by Lian Tanner
‘You sure you want to do this?’ asked Petrel. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I am sure.’With an effort, Fin settled his breathing. His face grew distant and proud, and with an abrupt nod he slipped away from them, back to the last bend before the village. Then he brushed himself off and strode around the corner towards Bale, his head so high and confident that he looked as if he owned the world.
Petrel’s heart thumped painfully. It was hard to believe that such a pompous-seeming boy was her best friend. But that pomposity was what would protect him.
At least, she hoped it would.
A PROPER CONVERSATION
Gwin’s papa left the mountain village very early in the morning. Late that same day, another message came up from the flatlands. But this one had travelled by such a complicated, fearful route that it arrived too late to do any good.
‘It was a trap?’ breathed Gwin, hardly recognising her own voice. She felt as if someone had punched her.
Beside her, Nat said nothing. Wretched tried to press against his knee, but the boy pushed him away.
‘Aye,’ muttered Hob. ‘Sorry I am that I even told your pa about that Fetch.’
‘We have to go after him,’ said Gwin. ‘We have to stop him!’
‘Reckon he’s there by now, girl. If ’n they’re going to take him, it’s probably done already.’
‘Then— Then we’ll go and save him. Won’t we, Nat?’
Her brother laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound; all his anger was back, only now it was laced with scorn. ‘Of course, why didn’t I think of that? The brave Fetcher twins, the girl and her blind brother, ride in on Spindle and snatch Papa out of the Devouts’ clutches. They won’t know what’s hit them. Good thinking, Gwinith.’ And he stalked out of the room, his hand scraping along the wall.
Gwin stared after him, wondering if she was going to be sick. Then she turned back to Hob and said, in a small voice, ‘I’ll go by myself.’
Hob shook his head. ‘You’re not going anywhere, girl. If ’n cow walks off cliff, you don’t let calf jump off after her, do you?’
‘But—’
‘Just cos there be trap, don’t mean your pa’s fell into it. And if he has fell, might be he can climb out again. I’ll send Bony down road a bit, see what he can learn. ’Oo knows, he might meet up with Fetcher coming back.’
Gwin nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes. She didn’t trust herself to speak. But at that moment she made a silent promise to her father. If Bony doesn’t find you, Papa, I’m coming after you. No matter what anyone says.
Fin had lied when he said that Cull and Bartle did not look familiar. He remembered them from his days as an Initiate, remembered their casual cruelty and the way they had regarded the villagers of West Norn as less than human.
He did not think they would remember him. He had been just another Initiate until the night when Brother Thrawn had chosen him for the voyage to the southern ice. And after that, no one but his fellow expeditioners had seen him.
All the same, his stomach clenched with nerves as he marched up to the two guards, and there was a moment when all he wanted to do was turn around and run back to his friends.
Which would not save Mama.
To his relief, the men greeted him with no sign of recognition. And before half a minute had passed he found himself pushed into the tent – which was where he both wanted and did not want to be.
‘Brother Poosk,’ said Bartle. ‘This boy has been out west carrying messages. Can we use him for anything?’
The tent was high in the middle and low at the edges, with patches of hair where the cowhide had not been scraped completely clean. Poosk was standing in the high part, next to the pole that supported it. The prisoner sat on a wooden box, with his hands and ankles bound so tightly that the rope cut into his grubby flesh.
Up close like this, Brother Poosk looked small, mild and not the least bit dangerous. He dismissed Bartle and handed Fin a piece of paper and a quill pen. ‘Record our conversation if you please, boy,’ he said quietly.
Then he turned his attention back to the prisoner and said, in that same quiet voice, ‘I will be honest with you, Fetcher. I was sent to find you and bring you back to the Citadel.’
WHAT? thought Fin. But I thought he was sent to find Mama!
Poosk ran his hand over his chin. ‘I have been on many such excursions and until a few months ago I have done my duty without question. But now—’ He studied his fingers, which were fine-boned and clean. ‘Now I am questioning that duty, Fetcher.’
