for years. He’d forgotten how scary it was, because once he started he couldn’t stop. It was like it wasn’t him any more. There was something else inside his body, digging handfuls out of him and spitting them out, punching at his diaphragm, trying to choke him. He didn’t have any choice; he just had to wait for it to end. He pushed his face against his arm and pressed the sleeve of his blazer against his eyes. He drew his knees up, bracing himself against the wall, and let the misery take over. He thought, Thank God it’s raining, thank God no one will see.

  He had no idea how long he was there. There was the sound of his own ragged breathing, the sibilant white-noise rain, the dark wet green of his blazer in front of his face. After a while he managed to stop sobbing out loud. He took deep breaths; the tears were still coming, but at least now he was a bit more in control. He could feel the rain on his head, running down the back of his neck. His shirt was clinging to him, sodden, fre
ezing cold. Jesus, he was soaked . . . He ran his hands over his face, wiping the drips away, and pressed his fingers into his eyes. In a second he’d get up.

  Someone said, ‘Are you OK?’

  Someone . . . but Michael knew, even before he looked up. Of course. It would be. He said, ‘Piss off, Francis,’ and looked straight up into his face.

  For a second their eyes met. Then Francis blinked, deliberately, as though he was trying to make Michael disappear. ‘Oh.’

  That was all he said. But Michael saw from the way he said it that he’d only just recognised Michael, hadn’t realised . . . His face was still swollen, although it didn’t look as bad as it had. His chin was dripping with rain. As Michael watched he took a step backwards and raised a hand uncertainly to brush the wet hair off his forehead.

  Michael felt the blood rushing into his cheeks. Christ. Francis, of all people, to see him like this . . . for a second it seemed the worst thing in the world, worse than if Shitley’s mates had seen him, worse than Shitley . . . He scrubbed frantically at his face with one hand and pushed himself up to standing with the other. He swung his bag on to his shoulder so quickly the momentum made him stagger.

  ‘Wait. Michael. Wait.’

  ‘Piss off –’ Michael heard his voice go and hated himself. You stupid useless loser, Thompson. He meant to walk away, but he was so shaky it turned into a sort of stumbling undignified run.

  ‘Michael, for God’s sake! Will you wait –’

  A hand on his arm, pulling him round. Michael tried to pull away, but Francis’s grip was stronger than he expected. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I need to talk to you. Please. Christ, Michael . . . You look like –’ He stopped and bit his lip.

  ‘Like what? Like I’ve been crying my eyes out?’

  Francis took his hand off Michael’s arm, but he met his gaze. ‘Well, haven’t you?’