by Patty Jansen
His eyes met Isandor’s in the light of a street lamp.
Isandor followed the stranger through the twisted streets of a quiet part of the Outer City. It looked like most people had gone to bed already or were hiding from the crowds inside the warmth of their limpets.
In an alley, away from the main streets, was an eating house, recognisable only by a small sign on the door of a limpet larger and with less steep sides than the surrounding ones. Tandor went in first.
Inside the circular room, most tables surrounding the stove were occupied by a selection of the best middle class citizens from the Outer City, men and women in middle age, dressed well and wearing jewellery—a far cry from the rowdy melteries. The cook was stirring a large pot and a kitchen hand was kneading dough.
Tandor went to one of the few empty tables. Isandor sat opposite him. Already, the warmth made him drowsy. It was even hotter than in the meltery. Couldn’t they open a vent?
A waiter came to them.
“Bring some soup and bread for two,” Tandor said.
“I’m not hungry,” Isandor said. The bloodwine sat heavy in his stomach.
“I am,” Tandor said. “And you should be, too. Adolescent boys are always hungry.”
Isandor shrugged. Not when they’re drunk. But he wasn’t sure if he was still drunk.
The waiter left and they sat amongst the quiet murmur of the customers. Snatches of conversation drifted past, mostly about the Newlight festival and its various circus shows. Firelight gleamed in Tandor’s tattoos. From this angle, he looked older than he had appeared at first. Isandor guessed him to be about fifty. His hair was glossy and black, his eyes . . . he couldn’t look away from them.
They had that elusive hue citizens of the City of Glass called royal blue. He knew only one person with eyes like that; he looked at him from the mirror above the sink in the dormitory bathroom every morning.
“Are you my father?”
Tandor lunged across the table. The pincher-claw grabbed the collar of Isandor’s shirt so tight that he could barely breathe. Isandor uttered a strangled, “Hey!”
Up close, the gold tattoos on Tandor’s face looked frightening. Come to think of it, why did he have that sign of nobility? Certainly, nobles wouldn’t pay for Imperfect children?
Tandor let a tense silence lapse, in which all Isandor heard was the roaring of blood in his ears. Diners on surrounding tables had stopped talking and stared at him.
“Let me go if you don’t want the people to notice us,” he whispered in a croaky voice.
Tandor blew out a breath. He relaxed and let go of Isandor’s collar, his gaze still boring into Isandor’s.
Isandor inhaled; the smoke-tinged air stroked his lungs. What, just what, was he getting himself involved in?
“All right, since you don’t know me, I will tell you, once, and once only. Moreover, you will never speak of this.”
Isandor nodded, nervously, tucking his tunic back into his waistband, too conscious of the glances at him. He was still in his uniform, by the skylights, and he should do something. This man could not attack a Knight without repercussion.
Tandor leaned on his elbows on the table. “My mother had the courage of a bear pup. When I was born Imperfect, rather than give me up, she ran away to the northern lands where she had heard people do not mind Imperfects. In time, she found a family, and married a travelling merchant and lived in comfort. The merchant collected old books, and as a boy, I became interested in them. I read that Imperfects are special people who have the power to shape icefire, and that they need to be in the vicinity of the City of Glass to use it. So I wanted to use that ability, didn’t I? I was young, I was curious and I didn’t get along with my stepfather, so I came to the white lands of the south.”
He gave a hollow laugh. “Sounds simple, huh? What did I know about the southern laws and the Eagle Knights? I was a boy, just like you are now. I came to the City of Glass at the height of the tension over the raids on Chevakian border regions. I was both of southern stock and living in Chevakia and a prime suspect for being a spy. I was captured by the Queen’s guards. They saw I was Imperfect, and judged me to be a king’s supporter and too old to be abandoned on the ice floes—I might find my way back and come to haunt them—so the Queen ordered that I be changed so I could never father an Imperfect child.”
It took Isandor a heartbeat to figure what Tandor meant, but then he realised. Ouch. He winced. “I’m sorry.”
“If you don’t want to attract my wrath, don’t be. But no, I cannot be your father.”
Isandor repressed the urge to shove his hand down his pants to check on his private parts, which felt larger-than-life and throbbing.
“And . . . are you? A king’s supporter? A Thillei?” He had heard of such things whispered in the melteries, of people who said that the king should return. It was said that the Brotherhood of the Light organised meetings for these people.
A serving girl turned up with a tray containing two bowls of soup and a basket of fresh bread. Isandor found that Tandor had been right: he was enormously hungry.
He attacked the bread, dunking pieces in the bowl. The bread came away dripping with fat, which ran down his fingers as he stuffed the pieces in his mouth. Taste exploded on his tongue. Just like his mother used to make it.