Fin stared at him. Rain had described her uncle as ruthless and manipulative. But this man seemed so straightforward that it was hard to believe he was the same person.
The prisoner looked as bewildered as Fin felt. ‘I’m sorry, gracious master, you mistook me for someone else. Me name’s Bunt, not Fetcher. Bunt, son of Gall the potter.’
‘Of course,’ said Poosk. ‘Where did you say you came from?’
The man blinked. ‘Been all over, gracious sir, tryin’ to trade me little toys.’ He nodded towards the unrolled sack on the floor, which held a couple of mangels and two pitiful dolls made out of sticks and rags. ‘Now I’m on me way ’ ome. To Cramby.’
‘Mm-hm,’ said Poosk. He glanced at Fin. ‘Do you know Cramby, boy?’
Fin paused in his writing. ‘A little, Brother.’
‘An impoverished village, would you say? A hungry village?’
Fin had never been asked such a question in his life, not by one of the Devouts. They preferred words like lazy and stupid.
‘I— Yes,’ said Fin.
Poosk turned back to the prisoner. ‘Truth from the mouths of children, eh? You would not find one of my brothers answering the question so plainly. They think that as long as they are well fed and comfortable, the world is as it should be. But it is not, is it, Fetcher? And some of us can no longer ignore the problem.’
‘But I’m not Fetcher, sir, beggin’ your pardon. I’m just a poor man on ’is way ’ome.’
Outside the tent the sun was setting. Brother Poosk lit a lamp, set it on a second box and continued talking, always addressing the prisoner as ‘Fetcher’. But Fin was beginning to wonder if there had been some mistake. Surely the man was who he said he was and the real Fetcher was off somewhere else.
It seems I have made a mistake too. This has nothing to do with Mama. I will leave as soon as I get the chance.
But the chance did not come. Poosk talked late into the night. At one point he said, ‘Sometimes I feel as if my life has been small and ignorant. I wish I knew more about our country’s past. Will you not tell me one of your stories, Fetcher?’
Fin was tired and hungry. Brother Poosk is not at all like the Devouts I knew, he thought sleepily. Nor does he seem like the man Rain described. Perhaps something has happened to change him.
‘No?’ said Poosk. ‘Well I cannot blame you for not trusting me. Sometimes I think that the Devouts will have to be overthrown before change can come—’
His captive gazed at him with terrified eyes. ‘If you say so, Master. S’not my place to judge.’
Brother Poosk nodded sympathetically. ‘You are right. It is not your place to judge.’ He slipped his hand into his pocket, and suddenly all the niceness vanished and his next words were harsh and triumphant. ‘But neither is it your place to have something like this hidden in your baggage!’ And he thrust a round, silver object, no bigger than a baby’s fist, in front of the startled prisoner.
The man’s eyes widened, and he began to wail. ‘Oooooh, I knew it, I knew it’d get me into trouble! I should’ve ’anded it in straight away soon as the man give it to me in trade, but ’twas so pretty, I’d never seen anythin’ so pretty, and I thought, I’ll just keep it till I get ’ome and show me wife, and then I’ll ’and it in. Is it important, Master? Little silver stone like that? Is it somethin’ you wanted?’
This was clearly not the reaction Poosk had hoped for. He seized the man by the throat and
snarled, ‘Tell me the truth or I will kill you on the spot. You are a Fetcher. I know you are.’
The man trembled. ‘If you say so, Master. You know best. But please don’t kill me! What would me wife do without me?’
With a curse, Poosk flung the man down. Then he seized the lamp, jerked his head at Fin and strode outside.
As soon as they were well away from the tent, he said, ‘What does it matter if he will not confess? I could haul him back to the Citadel anyway, for execution. And what a coup that would be, to hang a Fetcher. They are as rare as hen’s teeth these days. Eh, boy?’
Fin couldn’t answer; he was still reeling from the sudden change in tone. I believed him. Despite all those warnings from Sharkey and Rain, I thought he was sincere. But the whole thing was a performance.
Poosk held up the round object, so the lamplight fell upon it. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘N-no, Brother.’
‘A timepiece!’
