by Ian Irvine
But his second shillilar had said the Scribe was in danger; Wil had to read his story. He glanced through the doorway. Ady’s old head was bent over her engraving but she would soon remember and order him back to work.
Shaking all over, Wil took a step towards the marble table, and the ache in his eyes came howling back. He closed his worst eye, the left, and when the throbbing eased he took another step. For the only time in his life, he did feel special. He slid a foot forwards, then another. Each movement sent a spear through his temples but he would have endured a lifetime of pain for one page of the story.
Finally he was standing over the book. From straight on, the etched writing was thickly crimson and ebbed in and out of focus. He sounded out the letters of the title.
The Consolation of Vengeance.
‘Vengeance?’ Wil breathed. But whose? The Scribe’s?
Even a nobody like himself could tell that this book was going to turn their world upside-down. The other Solaces set out stories about living underground: growing crops and farming fish, healing, teaching, mining, smything, chymie, arts and crafts, order and disorder, defence. They described an existence that allowed no dissent and had scarcely changed in centuries.
But their enemy did not live underground – they occupied the Cythonians’ ancestral land of Cythe, which they called Hightspall. To exact vengeance, Cython’s armies would have to venture up to the surface, and even an awkward, cross-eyed youth could dream of marching with them.
Wil knew not to touch the Solaces. He had been warned a hundred times, but, oh, the temptation to be first was irresistible. The book was perfection itself; he could have contemplated it for hours. He bent over it, pressing his lips to the cover. The iron was only blood-warm, yet his tears fizzed and steamed as they fell on the rough metal. He wanted to bawl. Wanted to slip the book inside his shirt, hug it to his skin and never let it go.
He shook off the fantasy. He was lowly Wil the Sump and he only had a minute. His trembling hand took hold of the cover. It was heavy, and as he heaved it open it shed scabrous grey flakes onto the white table.
The writing on the iron pages was the same sluggishly oozing crimson as on the cover, but his straining eye could not bring it into focus. Was it protected, like the other Solaces, against unauthorised use? On Metallix had to be heated to the right temperature before it could be read, while each completed chapter of On Catalyz required the light of a different chymical flame.
A mud-brain like himself would never decipher the protection. Frustrated, Wil flapped the front cover and a jagged edge tore his forefinger.
‘Ow!’ He shook his hand.
Half a dozen spots of blood spattered across the first page, where they set like flakes of rust. Then, as he stared, the glyphs snapped into words he could read. Such perfect calligraphy! It was the greatest book of all. Wil read the first page and his eyes did not hurt at all. He turned the page, flicked blood onto the book and read on.
‘I can see.’ His voice soared out of his small, skinny body, to freedom. ‘I can see.’
Ady let out a hoarse cry. ‘Wil, get out of there.’
He heard her shuffling across to the basalt door but Wil did not move. Though the crimson letters brightened until they hurt his eyes, he had to keep reading. ‘Ady, it’s a new book.’
‘What does it say?’ she panted from the doorway.
‘We’re leaving Cython.’ He put his nose on the page, inhaling the tantalising odour he could not get enough of. It was ecstasy. He turned the page. The rest of the book was blank, yet that did not matter – in his inner eye the future was unrolling all by itself. ‘It’s a new story,’ Wil whispered. ‘The story of tomorrow.’
‘Are you in shillilar?’ Her voice was desperate with longing. ‘Where are the Solaces taking us? Are we finally going home?’
‘We’re going –’ In an instant the world turned crimson. ‘It’s the one!’ Wil gasped, horror overwhelming him. ‘Stop her.’
Ady stumbled across and took him by the arm. ‘What are you seeing? Is it about me?’
Wil let out a cracked laugh. ‘She’s changing the story – bringing the Scribe to the brink –’
‘Who are you seeing?’ cried Ady. ‘Speak, lad!’
How could the one change the story written by the Scribe Wil worshipped? Surely she couldn’t, unless … unless the Scribe was fallible. No! That could not be. But if the one was going to challenge him, she must have free will. It was a shocking, heretical thought. Could the one be as worthy as the Scribe? Ah, what a story their contest would make. And the story was everything – he had to see how it ended.
