by Claire Merle
“How are things looking?” Tug asks.
“They're being very cagey about who they're letting in and out. Rumors about the King's soldiers has got everyone on edge.”
“Not good for business.”
Brin glances at me before he speaks again. “Maybe we should wait a couple of days.”
“No. Every day increases the risks.”
The tension in Brin's arms and fists relaxes. He is glad Tug has refused to wait. He wishes to be rid of me as soon as possible.
“Let's get the boy ready,” Tug says. Brin unknots the rope at Kel's feet, lifts him up and carries him to the washroom. Tug strides over to the window. It is high up in the wall and despite the cross slats angled to cut down the wind, a chill breeze leaks through when he opens the shutter. Droplets of water cool on his bare back, but he doesn't notice the cold.
“I've decided to take you with us to the Pit,” he says, watching the street below. “You will be another set of eyes that can see what men wish to hide. Try anything again and I'll kill you. Or him,” he adds. “Both of you. No matter how much coin it costs me.”
I nod even though he isn't looking. Thank the heavens! I dig my fingers into my palm and force my breathing to remain calm. I will see the low-life who buys Kel, travel through his mind and discover where he is from and what he intends with my brother's skill. And when Tug's purse is full from my own sale and he is thankful to see the back of me, I will escape and do what I am good at. I will track and hunt. Only not with beasts of the forest, but with the man who thinks he owns my brother.
Nine
By day the streets of the Hybourg are grim and depressing and seem only mildly less dangerous than the previous night. Watery sunlight struggles through the knitted roofs of houses built so close together, the residents have hung washing lines from windows on one side of the street to the other. Though it has not yet warmed above water freezing temperatures, the snow has long gone from the dirty walkways, pushed into enormous piles. The Pit looms in the distance, a black mountain with its head chopped off.
Tug holds tight to the top of my arm. His other hand rests over the knife sheath on his belt. Brin and Kel walk ahead, Kel dressed in deerskin trousers, a dark blue tunic and a cloak with the hood pulled well over his downturned head. So far, we have attracted no untoward attention.
We pass an open square where manacled men and women with bony, mud-streaked faces build a wall from a mountain of cut black rock. A covered water well stands in the middle of the square. A wooden pen holds a dozen wild fowl with red jowls and bright blue feathers. I have seen this bird in my mother's memories. They're popular for their eggs and meat, though they look too skinny to bother choking.
Apart from those chained, there are no women on the street. I go unnoticed because Tug did not make me change from my sturdy boots, trousers and parka. Still, I pull my hood further over my forehead and I'm grateful that our captors are not stupid enough to make me wear the dress in public.
We are now so close to the Pit I have to tilt back my head to the gray sky to see the top of it. From this distance, slit windows high in the framework have become visible, like small scars or pointy teeth. Unlike the Hybourg houses and inns cobbled from the black rock, the Pit walls are not decorated with broken colored glass and reflective metals. The rock is smooth and appears seamless.
Before we turn the corner, I sense the storm up ahead. Hundreds of men choke up the mind-world. The scraps of memory create muddy, swirling layers upon layers. Inwardly, I shrink from the mayhem. Kel, who up until five days ago had never met a living soul other than our family, must be horrified.
A dark, arched tunnel where men swarm, distinguishes the Pit entrance. I count eight guards patrolling the crowds, marked by the strange metal bands laced up their bare arms, the black armour, the metal around their necks and their size. Each one of them is huge, as though they've crossed species with giants. Not the sort of men even Tug could scrap with and walk away from uninjured.
The crowd ebbs and sways with a tidal push as the swell grows on one side, then builds from the other. Even the men with slave women and children struggle to reach the guards and get inside. Men carry crystal and stone wares around their necks, crates of goods they wish to trade, animals in cages. Tug and I, tight against Brin and Kel, surf forward on a wave of movement. Once we are deep in the throng there is a lull, and we are hemmed in with nowhere to go.
Brin elbows left and right, forcing tiny gaps. We weave one way, then the other, getting no closer to the tunnel. A pulse of energy in the mind-world hooks my attention. Not the Hybourg's usual, ominous violence, but something I sense is connected to Kel. Someone has taken an interest in him.
