by Claire Merle
I slide the cone-shaped eyeglass off the table, and hold one end to my eye and the other skywards. The glass magnifies the platforms above the food maze. Our position is ideal for viewing the caged children. As I adjust to one-eyed vision, a girl with sparkling gold and green irises, wearing a frilly dress, comes into focus. Her hands clasp a shiny purse. She stares forward, motionless. She is terribly young, three or four years from her eyes changing. My airway closes making it harder to breathe, a sensation intensified by the cooking smoke.
The girl has been dressed like some rich person's pet toy. Perhaps for a spoilt daughter to play with, until she is six or seven and can be used for more treacherous tasks or be resold. I bite my inner cheek, anger flooding back. When I spot the number five painted across Kel's new blue tunic, the crush in my throat leaves me choking. Suddenly, the eyeglass is being ripped from my hands. It disappears inside the bulk of Tug's furs.
“Draw any more attention to yourself,” he says, “and I'll lock you back in the room until this is over.”
I have attracted the gaze of a man sitting by a table three feet away. He appears neither old enough, nor wealthy enough to be a buyer, neither brute nor mercenary enough to be a bounty hunter. I catch his eye for less than a second, but it is long enough to worry he might have realized I am no boy. I twist away and grab a handful of nuts before Tug or Brin can stop me.
Making Tug suffer is not enough. He and Brin didn't snatch the three-year-old girl dressed like a doll. They aren't responsible for turning us into fugitives, for the hundreds of Uru Ana families hiding in the Sea of Trees, for the thousands more working in the tundra mines until they die of exhaustion. I will get my revenge on Tug, and I will kill the man that buys Kel if I have to, but every low-life scum who has sat in this dive, should know the fear of the children they trade here.
Pa's voice rings in my head. "Freedom consists not in doing what we like, but in having the courage to do what we ought." His answer when I once asked why he didn't resent Kel and me, or more importantly our mother who never told him about her Uru Ana blood until I was born, for taking so much away from him.
Pa’s answer had annoyed me and seemed evasive. But now his words seem apt. Someone ought to fight back, breed fear into the bounty hunters roaming the outland forests, attack the tundra mines. If the Uru Ana want freedom, they have to start thinking like they're free. Stop running and hiding.
Minutes pass, the attendant serving our table goes to and fro with folded pieces of cloth. From the conversations that ensue, it is apparent the two cloths Brin receives are offers for Kel. Tug is in no hurry to accept, but Brin is keen to do business and leave.
An image appears in the now-time, so clear it eclipses all the muddy snatches of memory swirling around the Pit and rouses me from my brooding.
A fire crackles in the hearth of a humble stone home. He crouches in front of it, furs wrapped around his linen shirt, warming himself. An old man sleeps on a thin mattress nearby. Beyond the window shutters, pale light skims the horizon.
He opens his fist to examine two gold rings. One, a signet ring with letters and symbols around the ruby center and symbols on the thick gold band, the other a hawk’s head embedded in emeralds. He tosses them in his palm as though considering their significance.
I sit up straight and squint sideways to see the owner of the memory. Surprise shakes off all sullen exhaustion. It is the young man who noticed me earlier. Except now he holds the eyeglass to his face, which gives me a chance to take in his appearance. Bushy eyebrows, a whiskery growth of beard, greasy hair cut to his shoulders. He is not watching the Uru Ana cages, but directs the magnifying lens into the crowded Pit, tracking a guard.
As though sensing me, he lowers the viewing glass. I turn away at once. But in the mind-world I reach for him and am plunged into a desolate landscape much like a vast forest ravaged by pest or fire. I startle and retreat.
His mind reminds me of my mother's when, six weeks before Kel's second birthday, we woke to find she did not know who we were. The memory loss is an effect of the ancient Carucan ceremony of rebirth sometimes performed before the hibernation. If enough mist berries are consumed right before the long-sleep, it is said the soul travels through the spirit-world to return cleansed of all that ails it.
