The Fade kj-2

by Chris Wooding

  'They do,' he says. 'But you don't look like one. How will you get the disguise?'

  'Laundry room. I'm working on it.'

  'Let me do it. I know people in the laundry room. They launder the slaves' clothes with the soldiers'. If one goes missing, the slave won't dare to raise a fuss, in case they're blamed and punished for losing it.'

  I'm faintly surprised. He's proving to be very useful. 'When can you get one in my size?'

  'Next turn. Maybe the one after that. There are a several dozen slaves here, each with several sets of clothes. They dress their slaves well, as a reflection of their own status. More are arriving every turn in advance of the Elder's visit.'

  He's thought this through. It suddenly occurs to me that he's been planning to escape for a long time, but the opportunity only came with me. I'm the only one with the skills and, more importantly, the gender to make this work.

  'The Elder gets here in eight turns' time,' I tell them. I've learned as much from the guards. 'The whole fort will be in turmoil. That's when we leave.'

  'But there's a problem with your disguise,' he says. 'They only take very young girls as slaves. So they can grow up in the Gurta way, learn not to be rebellious and to accept their position. Too much trouble otherwise.'

  'I know that,' I say. 'What's your point?'

  'The slaves speak Gurtan, that's my point.'

  'I'll deal with it,' I reply.

  'Not only that, but they speak a certain dialect of Gurtan. It identifies them as slaves. They have complex rituals, gestures: things that takes years to be taught. Even the greetings are formalised. Gurta love ceremony; they demand a lot from their slaves.' He rolls his shoulders, stretching his neck. 'They'll see through you in an instant.'

  'I'll deal with it.'

  He shrugs, decides it's not worth saying anything more. The warning has been given, and he doesn't have any better ideas. It's a risk we have no choice but to take. Getting out of Farakza was never going to be easy.

  'What then?' Charn asks. We've already talked about this, but I think he just wants reassuring.

  I don't have much reassurance to give. 'I scout the fort, and I find some way for the four of us to get out without being seen.'

  'See, that's where the plan starts to come apart for me,' he says.

  'We can't plan an escape when we don't know what's outside,' I say. 'We go step by step. I'll find a way. Then I'll come back for you, and we all go together.'

  He snorts. That's the real crux of Charn's problem. He doesn't believe that I will come back. And if it weren't for Feyn, I probably wouldn't.

  'You either believe me or you don't,' I say. 'Makes no odds to me.'

  'I think you need us, besides,' says Nereith. Charn looks at him. 'After all, what happens after we escape? Are you going to make it back to Veya on your own? Do you even know the way?'

  'I could find the way,' I say.

  'But here we have a SunChild, whose people have lived off the land for uncountable generations and is an expert survivalist by birth; and you have a Khaadu who knows exactly how to get back to Veya from here, because he has travelled this way before in more peaceful times, when Khaadu and Gurta were not enemies.'

  I hadn't even thought about Feyn's potential usefulness until now. It gives me a jolt of surprise. I'm usually so mercenary as well. It's very uncharacteristic.

  'You remember the way?'

  'I'm Khaadu. We remember everything.'

  I don't give him the opportunity to gloat over my lack of knowledge of Khaadu abilities. I have a vague memory of Keren and I getting drunk in a bar, and his recounting some rumour about how the Khaadu had perfect recall. But in the same conversation he told me how they ate their own young if they were deformed or sickly. That was much more interesting.

  'What about me?' Charn blusters. 'You'll need me too.' He's sore that Nereith hasn't counted him as an asset. The two of them have been tense since Nereith learned Charn was plotting an escape without letting him in on it. They're not so close any more, I suspect.

  'You've done your part,' Nereith says dismissively, and that shuts him up.

  I raise my hands to placate them both. 'We're all going,' I tell them. 'So let's work together. We'll concentrate on getting away from the fort for now.'

  'I was awake on the way in,' says Nereith. 'They drugged me, but it doesn't work so well on my kind.' He hunkers forward. 'I only saw the main entrance, but I think it's the only one. I've never heard the guards talk about another.'

