by E. C. Blake
The man took no notice of her except for the occasional glance back—to be sure, she guessed, that she hadn’t fallen off. He didn’t speak. They traveled without a halt until the sun stood high overhead. Then the man reined the black horse to a stop on a bit of rocky shore beside a rushing stream, and slid smoothly down. For him, she thought resentfully, riding a horse really does look as easy as sitting in a rocking chair.
For her, though . . . With difficulty, she disentangled her sore, stiff fingers from the leather straps. The muscles in her thighs and legs screamed as she swung her right leg over top of the mule. And every other muscle screamed as she let herself slide to the ground, so that she had to grab a pannier to keep from simply crumpling into the mud. She clung there, panting, while the pain eased slightly. Then, feeling like an old woman, she hobbled over to the stream. She knelt beside it, thinking maybe she could crawl into it and let it wash the mud away, but one freezing, stinging touch told her that would be a bad idea. She limited herself to splashing water on her face. Even that made her gasp—but it also revived her a bit.
She stood and looked downstream. “How much farther?”
“Rest of the day,” the man said, his back to her. He had opened the flap of one of his saddlebags and pulled out a round loaf of hard brown bread. After a bit more rummaging he also withdrew half a fat red sausage. Mara’s mouth watered.
The man grunted as he lowered himself onto a flat-topped boulder. He pulled a knife from his belt, and, holding the bread on his lap, cut a thick slice of the sausage. He tore off a piece of bread and stuffed sausage and bread together into his mouth. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He swallowed. “Well, come and have some, then,” he said. “I can’t stand you looking at me with begging-puppy eyes.”
She dashed forward and sat beside him on the boulder. He ripped off a chunk of the bread and shoved it into her hands along with a couple more good-sized cuts of sausage. She took a bite of bread and another of the heavily spiced sausage and thought she’d never tasted anything better.
They ate in something approaching companionable silence for a moment. “What will happen when we get to the mining camp?” Mara asked at last, timidly.
The man took another bite of sausage, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Don’t know,” he said. “Nothing to do with me. I’ll give you to the Warden. He’ll decide.” He didn’t meet her eyes, and that gave her a bad feeling.
“What do the unMasked do there?” she asked.
“They work,” the man said. “In the mine. With Watchers aplenty to make sure they work. And a few, whaddyacallems, trustees—unMasked that have been there a long time, keeping the others in line, making themselves useful.” He pointed his knife at her. “Want my advice, you stay on the good side of the Warden, the Watchers, and the trustees. Then maybe someday you’ll be a trustee yourself, if you live that long.”
That sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold air. “But . . . but how long do the unMasked stay in the camp?” Mara said, while inside she asked the real question. How long will I be there?
The man shoved his knife into his belt and stood up. “What do you think, girl?” he said sarcastically. “You can’t go anywhere unMasked. And you can’t ever be Masked. So . . . ?”
For the rest of my life, Mara thought. The prospect turned the food she had wolfed a moment before into a lump of lead in her stomach. She looked down at the last piece of bread in her hands, turning it over and over but not really seeing it. Life in prison. That’s what the unMasked Army saved me from. But now I’m headed there again.
Will they save me again?
She glanced left, upstream, in the general direction of the Secret City: but she saw only shadowed forest and the ever-rushing water.
“Time to move,” the man said, turning his back on her. She got slowly to her feet, quailing at the thought of climbing onto the mule again. The man heaved her up onto the animal. She winced as bruises renewed their intimate acquaintance with the bones that had made them, grabbed onto the leather straps with still-aching fingers, and they resumed their miserable journey.
Mara’s first hint they were close to the mining camp came when, as the sun settled low behind them, the man paused, reached into his saddlebag, and pulled out a Mask, a very pale green one with black stripes on the cheeks. She didn’t know what Gift green represented, but whatever it was, he clearly didn’t have much of it; though obviously enough that he could see magic, or he wouldn’t be able to do his job. He settled the Mask on his face, then urged the horse forward again.