In my mother's case, she didn't forget her music or her dancing, her friends, the home she grew up in, the picnics and lakes and swimming. She didn't forget meeting and falling in love with Pa. She only forgot Kel and me.
But this man seems to remember almost nothing of the nineteen or twenty years he lived before waking a fortnight ago. I have never seen such total obliteration of memory brought on by the spiritual cleansing.
My heartbeat speeds up in anticipation. The odd whiskery beard and greasy hair resemble a disguise. The rings are those of a nobleman. I make sure no one is paying me any attention and slip back into his mind.
He stands in a washroom, examining a deep wound across his chest. It is a scar like a scimitar knife or a new moon.
“It is ready,” a voice says. An elderly man with clouded eyes and long silver hair stands reflected in the washroom mirror. The young man lifts the linen shirt back onto his bony shoulder, concealing the scar. The two gold rings now hang on a leather cord around his neck.
“Are you sure I gave you no other details of the attack on my escort?” he asks.
“I joined you,” the old man answers, “only three weeks before the long-sleep, and we talked very little. You said the Kingdom believes you are dead in the attack, and it would be better if they continued to believe it. You spent most of your time with the Carucan priests in prayer, preparing for the ceremony of rebirth, and did not wish to speak of it further.”
Tug's pinching grip and his low growl bring me back to the Pit. “Are you sick, boy?” he sneers. “Do you need me to take you outside?”
I shake him off, feeling momentarily disorientated. My eyes dart to the young man. Prince! I remember how the King's officer had found the Prince's escort dead. The soldiers were searching for the missing Prince only three hours from here. Obviously, they did not imagine his royal highness could be in the Hybourg, mingling with the scum and maggots of the most depraved town in the kingdom. Which leads to the question, what is he looking for here?
A guard hands the Prince a sealed note. The Prince of Caruca opens it, his expression turning grim. Coin passes between the men. He folds the note and stands to leave.
“Yes, I'm sick,” I mutter. “I need fresh air.” Tug scrutinizes me. He knows I was desperate to come to the Pit and wouldn't leave Kel without an excellent reason.
“Fine,” he says, dragging me to my feet. Giant fingers press hard into my arm. He leans over and says something to Brin. Thrown by Tug's news we are leaving, Brin shifts on the metal seat and folds his arms. He is not happy. Mostly, I expect, because he does not like me being alone with Tug. He thinks I am casting spells over Tug’s mind.
Tug thrusts me forward through the crowded food stalls and we make our way to the exit. In the mind-world I follow the Prince, trailing the distinctive shape of his blighted memories.
Brin will not accept an offer without Tug's approval, and the guards will remember us, so we should be able to get back into the Pit.
As we move through the dingy, fetid tunnel, I make a silent promise. I have never cared for the Gods, but if crossing my path with the Prince of Caruca is their doing, I vow to them I will not waste this surprising opportunity.
Twelve
Outside, the stark midday light dazzles my vision. I pull the hood of my parka further over my head to shelter from the blistering wind and the eyes of hundreds of men. We slip around the crowds at the Pit entrance and stride across the square. Tug, with his knife in one hand and an arm around my waist, keeps pace. I move with purpose, afraid of losing the Prince's blighted mind among so many others. Once we enter quieter streets my task grows easier and I relax a little.
“I have found a buyer,” I say. Of course, I
cannot be certain the Prince was in the Pit searching for an Uru Ana, but it seems a fair guess considering he has lost all his memories and will need someone to help him distinguish friend from enemy. Someone attacked and killed his escort, which means they probably tried to kill him too. If he wishes to return to his prior existence as the Prince of Caruca, he will need some assurance that his life is not in immediate danger from his closest friends and associates.
“We already have three offers.”
“Two,” I correct. “And I did not mean for Kel.” Beast-face's gaze slides over me. “What is your highest offer for my brother?”
Tug licks his lips and the balance of his shoulders alters as he walks. “Ten Carucan gold,” he says. The faint memory of a cloth with the number seven written on it flutters in the mind-world.
“Seven,” I say. “Disappointing.”
“More than I can earn in a year.”
“Another lie.”