Ady struck him so hard that his head went sideways. ‘Answer me!’
‘It’s … it’s the one.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, boy. What one?’
‘A Pale slave, but –’
‘A slave is changing our future?’ Ady choked. ‘Who?’
‘A girl.’ Wil tore his gaze away from the book for a second and gasped, ‘She’s still a child.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘I … don’t know.’
Wild-eyed and frantic, Ady shook him. ‘When does this happen?’
‘Not for years and years.’
‘When, boy? How long have we got to find her?’
Wil turned back to the last written page, tore open his finger on the rough edge and dribbled blood across the page. The story was terrible but he had to know who won. ‘Until … until she comes of age –’
‘What are we to do?’ said Ady, and he heard her hobbling around the table. ‘We don’t know how to contact the Scribe. We must obey The Consolation of Vengeance.’
The letters brightened until his eyes began to sting, to steam. Wil began to scream, but even as his vision blurred and his eyes bubbled and boiled into jelly that oozed out of his sockets, he could not tear his gaze away. He had longed to be special, and now he was.
She tottered back to him, wiped his face, and he heard her weeping. ‘Why didn’t you listen to me?’
He took another sniff and the pain was gone. ‘Stupid old woman,’ sneered Wil. ‘Wil can see so much more clearly now. Wil free!’
‘Wil, what does she look like?’
‘She Pale. She the one.’
‘Tell me!’ she cried, shaking him. ‘How am I to find this slave child among eighty-five thousand Pale –and see her dead.’
TWO
Whenever Mama wasn’t watching, the huge man that Tali called Tinyhead poked his white tongue out at her. Black spots on it were like crawling blowflies and Tali had to turn away before she sicked up her breakfast.
She did not like Tinyhead, but he was helping them to escape. In a thousand years, no Pale had ever escaped from Cython, and Mama had tears in her eyes whenever she talked about going home. Not wanting to upset her again, Tali clutched Mama’s hand and kept her worries to herself.
The further Tinyhead led them, the more alarming the tunnel art became, as if warning: try to escape and you’ll die. For an hour of their journey the walls they passed were carved into the skeletons of burnt trees surrounded by ash like black snow. Then they walked along a dried-up river with water buffalo trapped in grey mud. Finally, as the passage became an endless desert where spiny lizards picked salt crystals off sharp rocks, Tinyhead heaved open a stone door and stood to one side so they could go through.
They had crossed into another world, one that was cold and dank and slimy underfoot, a vast oval cellar where mist hung in the stagnant air. It looked like the inside of a mouldy old skull and the stink of poisoned, decaying rats made Tali gag.
‘Here you are.’ Tinyhead flopped out his tongue. ‘All your troubles are over, Pale.’
Mama whirled, reaching up to him, but he slammed the door in her face. She let out a whimper.
‘You’re hurting my hand, Mama,’ said Tali.
Her mama crouched in front of Tali, holding her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. Mama’s blue eyes were wet, and Tali hated to see h
er so sad.
‘We’re betrayed, little one. We’re never going home.’
‘Why not?’ said Tali, looking around in confusion. Why had Tinyhead shut them in? Why hadn’t she told Mama her worries? Was this her fault?
A familiar face carved into the stone high on the wall made her shiver. It was Lyf, the enemy’s last and wickedest king, who had died long ago. She had often seen the tattooed Cythonians kneeling before his image.
To her left, a series of dusty stone bins ran along the wall, partly concealed by tiers of barrels. On the right, hundreds of wooden crates were stacked nearly to the ceiling. In the centre, twenty yards away, stood a stained black bench. The floor was damp and littered with pieces of fallen stone.
Something rustled, far across the cellar. Mama looked around frantically. ‘Over here,’ she said, hauling Tali to the crates. ‘Squeeze into the middle where you can’t be seen.’
Tali clung to her. ‘I don’t like this place, Mama.’
‘Me either. And yet, I feel close to our ancestors here. In, hurry.’