Five minutes later they rounded a bend in the stream, and the mining camp came into sight.
Mara had pictured something like the Autarch’s Palace, all stone walls and turrets, but the camp was surrounded only by a tall palisade of unpeeled logs bound together and driven into the ground. In area, though, it was easily the Palace’s equal.
The stream ran under the palisade and into the camp through an opening barred with rusted iron. At the corners of the compound rose wooden towers, a peaked roof forming a kind of open hut atop each. She could see guards inside the “huts,” but they didn’t seem to be looking out: instead, all their attention was focused inward.
She felt another chill. The walls are to keep people in, not keep attackers out.
They were within fifty yards of the camp before a Watcher, only his black-Masked face and shoulders visible above the rough-hewn spiky tips of the palisade’s poles, glanced their way. She saw him point, then heard a shout. The man who had captured her gave a wave. “Gate’s around to the south,” he said, and led the mule to the right, away from the stream, down to the end of the long wall of logs, then left and down another equally long wall to two enormous, iron-bound wooden doors flanked on either side by two more guard towers.
Those doors swung open, creaking and groaning, as they approached. Mara’s guide pulled up short and waited as two Watchers came out. One took the horse’s reins while the other just stood to one side, Mask turned in their direction, a crossbow cradled in his arms.
Mara’s captor slid out of his saddle. “The Warden?” he said.
The man who had taken the reins nodded toward the gate, and as if on cue, another man emerged. He wasn’t a Watcher: though his trousers and boots were black, his long coat, trimmed with glossy brown fur, was red: his Mask was Watcher-black, but spiral patterns of red marked each cheek.
Behind the Warden she could see a broad, straight path of crushed stone leading between rows of long, low log buildings toward a few larger structures at the far end of the camp, including an impressive stone house with tall glass windows and a colonnaded porch. Halfway down the camp, off to the right of the low arched bridge that she guessed carried the road over the stream, she saw a wood-and-metal framework and thought she caught the white splash of water. A sound like continuous distant thunder rumbled through the camp.
Half a dozen Watchers walked slowly up and down the central path. She saw no one else.
Dread made her stomach clench. What’s it like inside those low buildings? And what is that strange tower?
“Cantic,” said the Warden, and for the first time she knew the name of the man who had found her in the hut. “I see you brought me more than just the . . .” he glanced at Mara, “. . . harvest from Rocky Top.”
Cantic grunted. “I brought you less. There was no ‘harvest’ at Rocky Top.”
Behind his Mask, the Warden’s mouth twisted into a frown. “The harvest has never failed on Rocky Top.”
“It did this time.” Cantic pointed at Mara. “I found her instead. She’s one of your runaways from the wagon.”
The Warden’s lips pressed together, then he spat, “Get her down.”
Cantic turned to Mara, but before he could pull her down from the mule, she slid down herself, gasping a little from the pain of her abused legs, b
uttocks, and thighs, but determined to stand on her own.
The Warden strode forward and grabbed her arm so hard she gasped again. “Where are the others? Where are they hiding?”
“I–I don’t know,” Mara stuttered. She remembered what Catilla had said about the impression the unMasked Army had hoped to leave. “We were attacked. The wagon turned over, the doors came open . . . we got out, and we saw these . . . wild men. Without Masks, all dressed in furs and rags, like . . . something out of olden times. They murdered the Watchers. It was horrible. We all scattered. I ran into the woods. I don’t know if anyone else got away. If they didn’t, those wild men . . .” She shuddered, she hoped convincingly. “I hope they got away,” she finished in a small voice, trying to sound as young as she could. “But even if they did, they could be dead. If I hadn’t seen the hut up on top of that ridge, I’d have frozen to death.”
She gave the Warden her best innocent-little-girl look, one she’d practiced often on her father. Although she had to admit it hadn’t ever worked very well on him.
It didn’t work on the Warden, either. “Your clothes,” he said. “They are not what the unMasked wear when they are sent here.”