He yanks me to a stop and leers in my face. “You are not nearly as clever as you suppose.”
“And you are not nearly as stupid as you pretend,” I counter. My chin trembles, expecting a slap, but I do not look away.
“Who is this buyer?” he growls.
“The man the King's soldiers seek.”
His lip rises in an unamused half-smile. He is not happy I have managed to keep information from him.
“I can show you a man who will pay ten times for me what you will get for Kel. Even if the bidding reaches your precious ten Carucan gold. I will take you to this person and cooperate if you and Brin refuse all buyers for Kel and return him to our—”, I cut myself off just before I say parents, “—mother,” I finish.
Tug raises his knife and brushes the blade along my neck. Two passersby arc around to avoid us. The freezing outdoor temperature seems to drop another ten degrees.
“You know you cannot trust me, Mirra. Why try to bargain?”
My eyes water with the harsh wind but my will steels and strengthens. Tug was once a man people trusted. He had values and principles. I have seen smoky echoes of an honorable soldier. I need to smash the barricade and pull the past into the present.
“There must be someone you have loved. Someone you would do anything to protect. I've seen the way you look at Kel. You don't have to do this to him. When you sell me you will get what you want. You will be a rich man.”
Something sharp pricks my neck. I gasp and feel warm blood trickling down my skin where he holds his knife.
“Never,” he snarls, “make the mistake of thinking you can get inside my head.”
“Your life is pitiful and worthless! Why do you even bother?”
He draws the blade along, widening the cut. My heart hammers in my chest. I am terrified I have finally broken the stony facade of control and the consequence will be getting my throat slit. He pants hard as he stoops over me. I raise my watery eyes to his. I made a promise. To Kel, to myself, to the Gods. You will not overwhelm me, Beast-face.
Tug's gaze narrows, his breathing slows. He lowers the blade. “Keep following the buyer,” he orders, handing me a dirty rag of cloth. I hold it to my neck, which bleeds far more than it stings.
We leave the imposing omnipresence of the Pit behind us and enter a shabby quarter with crooked houses. Streets no wider than a horse and cart. Cobbled back-to-back homes block out the day. Dusk gathers in nooks and doorways.
Overhead, washing flutters on metal sticks from first floor windows. Long strips of cord, tied with twisting mirrors and beads of glass, flap from door beams and shutters. Beggars sit in dark alcoves with missing limbs and burnt faces. I flinch when one unexpectedly rises from a pile of black rock, a strange necklace of forest green glass and scraps of metal rattling on his chest.
Tug stops, retrieves a piece of gut string from his pocket and uses it to fix the rag staunching my bleeding. It would be foolish to refuse his help, but I do not enjoy accepting it.
“Why are the houses decorated with mirrors and colored glass?” ” I ask.
“Superstition is rife in the Hybourg and much of northern Caruca. The glass and mirrors are protection against your kind.”
I think of the night they snatched Kel. Brin wished to tie me to a tree and leave me behind, or sell me to the tundra camps. He tried to ward me off with a glass medallion. But not Tug. Tug told him to build a wall in his mind so I couldn't get into his head. Tug is intimately familiar with the Uru Ana. He is not afraid of us because he knows our capabilities and limits. He knows there is no magic to our extra sense, only the skill our own wit can conjure from what we discover about our adversary.
“There is Uru Ana blood in your family,” I guess.
A hood slides over his wolfish eyes. “I have not the patience to walk in circles,” he answers, “and with your brother about to be sold to our highest bidder, I'm surprised you think you have the time.”
“Brin will not sell Kel without you,” I say, doubt creeping into my voice.
“Why not?”
“You are the decision maker.”
“Well, perhaps I'd already decided.”
He is lying. He must be. If I have sabotaged my only chance of discovering Kel's buyer I will never forgive myself.
“Brin cannot walk out of the Pit alone with a heavy purse of gold. Too many will observe the exchange. It is too risky.”
“Beneath the pit lie a score of underground chambers, a warren of tunnels with more exits leading into the Hybourg than you could count. The transaction will take place in a secured location and Brin will have no problem slipping back into the city unseen.”