  'Wait, you know Gurtan?' I ask.

  'And Banchu, and Craggen, only in the Child's Tongue though: I can't make the booming sounds the adults do. I can understand a bit of Umbra if they're not whispering too quietly. And some Ya'yeen too, although that's trickier because you can't just memorise it. They keep changing the rules. Shifting meanings and all that shit; I can't handle it too well.'

  'I'm impressed.'

  'Don't be. It's easy for my kind. We only have to hear something once and we remember it forever.'

  I find myself becoming faintly jealous of the Khaadu's natural advantages. They'd come in useful in my line of work. But then I remember laying my head on my husband's dead chest and hearing the stillness of his heart. Forgetfulness can sometimes be a blessing.

  'There's two gates to get through on the main road,' he says. 'One at the entrance to the fort, and one before the bridge. I saw them searching an outbound cart on the bridge, so we can assume they always do that. Checking for contraband, I'd say.'

  'What does this bridge go over?' Feyn asked.

  Charn scoffs. 'How long have you been here?'

  'I have not talked to other prisoners many.'

  'Much,' I correct him. We've been having a few lessons in the cell, just talking really, but he keeps making elementary mistakes.

  Nereith elaborates. 'Farakza stands on an island in the middle of a river of spume rock. You know what that is?'

  'I do not recognise that word.'

  'It's like lava, but it melts at lower temperatures, solidifies rapidly. The river around Farakza moves slow. On top is a kind of brittle crust, that breaks and moves as the river flows. It's been cooled by the cavern air and turned solid. Beneath it's still molten. Still very hot.'

  'Is that why we are so hot in these lower places?' Feyn asks, indicating the cave around us.

  'Exactly. These cells are underground, and we're surrounded by molten spume rock.'

  I start to imagine the burning, sluggish flow oozing past beyond the damp walls of black stone.

  'So once we're out, how do we get over the river?' Charn asks.

  'This brittle crust,' I say to Nereith. 'How brittle is it?'

  24

  The first thing I do concerning my newfound and tentative friendship with Juth is to exploit it for a favour I don't intend to pay back. It feels bad, but I reason that if I fuck this up then having to bear the disappointment of a lame publisher is going to be the least of my worries. I think he'll understand.

  Juth works in the salvage dump. Here, quantities of scrap metal scavenged from battlefields and left over from other construction jobs are deposited into a long trench, where they are sorted through for parts that can be reused. Then the trench is tipped up and the remainder slides into a mine cart, to be taken away and melted down.

  The salvage dump is one of the first ports of call on Overseer Arachi's rounds. For my plan to have any chance of success, I need as much time as possible between stealing the key from him and returning it. If he completes his inspection before I get back, it's all over.

  Juth is a pushover really; he's eager to please, and he sees my coming to him for help as an affirmation of trust. I ask him to swap with me for a shift, and to find someone to swap with Feyn too. It's not a big ask, really, though working the screens on the slurry-trough is much harder than sorting through the salvage dump. But it's only one shift. I tell him that we're hoping to steal some special components to trade with another prisoner. He points out that people who wo
rk the salvage dump are always searched on our way out; I tell him not to worry and give him a conspiratorial wink. I don't know where he imagines I'll hide these mythical components, but he accepts the story.

  We're greeted at the salvage dump with a friendly wariness. Once we give them the cover story, the workers relax a little. They assume we know what we're looking for, give us thick gloves and let us get on with it. Feyn and I stand together at the trench, sifting through the tide of shrapnel and broken components, trying to appear busy.

  The salvage dump is near one wall of the forge. Black, smoke-stained stone rears high above us. Behind me is a raised metal walkway that runs between the various sections of the forge, connected to them by short sets of steps. Every shift the Overseer comes strolling along, descends, admires this section or that, then returns and passes along the walkway to the next section. Nobody's quite sure of the purpose of these visits. Perhaps he's just fastidious, and sees these inspections as a duty he mustn't shirk no matter how little good it does. It'd certainly explain why he's so punctual.