Tug keeps elbowing left. I scan faces, searching for someone who doesn't fit the crowd. Small spaces open, drawing us towards a man who does not argue with his neighbour, who is not carrying goods, or pushing and shoving. And there is another like him further clockwise, waiting patiently. I shudder, realising we have been guided into a wide circle of men that do not observe one another, but their shaved heads and a square tattoo above the ear unites them.
Brin thrusts forward as a crack appears in the crowd, pulling us closer to the heart of the gang. I grasp his arm. He jerks, eyes flicking to me with repulsion. But he understands at once I have discerned something. Tug scrupulously studies the crowd.
“South-east,” I call to him over the rumble of men jeering, laughing, holding up their wares and shouting at the guards what they have to sell. Tug's gaze swoops over the gang. He nods at Brin and we retreat in the other direction towards a weak link in their circle.
There is a flurry of movement. Four men, like arrows from a multi-crossbow, shaft towards us, ploughing down anyone in their way. Brin yanks Kel behind him. Tug dives to his side. I draw my brother close and pull him to the ground. Realising I am not breathing, I force myself to suck in air.
Tug and Brin swivel their knives, taking up fighting stances. A slim man to my left with a long, whiskery beard holds a chinking crate. His occupied arms leave the knife on his belt clear for the taking. The blade is possibly frozen in the pouch because of the cold. The wooden knife handle looks battered and old. I glance at the two gang members Tug and Brin cannot see—the ones heading us off from behind. Neither pays me the slightest attention.
I grab the rusty knife. The whiskery man doesn't even notice as I take it from his belt. He is too busy trying to back away and save whatever he is carrying.
There is a loud shout. The four men in front besiege Tug and Brin. They begin fighting close quarters. One of the gang falls to his knees bleeding. Those nearby start pushing out, clearing a ring around the fight, but Kel and I are still penned in from behind.
My stomach heaves, and no amount of deep breathing can calm the pounding in my chest. Eyes glued to the fight, I automatically estimate the weight of the blade I have stolen. I may detest my captors, but naivety is not possible when you have the sight. There are worse fates than Beast-face and Fishnet-head. This gang is one of those.
Brin punches and parries the blows of a skilled adversary. The two others, recognising Tug's strength, prise him away from Brin's side. Knives slash at Tug's shoulders, thrust towards his legs. Tug's defence is unassailable, but he has no time to strike back.
On one side of the crowd, two more gang members close in. On the other, three guards, a head taller than everyone, plunge forward. Men scatter around them. But they have a fifteen-feet wall to get through before they reach us, and while the crowd tries to keep their distance, excitement over the fight means people further behind are shoving forward for a better look.
I search for an opening, an escape. But if we tried tunnelling through the crowd, Kel would get crushed, possibly knocked to the floor. I am too small to hold the surging masses off him. And if anyone saw his eyes, we would be stampeded.
Shouts of encouragement fill the air. One man hollers numbers. I think he is taking bets on who will win or die. The nippiest of Tug's assa
ilants retreats as the two newest comers join the fight. Tug seizes the opportunity to attack. But it's a mistake. A set-up. As he head-butts one man and elbows the other in the throat, the nippiest gang member uses the distraction, to leap in for a fatal strike.
Me. Gang man. Tug. If the gang takes Kel, it's over.
My mind empties. I breathe in, zoning out the shouts of the crowd. Exhaling, I flex my wrist and flip the knife. A gesture I've made a hundred thousand times. A gesture more natural to me than laughter.
The rusty blade spins once through the air. A fraction of a second before the man plunges his knife into Tug, my rusty blade catches his shoulder. He cries out, losing the force of his strike. As his blade jabs into Tug, Tug leaps back. The knife slashes Tug’s furs, but gets no purchase between his ribs.
The man I've struck turns furiously, searching for the knife thrower. Tug executes the fastest punch I've ever seen, and his assailant falls to the ground unconscious.