Tandor put his spoon down and broke a piece off his bread. “There is one thing you need to understand. The Thillei are a clan much bigger than only the royal family. You cannot become one. You are one at birth. And you, boy . . . enough Thillei blood runs through your veins to make your eyes turn blue. There are few of us left. You, me and a handful of others. If it wasn’t for me, there would have been none.”
Isandor had suspected this, but hearing it spoken out loud made his skin crawl. He ripped a piece off a roll and mopped his bowl with it, disguising unease. Then another thought came to him.
“Then . . . when I was born . . . you paid for my mother to look after me?”
“Yes.”
“Why, if you’re not my father?”
Tandor gave him an intense look. “Don’t you want to know who your real mother is?”
“Why should I? She wanted to kill me.”
“How can you be so sure of that? Couldn’t it be that someone else wanted to kill you, and she had no power to protect you, and gave you to me to bring to safety?”
Isandor scratched his head. He was beginning to feel sleepy from the bloodwine, and Tandor’s stories were so confusing. Why should he care? Children in the City of Glass never grew up with the women who had given birth to them. They were breeders, like his mother.
“What do you want from me?”
Tandor shook his head, his expression sad.
“It is not about what I want or what anyone else wants. This is much bigger than the wants of individual people. It is about making the City of Glass great again, and about stopping the slaughter of children.”
He hesitated. “I know this may not sound important to you, but I see in you myself when I was your age. I didn’t know what to do with my gift. I was scared. I have found out how to deal with icefire the hard way. There is no need for you to do the same.”
“You want me to be a sorcerer’s apprentice?”
Tandor breathed out heavily through his nose. “Sorcery? I wouldn’t use that despicable word, but that’s obviously what the Knights have told you to think. Tell me this, though: do you think there is a good reason you should be punished if you were discovered?”
“I . . . can use icefire. I’m Imperfect. There are laws that forbid—”
“Is there anything that punishment could stop you doing, if you wanted?”
Isandor shrugged. “It’s not as if I could help being Imperfect.”
“Exactly. You can’t help being what you are, but they will punish you anyway. Is that the way you want to live? I want to see you out of this slum. I want to see you soaring in the sky. You, and all other Imperfects. We need to save them, and I’m going t
o need your help for that. As . . . Knight, you would be perfectly placed to do that. Give me the word and I will teach you about icefire.”
And then Isandor saw what Tandor wanted: to single-handedly change the Knights’ view on Imperfects, to become a spy, or an agent. Did Tandor really think he was as stupid as all that? He respected the Knights, most of them at least. They were harsh but fair. He was determined not to let his wooden leg be a problem. No one needed to know. But on the other hand . . . if they found out, he would have to leave the Knights.
Damn this man. He was caught now. He couldn’t refuse Tandor’s offer or tell the Knights about him, or Tandor would tell the Knights.
He licked his lips. “What would you want me to do?”
A smile ghosted over Tandor’s face. “A few days ago, the Knights discovered my safe sanctuary where I had hidden the Imperfects I rescued, mostly from the ice floes as babies, though some were older. Children who are now young people your age. The Knights broke into the sanctuary, flushed out all the Imperfects and took them away. As far as I know, they were taken to the palace bunkers, and we need to free them, if they’re still alive.”
“And you want me to do that. By myself.” Isandor chuckled. “Do you know how many Knights there are at the eyrie? Do you know how many guards there are on the entrance to the prisons, if that’s where those children are? How do you think I could even get into the prisons? I’m only an Apprentice—”
“I could provide you with a good illusion that would make you look like someone who could get into the dungeons. All you have to do is maintain it. That should be easy after I’ve trained you.”
“Deliberately use icefire? Under the Senior Knights’ noses?” Isandor found it hard not to laugh. This was getting ever more ridiculous.
“Then what are you doing with your leg? What were you doing back there in the meltery?”
“That was—”
“Icefire, strong and clear. You used it to scare that bully.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No, I know. That is where the problem lies, I’ve been trying to make it clear to you. You’ve been doing it and you have no control over it. One day, you will be found out. Or someone will betray you, like that halfwit friend of yours.”
“Carro? He would never betray me.” But a twinge of discomfort tugged at him. Carro had said such strange things recently.
“In the end, it comes down to a simple thing: children are killed and harmed because they were born with strong Thillei blood. You have the chance to help me save some of them. Will you do it?”
“If I help you, I will be cast from the Knights.”
“You don’t belong there anyway.”
“Who are you to say where I do and don’t belong?”