Fin shuffled his wits into some sort of order and said, in what he hoped were shocked tones, ‘From before the Great Cleansing, Brother?’
‘Indeed,’ said Poosk. He pressed something and the lid of the timepiece flew open.
There were a number of ancient clocks on the Oyster, so the glassed circle and the little hands and numbers were nothing new to Fin. There were smaller circles, however, that he did not understand, and he longed for a closer look. But in the end, he did not need one.
‘It is in perfect order,’ murmured Poosk. ‘Look, this tells us the hour of the day, and this, I believe, gives the stages of the moon. I am not sure about this one, but still, what a useful device.’
Fin watched him, more puzzled than ever. As a Devout, Poosk should have loathed the timepiece as much as he loathed the Fetchers. He should have smashed it to pieces, so it would not contaminate him. He certainly should not have studied it with such gloating interest.
Except Poosk was the one who ordered the use of the spotter balloons. And the catapults and bombs. He pretended it was Brother Thrawn giving the orders, which bothered me when I heard about it. The Brother Thrawn I knew would never have allowed such things, not for any reason.
Which raised some interesting questions about Brother Poosk.
‘Will it steal our souls, Brother?’ whispered Fin, still playing his part.
Poosk chuckled. ‘I doubt it, boy.’ And he snapped the lid shut, put the timepiece in his pocket and raised a hand for Bartle and Cull, who came hurrying over.
By the tree stump, one of the captive children cried out in her sleep, and her parents, dozing nearby, sat up with a jerk.
‘Go back to the main road, Brother Bartle,’ said Poosk, ‘and wake up a few peasants. Find someone who saw the “old man” pass earlier. I want to know where he came from.’
Bartle nodded and went to find a lamp.
To Cull, Poosk said, ‘We will let the Fetcher stew for the rest of the night. Tie him to a tree and make him as uncomfortable as possible. In the morning, he will crack.’
But when morning came the prisoner seemed more frightened and confused than ever, and Brother Poosk could hardly get a sensible word out of him.
It was not long before the Devout sighed and said, ‘Well, you have brought it on yourself, Fetcher. I did not want to do it, but I cannot stand another day of this I-am-just-a-simple-peasant nonsense.’
He turned to Fin. ‘Bring the smallest child to me. And a sharp knife. Let us see if he will cling to his ridiculous story when the life of a village brat is at stake.’
The peasant did not seem to understand what Poosk had said. But Fin felt as if the ground had been ripped out from under his feet.
I will sneak away, he thought, as he left the tent. I will go back to Petrel and the others and tell them that Poosk has forgotten about Mama and become obsessed with Fetchers. Then whatever happens here will be nothing to do with me.
But that was a weaselly way of thinking, and he knew it.
I will hide the smallest child so Poosk cannot find her.
Except that was no good either. If the smallest child disappeared, Poosk would simply take another. And even with the best of intentions, Fin could not hide all the children.
So in the end he did as instructed, knowing that, although his friends were watching, they might as well have been miles away and could not help him.
The children’s parents were still hovering. When they heard Fin ask Brother Cull for the smallest child and a sharp knife, one of the women set up a dreadful keening and fell to her knees, rocking back and forth, while her husband begged Fin not to hurt his baby.
Their distress tore at Fin’s heart, but he did his best to look as if it meant nothing to him. He unfastened a girl no more than eight years old, and marched her away. She sobbed and twisted her neck to keep sight of her parents.
Fin’s hands tightened on the girl’s shoulders. He wanted to whisper, ‘Do not be afraid. I will not let him hurt you.’
But I cannot make any such promise.
So he kept silent, wondering if he was being wise or just cowardly.
As soon as he entered the tent, Brother Poosk took the knife from him and dragged the girl in front of the prisoner, with the blade at her throat.
‘Now,’ he said, his eyes sparkling. ‘Now we can have a proper conversation, can we not? Where did you say you came from, Fetcher?’
Under the dirt, the prisoner’s face was as pale as parchment, and his throat convulsed. But all he said was, ‘Gracious sir, please don’t harm the littlie. I’ve told you everythin’ I know. I come from Cramby and me wife’s waitin’ for me.’