  I try to calm the anticipation building in me as I work. I'm doing something. Even if it gets me killed, I'm doing something, and that feels good. I begin to run chua-kin chants through my head, curbing the hot swell in my chest that will make me do something rash. The chants, we are taught, are only screens to distract our conscious minds from the subtleties played out behind them, the true meat of chua-kin learning that allows us to control our bodies. But I like them for themselves. They have a certain appealing monotony.

  My heart slows, and the jitters subside. I notice that our neighbours have begun filling small metal bins with cogs, clockwork parts, pieces of piping and so on. I pay attention to what they take and start looking for my own pieces to contribute.

  From here I can just see the Overseer's door through the black haze. It sits amid a strip of narrow, grimy windows, high above the forge, linked to us by a zigzagging flight of stairs bolted to the stone wall. I picture him watching us from his office, then turning back to his desk, tallying this and that, unaware of the plans being hatched by the prisoners below. I wonder what's beyond that door, and if it's even worth the risk to find out.

  Then I see the door open, and there's no time to wonder any more. Arachi emerges, straight-backed, rigid. A billow of sparks fly up through the murk, carried on the thermals, obscuring my vision for a moment. By the time it's passed, he's descending. I didn't see where he put his key. I can only hope it's in the usual place.

  Feyn catches my eye. He shows me a jagged shard of metal in his hand. I'm in no doubt he'll play his part. All we can do now is wait.

  Sweat has dampened my hair. The pores of my face itch. Fresh sweat cleaning away old sweat. I don't know how long it's been since I bathed. I hate this heat. I want the cool air of Veya, the air chilled by the unforgiving endlessness of rock that surrounds it. I want Jai with me, in our chambers in the Caracassa mansions. He can use that wonderful, logical mind of his to construct devices that dispense potions, or which grind ingredients to a fineness hitherto unheard of. He can even make devices for war, if he likes.

  It's a nice dream, but the reality is that my son has gone off to war for all the wrong reasons, and I didn't do enough to stop him. I've lost acquaintances, comrades and close friends to the battlefield or to the machinations of the Plutarchs, but I only really understood when I lost Rynn. And I can't bear that it might happen to Jai too.

  Arachi descends to the bottom of the steps and my view is blocked by the machinery of the forge. He's meeting with his escort. A guard always accompanies him on his rounds, except when one of us is being removed. Then there could be three or four. I hope this isn't one of those times, or the plan will have to be abandoned. I've learned through long experience that, in matters of subterfuge, timing is everything. Patience is the highest virtue of the spy.

  The man to my right hisses at me just as I'm about to drop some piece of scrap into the metal bin. 'Leave that, it's useless,' he snaps. I throw it back into the trench. My mind's not on my job.

  I hear two sets of boots clanking on metal. Only one guard, then. I try not to look, but I can't help glancing up as Arachi approaches. His long white hair is brushed and waxed, and he's doing his best to look dignified in the withering heat of the forge. His collar is already damp and he dabs at his face with a pocket-cloth. The guard at his side is young, presumably saddled with escort duty because of his inexperience. He looks bored. Good. He'll respond well to some excitement.

  Arachi and his escort descend from the walkway to our sunken enclosure, to get a better look at our work. Arachi is inspecting the salvage bins and murmuring approvingly about what valuable things we are finding, when Feyn screams.

  There's something appalling in the alien way he expresses pain, high and raw and uninhibited. He stumbles back from the trench, one gloved hand clamped around his forearm near the elbow. The dirty white of the glove is already staining red.

  He flails into my arms, babbling in the clicking dialect of his people. 'He's hurt!' I shout, as if it wasn't obvious. The other prisoners crowd close, trying to see or to help. I look at the guard and the Overseer in supplication. You're the masters here. Will you aid your helpless subjects?

  It works. The guard wades in, suddenly aware of the need to assert his authority and impress the Overseer. I pass Feyn into the arms of another prisoner while the guard clears a way to assess the situation. In the confusion, it's easy to back up to the walkway and slip behind Arachi. He's watching the drama anxiously, presumably worried about how the accident will reflect on him. I wonder if he really understands that we're prisoners, and all headed for an unpleasant death anyway. He runs his little empire more like a factory than a forced labour camp.