“You don’t get the opportunity I’m offering, don’t you? If you help me, I will give you real power.” That last bit was almost a whisper.
Real power, like the old king, who had murdered thousands of people.
That was enough. Isandor strained his muscles to get up. “I’m going. I’m sorry, but I can’t do what you want.” He tried to sound angry, but he thought he sounded scared more than anything. “I’m an Eagle Knight and I will abide by their laws. The Knights serve the Queen with honour. They wouldn’t do anything without her approval.”
“Stop your naive daydreaming. Do you know how much power one fifteen-year-old girl has over an age-old institute of men?”
Isandor shivered uncomfortably, remembering the thin figure of a young girl standing alone before a coffin. So lonely, so small. Jevaithi.
“Do you see that I’m right?” Tandor said.
“I don’t see anything except that you’re telling me stories so I will come with you. I don’t know what you want, but I don’t like it. Find someone else to bother.”
Isandor rose from the table, catching glances of fellow patrons.
“Good night, Tandor.”
He turned and walked back to the door. He expected a shout, but none came. He opened the door and let himself into the cold night.
When he looked over his shoulder, Tandor was still sitting at the table.
Chapter 12
* * *
THE FOOTSTEPS of his hard-heeled riding boots echoing against stone walls, Carro strode through the corridor. His cloak flapped behind him. His riding harness creaked. Polished, clean, his hair slicked and bound by a leather thong, he’d done his best to make himself presentable, as if any amount of cleaning could chase away the ominous feeling that had become infinitely more ominous since his return to the eyrie.
When the Tutor had said the high command wants to see you, Carro had expected to deal with the Senior Knight who dealt with Apprentices.
Instead, the Knight at the entrance to the command centre had informed him that he was to see Supreme Rider Cornatan himself. Carro hadn’t dared to ask why.
His face tingled with cold from the flight back to the eyrie and the air in the corridor did nothing to dispel it. Here, in the lower levels of the eyrie, warmth was as sparse as furniture.
Eagle Knights lived hard, simple lives. There was some aspect in that he liked. He had never felt comfortable with his father’s opulence or his sister’s obsession with clothes and hair ribbons.
Obedience, Honour, Honesty, Humility and Silence. He mumbled the Knights’ mantra silently, as if to remind himself of the meaning of those words.
He had violated several of them in fighting with Jono. The Knights lived for punishing each other. There was a certain humility, obedience and silence in being fucked in the arse, but honour and honesty?
It hurt, that was all he knew, on more levels than one.
Yet, if he ever wanted to be someone in the eyrie, he’d have to endure it. This was what older Knights did to younger ones. Fit in, shut up and don’t show your weaker side.
He failed on all three accounts.
* * *
Carro stands in his father’s room. His father has the account books open on his desk. Long lines of figures stretch across two pages.
“Do you think I’ve calculated this right, Carro?”
Carro hesitates.
“Well? You tell me. You are so learned.” There is mockery in his father’s voice.
“I’d need to figure out the numbers. I need time.”
“You need time. Ha, that’s right. You have so many books, and you still need time to work out a calculation.”
He laughs. He doesn’t need to say that he thinks the books are a waste of Carro’s time. Carro has heard it all before.
The books tell him that in the days of the old king, people had machines that could work out sums, but telling his father that would make him sound cocky. Some things are not worth the punishment.
* * *
Carro stopped, counting the doors he had passed since coming down the stairs.
Two, three, four, five. That’s what the guard said: the fifth door. This one had to be it. Just a solid door, no different from the previous one, or the next one.
He knocked and waited, glancing left and right into the featureless corridor.
Strange, he’d have expected guards. The Tutor responsible for Apprentice Knights had guards outside his quarters. So why didn’t the Supreme Rider have any?
Before Carro could knock, the door clicked and opened. A dark room yawned beyond, polished stone bathed in emerald light.
No one met him in the door opening, and no one spoke, so Carro stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness.
A stone chair stood in the middle of the room like a throne on a dais of black marble several steps high and with corners that looked sharp enough to slice skin. There was no other furniture.
A voice said, “Sit down.”
Except there was nowhere to sit. The room was square, and entirely made out of black marble of the kind found in the mountains. The walls, too, were smooth, reflecting the soft green light.
The voice said again, “Sit down.”
; On the throne.
It seemed obvious. It was some kind of interrogation chair. Maybe the chair would get hot, like the chairs he heard they had in Chevakia. That would be his punishment. Pain and suffering. Rider Cornatan wouldn’t even have to set eyes on him.
* * *
The tutor stands at the window, reduced to a silhouette against the low sun. The man’s shadow falls over Carro’s workbook, obscuring the print. He squints against the page, trying to read.