No! I will not lose Kel like this! My hands grow hot in my gloves. Rage bubbles in my chest. I spin to face Tug.
“Did you tell Brin to accept an offer?”
“I told you when we first met, forget you ever had a brother.”
“You might as well tell me to tear out my heart and eat it,” I spit, jabbing my elbow up into his nose. There is a small, satisfying crack, followed by a prick of flesh above my hipbone—Tug's knife blade reaching through my furs.
A brittle laugh escapes my lips. “You've just tried to slit my throat. Do you think I care about a little cut to the waist?”
He glares down at me, the bridge of his nose bleeding. A slight smile transforms his face. Not a sneer but a genuine smile, which grows as he sees my confusion.
“I only scratched your throat. Well, now you have vented your frustrations, tell me of your buyer. Who is the man the King's soldiers search for?”
Is this a game to him? Is it pain that brings Beast-face to life? I can no more manipulate him with words than a wolf or muskox. I thump down in the middle of the cobbled street, a dangerous and half-witted thing to do considering I am now wide open for a beating from his hard boots or passing thieves, but I don't care.
Tug kicks at me. “Get up.” I stare forward, unresponsive. He grabs the scruff of my parka, lifting me off the ground as though I am a puppy. I hang heavily, fur pressing hard into my neck. “Nothing a good dip in a well won't fix,” he mutters. He drops me and drags me across the cobbles. My teeth rattle in my skull. The bones in my back jerk and judder. I tense, and twist from his grip.
“Ah, alive, after all.” He sounds like he's enjoying himself.
“Without my cooperation, no one will believe I have the sight. You will get pittance for me. You might as well sell me with the other slave girls in the Pit.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Then we should get my dress,” I challenge.
Tug barks in what could be a laugh that seldom sees the day. I bristle at his mockery.
“Pride is your downfall,” I hiss. “You won't accept ten times the gold you could get yourself, because it isn't your idea. You want everything, but are prepared to give nothing. You'd rather lose and have it your way than swallow your pride.” The amusement in his eyes vanishes. He sinks his knife through my furs so it cuts my side. I yelp.
“I warned you of this, Mirra,” he says
, thrusting me forward. “You try anything with me, it is your brother who will pay the price.”
An image flickers in the shadows of the mind-world, distant, as though trapped in a bell glass.
A girl, sixteen or seventeen, stands haloed by the sun. It shines in her chestnut hair, and sparkles on the sky-blue lake beyond. Her emerald robe rustles in the breeze. Her skin is as smooth as almond butter, her heart-shaped face defiant.
“I begged you not to go!” she shouts, raising her skirts and striding towards him. “I begged you to let go of the wrongs done to us. You refused. You didn't even try. You were not fighting for me, Tye, you were fighting for your injured pride.” Bitterness flashes across her face. “I am sorry you cannot rejoice in my happiness,” she says coldly. “But I will marry him, whether you wish it, or not.”
The distorted memory segues into a fist fight. There is blood, shouting. Tug chases the memory down into the dungeons of his inner self. I glance at him. His eyes meet mine and despite everything, for a moment it's as though a veil lifts and we recognize something in each other.
There was his existence before this girl married another man. An existence where he was Tye, fighting for pride and justice. And there was who he became after. A man who gave himself a beast’s face, who drank to forget, who turned to violence and pain to fill his blackened heart. I was wrong. I can influence him. My words have unlocked what all my mental efforts to penetrate the fortress of his mind could not. I half-expect him to knock me out for the impertinent discovery.
Instead, he pulls me up, tips me towards the facade of a small inn and raises an eyebrow. It is the inn I sensed the Prince enter before I tried to break Tug's nose.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“We passed here two minutes ago and your step faltered then quickened.”
“We did not.”
“Through the alley,” he says, pointing his knife across the street. Beyond, lies a passage as narrow as a drain channel. It shafts onto a road running diagonal to where we stand—I had been taking Tug around a long way, intending to strike a deal before we reached our destination. I had not been aware of my own body giving me away.