  The pouch hangs from his belt. He hasn't tied it properly.

  The secret to picking a pocket is confidence. You have to be quick and light and sure. I've picked dozens of pockets and only twice been caught. My hand darts in and out of the pouch. The key is medium-sized, made of a sturdy metal and fashioned with an ornate grip. It disappears into my palm and I've moved away in moments. It's fascinating how much distraction can blind you.

  I shove my way back in the group. Someone is wrapping a bandage torn from Feyn's sleeve around his arm. 'Get him to a chirurgeon, this needs sewing!'

  'I'll take him!' I say, pushing through. 'Hoy! I'll take him. I know this boy.'

  They relent, happy to let me take responsibility. They've probably worked the salvage dump for a long time now, and they're glad to be rid of two clumsy amateurs.

  ~ Find the duty officer ~ the guard says in Gurtan. ~ He's over near the smelting pits ~ When I look at him blankly, the Overseer repeats it in tremulous Eskaran.

  I put Feyn's arm around my shoulder – we're about the same height – and start hauling him up the steps. He plays weak, in a swoon. Overseer Arachi steps back, faintly disgusted by the sight of blood.

  We go up the steps and along the walkway until we're out of sight of the Overseer. Then we slip between two enormous flanks of metal, part of a giant system of sediment pots. Now that we're hidden, Feyn drops the swooning act.

  'Are you alright?'

  'I will not fail.'

  'You cut yourself pretty deep.'

  'It is not easy to be exact.'

  There's nothing else to be said. Better be quick.

  Between us and the blacksmiths are a labyrinth of trenches, the alleys of the forge. We keep to them as much as we can, running with our heads low to avoid the guards. We stop, crouch and wait for them to pass by, dark ghosts in the fiery murk, backlit by the yellow-white glow of molten ore. Feyn's wound is our excuse if caught, but they'll send us back the way we came in search of the duty officer. No ruse is going to get us close to the blacksmiths and Charn; there's no reason for us to be there.

  We can't get across the forge without being seen, even given its size and the smoky atmosphere. Masked prisoners watch us with lensed eyes: the men who work in the most ext
reme heat, clad in flameproof hide. We run past another slurry trough like the one we work at, and a press that crushes metal into thin sheets with a deafening hiss. But the prisoners don't hinder us. Nobody here would report us to the guards, even if they suspected something was wrong. Hatred of the Gurta is the strongest common bond we have.

  The blood has soaked through Feyn's bandage and is running down his arm by the time we come into sight of the blacksmiths. It's hard to tell how much he's losing: it doesn't show well against his skin in this light. But I'm getting really concerned now. It was he who came up with the idea of wounding himself as a distraction, but I daren't think about how I'd feel if he died for my plan.

  So don't, I tell myself. Get on with it.

  The blacksmiths work on a raised platform, in the looming shadows of the gigantic forge equipment. There are four of them, Charn and three others, each with their own anvils and hammers and water troughs. It's a prison joke that the blacksmiths are elevated above the rest of us, but really it's so the guards can keep an eye on them. They know how easy it would be to 'lose' a dagger here and have it turn up in the hands of a prisoner later.

  There are two sentries posted, their pallid eyes sharp. I know them by name: Bal and Daquii. Bal is a quiet sort, mildly bullied by his peers; Daquii moans constantly.

  Charn is obviously nervous, not concentrating on his work. He's a liability; I wish I didn't need him.

  I pat Feyn on the shoulder to send him on his way, and he heads around to the other side of the platform. He clambers up onto a walkway while I sneak closer to Charn, keeping under cover as best I can. It's not easy; I'm exposed here. Then I hear Feyn yelling, crying for help. He's setting up a distraction using his wound, pretending he's just been hurt. The guards see him. Daquii hesitates, glancing at his charges; he's reluctant to leave the blacksmiths. But even a Gurta won't just leave a man to bleed to death.