Poosk smiled and pressed the knife harder. The girl whimpered. A trickle of blood ran down her neck.
Fin felt sick to his stomach. He will kill her. I cannot stand here and watch it. I must do something.
He knew that any attempt at persuasion was hopeless. Which meant he had to either distract Brother Poosk somehow, or take the knife from him. He braced himself, knowing that this would probably be the end of him.
But before he could move, the prisoner heaved an enormous sigh and said, in a voice completely different from his previous one, ‘You can let her go. I’m the one you’re looking for. I’m the Fetcher.’
A SMALL ROUGH VOICE . . .
On the day when Papa was due back from the Fetch, Gwin sat in the mouth of the cave room waiting for him. She hadn’t slept since the second message arrived, and her eyes were gritty with tiredness.
Hilde and Gert kept her company all day, with Gert chatting about nothing in particular. But as night fell, the younger girl said, ‘No sign of your pa. I expect he’s fell into that trap.’
‘Might not have,’ Hilde said. ‘Maybe he stopped off to snare a rabbit. He could be just a couple of bends away.’
‘Mm,’ said Gert, unconvinced. ‘Come and get supper, afore someone else eats it.’
Gwin didn’t sleep that night, either.
By morning, Papa still wasn’t back, and neither was Bony. Gwin couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in the cave again, watching the track. Something inside her felt like a river in flood, backed up for miles and threatening to burst its banks. If she had to sit and wait for another day she thought she might die.
I’m going after Papa.
She wanted to set off straight away, before Hob could stop her. But she couldn’t go without checking on Nat.
She found him in the stone corral, practising his leaps with such ferocious concentration that he didn’t hear her approach. The mountain cows were bunched in the middle of the corral, and Wretched was asleep in one of the mangers. Gwin stopped just inside the entrance and watched her brother.
As Spindle cantered around the circle, his hoofs kicking up mud, Nat jumped on and off the old ox’s back. It was a sight that should have been as familiar to Gwin as her own hair beads.
But there was something wrong with Nat’s timing. It was too fast, too reckless. When he jumped, it was too high. When he threw himself at the gro
und, it was too hard, as if he was daring it to hurt him.
‘Nat, stop!’ cried Gwin.
He heard that, all right. With a nudge of his toe he brought Spindle to a halt, and sat there with his chest heaving and his face defiant.
Gwin felt a burst of uncharacteristic anger. ‘How’s it going to make things better if you hurt yourself? How’s that going to help Papa?’
Nat didn’t answer. But a small rough voice somewhere near Gwin’s feet said, ‘You got a minute, shipmate?’
Gwin almost jumped out of her skin. She looked down – and there was the rat with the silver eyes, peering up at her.
But it couldn’t have been the rat who’d spoken. It’s some sort of trick, she thought, and she glowered at the walls of the corral. ‘Gert, is that you? Stop playing tricks. Gert?’
‘Nah, it’s me, shipmate,’ said the rat.
Wretched poked his head over the side of the manger and wagged his tail. Nat sat very still. ‘Who’s that? Who’re you talking to, Gwin?’
She couldn’t answer him. The words would not form in her mouth. She tried to edge away from the rat, but it trotted at her side like a miniature dog. ‘Shoo!’ she whispered.
‘Who’re you talking to?’ Nat said again.
Gwin managed to croak, ‘No one’, then immediately wished she hadn’t, because the rat said, ‘Now that’s a straight-out lie, shipmate. Name’s Mister Smoke, though some call me Adm’ral. Take your pick. I’ve got a favour to ask.’
‘Mister— Smoke?’ said Nat, turning his head first one way, then the other.
‘Don’t talk to it,’ hissed Gwin.
‘Why not?’
‘Because— Because it’s a rat. I mean, it’s the rat. The one that brought us here.’
Nat snorted in disbelief.
Gwin said, ‘I know, Nat. But it is!’
‘Well spotted, shipmate,’ said the rat. ‘Now about this favour—’