Tali was a good little girl, so she bit her lip and edged into one of the gaps between the rotting crates. The floor was so slimy that her bare feet kept slipping.
‘Don’t cry. I know how brave you are.’ Her mama kissed her brow. ‘Tali,’ she choked, ‘if I don’t come back, Little Nan will give you your papa’s letter when you come of age.’
‘Mama?’ Why would she say such a thing? Of course she would come back.
‘Shh!’ Mama took Tali’s hands in her own and drew a ragged breath. ‘Our family has a terrible enemy –’
The dead rat smell thickened and grew fouler. ‘Who, Mama?’
‘I don’t know. He’s never seen, never heard, but he flutters in my nightmares like a foul wrythen –’
‘You’re scaring me, Mama!’
‘When you’re older, you’ve got to find your gift and master it. It’s the only way to beat him.’
Tali shivered. In Cython, magery was forbidden. Magery meant death. Children were beaten just for whispering the word.
At a hollow click from the far side of the cellar, Mama jumped.
‘But Mama,’ said Tali, lowering her voice, ‘if our masters catch any slave using …magery, they kill them.’
‘Even innocent little children,’ said Mama, hugging her desperately. ‘You must be very careful.’
Tali’s voice rose. ‘Then how am I supposed to find my magery?’
Mama clapped a hand over Tali’s mouth. ‘I don’t know, child. Don’t tell anyone about your gift. Trust no one.’
Tali pulled away. ‘Is Tinyhead the enemy?’ She took hold of a splintered length of wood, wanting to jam it through his disgusting tongue.
‘Shh! You know what happens when you get angry.’
‘I’m already angry, and I’m going –’
‘Forget him. He’s nothing.’
‘When I find my gift, his head will be nothing. I’ll blast it right off.’
‘Tali, never say such things! You must lower your eyes and say, “Yes, Master.”’
‘I won’t!’ Tali said furiously. ‘I hate our masters and one day I’m going to escape.’
‘Yes, one day,’ said Mama, dully. ‘But for now, promise you’ll be a good little slave.’
‘I can’t.’
Mama stroked Tali’s golden hair. ‘You may think whatever fierce thoughts you like, little one, for one day you will be the noble Lady Tali vi Torgrist, but in Cython you must always act the obedient slave.’
It frightened Tali to hear her mama say such things. ‘All right,’ she muttered. She had a bad temper, and knew it, but for Mama’s sake she would try. ‘I promise.’
Her mother looked dubious. ‘I’ll put a little glamour on you. It’ll hide you, as long as they don’t look directly at you. Hold still.’
She put her hands on Tali’s cheeks, whispered a word Tali could not make out, then drew her hands down Tali’s sides, all the way to her feet. Tali’s skin tingled and when she looked down, her body had blurred into the shadows. Magery! She ached for it. Feared it, too.
Something made an ugly scraping sound, closer this time, and her scalp felt as though grubs were creeping across it.
‘Stay here,’ Mama said softly. ‘Don’t look.’
‘Mama, what was that noise?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mama’s teeth chattered. ‘But whatever happens, even if your gift comes, don’t use it here.’
Mama darted away, her pale blonde hair flying. Her bare feet skidded on the flagstones as she passed an ugly tapestry of three jackals fighting over the guts of a nobleman, recovered, then zigzagged between the barrels and the stone bins. She was a beautiful little bird, leading a snake away from her nest.
But as she passed between a pair of stone raptors with flesh-tearing beaks, two masked figures came after her. Tali clutched at a crate, her fingers sinking into the powdery wood.
‘Mama, look out!’ she whispered, for the masks had fanged teeth and awful, angry eyes. ‘Don’t let them catch you.’
Then Mama slipped and twisted her ankle, and the moment they caught her Tali knew they were going to do something terrible.
‘No!’ she whimpered. ‘Mama, get away!’
The big man caught Mama’s arms and held her while his accomplice, a bony woman, punched her in the mouth.
‘Treacherous Pale scum!’ the woman hissed.