As the guards reach us, the remaining gang members back away. I pull Kel beneath me. The one who has knocked down Brin, slithers into a sea of people. Three men sprawl at Tug's feet, winded and struggling for breath. I've lost sight of the other two.
“What's the reason for this?” a guard enquires. I am sheltering Kel with my arm, but I can't hide him altogether. The guard yanks him up. Kel raises his eyes, fear and shock in his blue and golden irises. People see. A whisper faster than the wind blows across the crowd. “Better bring him through then. Before there are any more accidents.”
Tug helps Brin to his feet. The three guards surround us, one on each side, one behind. As we are wrangled forward, Tug raises the hem of his fur to inspect his side. There's a line of blood dripping like a claw scratch. As I raise my eyes from the wound, he looks at me. There is something new in his expression, but only the Gods know what he is thinking, because I don't understand Beast-face’s emotions. Nor do I want to.
We enter a dank, putrid-smelling tunnel. It stinks of sweat, dirt and animal dung. It stinks of fear, depravity and the end.
Ten
High up in the enormous bazaar, daylight shards through slit windows, like swords vanishing into a pool of blackness. Low in the Pit, the only light comes from fire lamps embedded in the deep walls and men carrying torches. A cloudy gloom hangs across the indoor market. Men bargain and haggle over the goods they sell from portable stalls or from their own persons. But the real attraction is in the center of the arena. Raised on great platforms as far back as the eye can see, sit rows of wooden cages.
I hold Kel's hand, both of us stunned. Tug and Brin press against us, one on either side. The escorting guards follow behind. The nearer cages contain wolves, wolverines, falcons, and eagles. As we progress further into the murk I see animals I don't recognize. Beasts with scaly skin, creatures that appear familiar, like deer, but their coats are striped and tinged blue.
A screeching cry pierces the arena. For the space of a single breath, the Pit falls silent to listen. Kel's hand becomes bone-cracking tight around my own. A flap of enormous wings beats in the sudden hush. Twenty feet away, a magnificent creature rises to the air. It shrieks again, wings pounding, cries echoing off the high black walls. It launches into the top of its huge prison, bashing the wooden bars. A heavy chain clangs around its webbed foot. Its mind comes to me in wild, enraged flashes of madness. It knows it cannot escape, yet it tries over and over, refusing to be tamed. Refusing to give up.
I have never seen a velaraptor, but my father told me stories of their existence in the glacial mountains. Almost impossible to catch. Carucans believe they are mystical creatures, with magical powers. Its wingspan is over six feet, the limbs featherless, muscular. Its enormous beak and wide lizard eyes give the impression of a bird crossed with a reptile.
Movement snaps my attention back to the remaining cages. The next forty feet of the Pit contain slave men, women, boys and girls. Lots of girls. Young, dishevelled, bruised figures, with dead eyes. The bargaining over them is ferocious and turnover quick, with two girls and one boy being paid for while we pass. Slaves are against the law in Caruca, but it is a law Pa says no one enforces. The vast majority of people wealthy enough to keep slaves have them.
Every part of my body screams to get Kel out of there. I should not have saved Tug from the knife of that gang member. A hard blade between the ribs would have resulted in a slow and painful death. A death Beast-face deserves. A death I fantasize about offering him myself.
Our group stops. For a second I'm confused. There are no more cages. The guards direct us down a dark passage leading into the Pit walls.
“Take the boy to the top of the stairs and wait,” one of them says. They hang back as we advance. Around the corner lies a flight of open metal stairs. Kel's legs knock together so Brin lifts him and carries him up. From the first stair, I turn to Tug. Blood seeps through his shirt, but he does not try to staunch it. Almost level with his eyes, I glare at him.
“One day,” I say, disgust, fear and outrage seeping through my trembling voice, “far from now, I will make you suffer. You think it is no longer possible. But I will find a way.”
He stares at me without a single emotion. He knows I saved him with that peasant's rusty knife, but shows neither surprise nor gratitude. He understands it was an act of immediate necessity. “Revenge is a fool's dish,” he says, a large hand clamping down on my arm, pushing me around, and up the stairs.