Her heart leaped and she was suddenly glad for the day’s muddy ride. The clothes the unMasked Army had given her couldn’t look like much, not in the fading light and splattered with muck. “They’re what I was given,” she said. “I don’t know why. You’d have to ask the fat man . . .” she gave another shudder; this time it wasn’t at all hard to make it convincing, “in the warehouse in Tamita. He said he wanted to draw me wearing them.”
The Watcher studied her for a moment. She couldn’t tell if he believed her. “What’s your name?”
For a moment Mara considered lying; but there seemed little point. Besides, she thought, maybe if he realizes I’m the daughter of the Master Maskmaker, he’ll . . .
...what? Give me special treatment?
The thought made her feel oddly ashamed. But she couldn’t help hoping it was true.
“Mara,” she said.
“Mara Holdfast, Daughter of the Master Maskmaker,” the Warden corrected. He leaned close. “You were wise not to lie to me,” he said, voice cool. “Your face is unmarked. I knew who you were the moment I saw you up close. I had word ahead of the wagon.”
Mara nodded, her throat closed off by sudden fright.
The Warden straightened again. “And the others? Alita? Prella? Kirika? Simona? Grute? What of them?”
“I don’t know,” Mara said. “After I ran . . . in the woods . . . I got lost . . . I couldn’t find any of the others . . .” She let her lip tremble, let the beginning of a sob creep into her voice, found it was far too easy, and had to fight hard to keep it from turning into full-on weeping. If she started bawling, she might never stop.
“Hmmm.” The Warden released her arm and stepped back. “Building three,” he said to the nearest Watcher. “Tell Hayka to look after her.”
“Come on, you,” the Watcher commanded, and pulled her through the gate into the camp.
The sun had just slipped behind the hills, plunging the camp into chilly shadow. Lights glowed in the windows and smoke rose from the chimneys of the long, low log buildings that Mara passed between, a dozen in all, six on one side and six on the other of the central path. A few other buildings, on the far side of the stream, loomed dark and unlit in the twilight, but bright lamplight gleamed through the big glass windows of the stone house at the path’s far end and the two-story wooden structures to either side of it. It all looked peaceful and cozy, but Mara was quite certain it wasn’t.
Lamps also hung from the strange framework of wood and iron, and in their light Mara could now see that the frame suspended the largest water wheel she’d ever seen, the source of the strange rumbling sound. Set inside a deep trench, it slowly revolved as the stream poured over it in a constant foaming waterfall.
But she only caught a glimpse of it, for just as it came into sight, they reached the longhouse on the right that was the third building south of the stream. Her guard took a ring of keys from his belt, selected one, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open, then grabbed her arm and shoved her inside.
She found herself in a small square room containing two bunk beds, a rotund black stove, a tiny table, and a chair. Directly across from the door to the outside was another door, barred shut.
A woman lay in the upper bunk, sound asleep, only her long, tangled black hair visible. A second woman sat at the tiny table, knitting a woolen scarf. She looked up, needles frozen, as Mara made her abrupt entrance. Her lined, pinched face made Mara think at first glance she was elderly; but her brown hair, drawn back in a loose ponytail, had no gray in it Mara could see, and her eyes were clear.
She put down the needles and got to her feet. “Who’s this?”
The Watcher nodded at Mara. “New arrival, Hayka. Cantic just brought her in. Name’s Mara. Warden said to give her to you. And now I done it.” He turned and went out, closing and locking the door behind him.
Hayka came around the table. “New arrival, all by yourself? And brought in by a harvester?” She looked Mara up and down, taking in her mud-spattered clothes. Her eyes returned to Mara’s face, and narrowed. “You’re one of them, ain’t you?” she said sharply. “One of them what escaped?”
“Didn’t escape, did I,” Mara muttered. She’d only just met Hayka and already she didn’t like her, or trust her.