Mama sagged, staring at them like a mouse trapped by two cats, and Tali’s front teeth began to throb. Stop it, stop it! Mama, use your gift on them.
They dragged her to the black bench and heaved her onto it. The woman forced an oily green lump into Mama’s mouth, then passed a stubby crystal back and forth over her head until the end glowed blue, scattering brilliant rays across the cellar. Mama moaned and her toes curled.
As the blue crystal glowed more brightly, pain stabbed around the whorled scar on Tali’s left shoulder, her slave mark, and cold spread through her like venom. She shuddered and remembered to cover her eyes.
Born to slavery in underground Cython, she had learned life’s lesson in her stone cradle –obey, or suffer. But the people who held her mama weren’t tattooed like Cythonians, and they were too big to be Pale slaves. Who were they?
Something made an ugly grinding sound. Mama shrieked.
‘Careful,’ the man cried. ‘He won’t pay if –’
‘It’s stuck,’ said the woman, and the grinding grew louder.
What were they doing to Mama?
‘It’s got to be taken while she’s alive,’ said the man.
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
Tali peeped between her fingers and nearly screamed. Mama’s arms and legs were thrashing, green foam was oozing from her nose and a strand of hair dripped blood. Mama! Tali could not breathe; for a moment she could hardly see.
‘I can’t hold her.’ The man’s voice was hoarse, his eyes darting.
‘Nor me if you don’t!’
The woman was pressing a metal rod against the top of Mama’s head, twisting and shoving as if trying to force it in. Through the mouth of the mask her grey teeth were bared. She was grunting and her hands were red.
Why were they talking like that? Why were they hurting Mama? Tali’s breath came in painful gasps and her stomach was full of fishhooks. She had to help Mama. But Mama had told her not to move. Only magery could save Mama now, but she had told Tali not to use it here. Yet if she didn’t, Mama was going to die. But Tali had promised …
No! She had to break that promise, and if she got into trouble she would take her punishment. Tali had used magery once before, when she was little. She had been really angry about something and her gift had burst forth out of nowhere. She tried to summon it now but it shrank from her mother’s warnings, Always hide your gift! Never use it or they’ll find out and kill you.
She tried and tried, but it would not come. Tali was desperate now. She had to save Mama. The glamour would hide her, wouldn’t
it? She crept out, picked up a piece of stone, took aim at the woman’s head and hurled it with all the fury her small body could muster. And missed her.
‘Ow!’ cried the man, clapping a hand to the back of his head. ‘What was that?’
Tali eased backwards to the crates, praying the glamour would hold. She felt with her foot for a bigger stone.
The woman gave a last twist of her length of metal, withdrew it and flicked a white disc, trailing a clump of bloody hair, to the floor. Was that a piece of Mama’s head? Tali was reaching for a fist-sized chunk of rock when the woman opened a pair of golden tongs behind Mama’s head, pushed in and yanked. Tali heard an awful, squelchy pop. Mama’s arms and legs jerked, then hung limp.
‘You’ve ended her,’ the man said hoarsely, shying away.
‘Who cares about a filthy Pale?’ said the woman, holding up the steaming tongs. ‘I got it in time.’
Tali’s head spun and her eyes flooded. But for the crates she would have fallen down. Though she was only eight, she had seen all too many dead slaves. Why was this happening? Was it her fault? She should have run and led them away; she should have done something, anything. Had the evil woman killed Mama? No, she couldn’t be dead.
‘Mama, Mama!’ she whimpered, hurting all over.
The man gasped, ‘Did you hear a cry?’
You stupid fool, thought Tali. Now they’ll kill you too.
‘Are you useless?’ sneered the woman.
The man drew a long knife and waved it at her.
She laughed in his face. ‘Find the brat and finish it.’
THREE
The man took a lantern in his free hand and crept towards the stacked crates.
The woman put on a long glove that shone like woven green-metal – Tali sensed the whisper of magery coming from it – and removed something round from the tongs. It looked like a black marble. She stripped off the glove so it turned inside out, trapping the black object inside.