At the top of the stairwell, Brin and Kel wait in front of a cage door that gives access to a web of interlocking metal bridges, platforms and individual enclosures. Billows of drifting smoke rise from the Pit below, shrouding the cages in cloaks of gray. Fingers of daylight reach in from the high slit windows and bleed through the murk so it is just possible to fathom this horrific world. Most of the suspended cages are empty. But a handful of shadow children with sparkling eyes crouch in the darkness.
A guard accompanied by a small, shuffling man, clangs across the intricate weave of bridges. I kneel and pull Kel to me so I am blocking the door from his sight.
“Listen to me, Kel,” I say, holding tight to both his arms. My heartbeat thrums so hard my chest hurts. “Whatever happens, don't give up. I will find you. I'm going to find you.”
A faint smell of urine tells me Kel has wet himself. His face is slack with shock. I'm not sure he can even hear my words, let alone believe them.
“Kel, promise me. Promise me you won't give up.” I cup my hands around his cheeks. His eyes lift to mine. “That's it. You're strong, Kel. You are strong like Pa. You are Uru Ana and I will find you. No matter how long it takes. No matter how long it takes. You hear me?”
“How?” he whispers, his bottom lip trembling. “How?”
“I don't know. But Ma and Pa are out there waiting for us to return. They will never stop waiting for you.”
“What if they take the mist berries and forget?”
“Pa's never taken the mist berries. He’s never forgotten anything. He will never forget you. And neither will I. ”
“Mirra, don't let them take me.” My brother's long wet lashes blink in panic. I'm afraid I will fall apart right there in front of him.
“I love you,” I say again and again. He hugs me so tight, I stop breathing. His little arms cling to my neck. His face pushes into my hair, the tip of his nose cold and wet against my skin. Tears spill from my eyes. I brush them aside.
Keys rattle in the barred door. I catch the guard's wary expression. The small man's beady eyes watch me with interest. I imagine stolen glitter-eyed children don't hug their captors goodbye. Tug leans in close.
“That's enough.” There's warning in his voice. To all appearances, Kel and I do not look related, but if the guard or the clerk starts asking questions, Tug may force me to leave the Pit, and I will not see the man who buys Kel. Then how will I track him?
I prise off Kel's arms. “Let go now,” I whisper to him. “You have to let go.”
“Please don’t leave me, Mirra. Please.”<
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“You have to let go.” I unclasp one little arm and at once, Tug has Kel in his grip and is lifting him and handing him over to the guard. I force myself to watch, in case my brother needs to see me standing strong. Not hopeless, not despairing. But as the huge guard carries him across eighteen-foot-high metal platforms towards the cages, Kel doesn't look back. It cuts like a knife to my heart.
The scrawny man with the beady eyes produces a book of string bound pages. He scratches words with a feather nib, gets Tug and Brin to sign something and then produces a metal bracelet. Tug gestures that Brin will wear the bracelet. It is locked onto Brin's wrist with a key from around the man's neck. The man hands Brin a metal disc and then Tug is pushing me back down the stairs.
Eleven
My feet shuffle after Tug into a labyrinth of food stands behind the regular slave cages. Men fry meat dishes in breadcrumbs and brown powder. Sellers move around with nuts, teas, and berries. I wander blindly, the spicy smells making me nauseous. I have abandoned him. He didn't turn around because he no longer counts on me. He's stopped believing I can save him.
We climb steps and clang across a metal walkway. I glance at the smoke roiling above us, glimpse the network of cages suspended overhead. Tug pushes me into a chair and sits down beside me.
A man arrives with a tray of mint tea, pine nuts and a long, cone-shaped object. He places a cloth beside Brin. In red on the cream linen, as though written in blood, is the number five. I stare at it. For a second, I cannot rip through the emotional haze to grasp its meaning.
Tug's look brings me back from the numbness. I clench my teeth, and take in where we are seated. The eating house is made of metal barriers and arched walkways, reminiscent of a mammoth monster skeleton. Bounty hunters with greedy faces and satisfied sneers guzzle the offerings laid on their tables while they wait. Wealthy men in bear furs press cone-shaped objects to their starward-gazing eyes.