Hayka snorted. “You can say that again, baby girl. Nor will you.” She leaned closer, squinting in the dim yellow light. Her breath smelled of onions. “Your face . . .” She reached out a hand and cupped Mara’s chin; Mara tried to pull her head away, but Hayka’s grip tightened. “Unmarked! Lucky you. Or maybe not so lucky.” She leered. “Warden himself might be calling for you to warm his bed one of these cold nights.”
With a convulsive jerk, Mara pulled her chin free. Hayka laughed at her. “Fiery, are you? Won’t help. Watchers like that sort of thing. They’ll find you interesting. And interesting is always . . . exciting.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Here’s what’s what, girl. Me and Skriva, who’s up there,” she jerked her head at the woman in the bunk, who hadn’t stirred, “are trustees. We get this cozy little room, we get better food, we get warmer clothes, we get left alone by the Watchers, but only as long as there’s no trouble from anybody in there.” She jerked a thumb at the inner door, then leaned forward again, placing her face only inches from Mara’s. “So there won’t be any trouble. You understand? You’ll do what you’re told, when you’re told. You don’t talk back, to the Watchers, to me, to nobody. You work your skinny little butt off, is what you do, and if the Watchers want you up at the barracks or the Warden wants you up at the big house, you’ll go and make them very, very happy, and you’ll never complain, not to them, not to me, not to anyone. Because if you do . . .” Hayka’s hand came off her hip and lashed across Mara’s face, the slap knocking her head to one side and making her ears ring. She jerked her head back around, furious, hand clutching her stinging cheek. Hayka stuck a finger in her face. “Because if you do,” she snarled, “I’ll make your life even more of a hell than it’s going to be anyway.” She straightened. “But cheer up,” she said, showing her teeth in a death’s-head grin. “If you’re really good and cooperative for, oh, the next ten years or so—keep the Watchers and the Warden happy—maybe you’ll be made a trustee, too.” Bitterness tightened her voice. “Then you can enjoy these luxurious accommodations. More likely, of course, you’ll be dead before winter’s end.”
Mara felt herself trembling, but she kept her lips pressed together and said nothing. Hayka was of the same ilk as Grute, she understood that. And look what happened to him, she thought savagely. Her own cold-blooded fury surprised her.
“All right,” Hayka said. “First things first. Take off them clothes. They look pretty warm. They’re mi
ne now. Won’t fit me, but there’s another trustee I know’ll trade me for ’em.”
Mara stared. “But I’ll freeze.”
Hayka snorted. “Not planning to send you naked into the mine. You’ll wear these.” She knelt beside the bunk and pulled out from under it a rough wooden box. She rummaged in it, then held up a gray tunic and trousers. “Strip, and put ’em on. You can keep whatever underwear you’ve got. After the first snow, you’ll get a coat. Not before.”
Cheeks flaming, Mara took off the mud-caked clothes that she’d donned fresh and clean in the Secret City what seemed like a lifetime ago. The rough gray cloth of the prison clothes scratched her arms and legs as she pulled the tunic and trousers on over her drawers and undershirt. At least her new clothes seemed to be clean. Hayka tossed her dirty clothes in a corner. “Now we’ll find you a bunk.” She turned and unbarred the inner door, then swung it open. “In you go.”
Mara stepped through into a long, shadowy, cold room lined with bunk beds. At its center a small fire flickered in a round fire pit. Girls and women huddled around the pitiful flames. Most looked young, a few years older than Mara at most. Only one or two looked as old as Hayka. And she saw no one older.
She didn’t think that was a good sign.
A low murmur of conversation died away. Thin, pale faces turned to stare at her: not exactly hostile, but not exactly friendly, either. More like they were sizing her up. Judging her.
Trying to decide how I’m going to shake things up, she thought. Trying to decide if I’m friend or foe.
She didn’t feel like either friend or foe at the moment: all she felt was sore, hungry, cold, thirsty, frightened, and tired. Tired to the depths of her soul.
Hayka grabbed her arm and dragged her to the fire pit. “This here’s Mara,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll make her welcome.”