The Fade kj-2 Page 18

  Of late, I've been bathing with the men in my underwear, scrubbing my clothes and hair, ignoring their hungry glances. For a long time I'd told myself that it wasn't safe to undress in front of the men, but I'd been lying to myself. None of them would dare touch me now. I just wanted to be dirty. Punishing myself. But all that's over.

  The door opens, and the Overseer appears. He shuts the door and locks it, puts the key in his pocket. Down the steps he comes in his stately way, a small-minded man over-proud of his authority. There's a guard waiting at the bottom of the steps; it's the young Gurta who accompanied him on the shift when we stole his key. His boasting about all the exciting accidents he witnessed probably landed him with the position for a long time to come. He's regretting it now, I'm guessing.

  They greet each other rather formally and move off, leaving the way clear. I scan the smoky landscape around me. A distant guard, not paying attention. No time better than now.

  I hurry across the open space, crouched low, watching the guard from the corner of my eye. He scratches the back of his neck. For a few moments, I have that horrible feeling of exposure; I'm certain somebody is going to raise the alarm, someone I haven't even seen, and the game will be over. Then I'm back under cover, safe at the bottom of the steps, shielded from the forge by the metal barrier.

  I climb the steps in a low crouch, moving with confidence now. This part is easy. Even if the key doesn't work, I have time to climb back down and take my place in the forge again. The only thing I have to fear is what's beyond that door.

  At the top, I can't resist a peek over the edge. It's a stupid risk, but nobody will see the top of my head at this height and in this atmosphere. And it's worth it, just to see the seething, glowing panorama of the forge spread out beneath me, the thin, ordered rivers of molten yellow-white tracing among the hulking black monuments. For a moment, I feel superior: ruler of this place. I've beaten it.

  Premature. I try the key and it fits the lock. But it won't turn.

  I curse under my breath. Jiggle it, give it another try. It sticks. Now I'm getting worried. I try it again, with greater force. Still nothing.

  For want of any better options, I reinsert, try it again, and this time it turns. Tumbling relief in my chest. Some problem with the marriage of key and lock, a misalignment. The key might be unreliable, but it does work.

  I open the door a crack and look through. Nobody there. In I go, locking the door behind me. This time it obliges first time. I slip the key back inside my belt, and survey my reward: the Overseer's office.

  It's underwhelming at best. Spartan, neat, and dim. Lanterns illuminate a room of bare stone with little ornamentation to speak of. There are scroll cases stacked in a cabinet, and a desk with a half-written letter on it. A row of dirty windows looks over the forge.

  There are two doors. One is a supply cupboard, stocked with stationery, old file archives, and random bric-a-brac. Walls and floor are stone. No good. There's a cool draught coming from the other, cutting through the dull heat. That's my way out.

  This place is musty and drear, and faintly sad. I briefly wonder what the Overseer's life is like behind his thin facade of dignity, whether he goes to his rooms alone, whether his life is as empty as his surroundings. Then I realise that I don't give a shit.

  The draughty door is locked, but there's a key hanging on a peg on the back of it. This is trouble. I can get through, but unless I can lock the door from the outside and replace the key on the peg, they'll know I've been here.

  I stare at the door, willing a solution to present itself. Speculatively, I try my key, but it doesn't fit. I take the other key down from the peg and unlock the door, open it a crack and peek out.

  Beyond is a side-corridor of rough stone with dying torches choking in their brackets. It's not been cleaned for some time. That's good: a sign that it's rarely used. It terminates at the Overseer's door. There'll be little traffic through here.

  I feel a pang of frustration. I could walk out of here now; I could disappear. Perhaps Arachi wouldn't notice the unlocked door. Perhaps.

  No. You don't take risks like that. If Arachi raises the alarm, they'll find me, disguise or no disguise.

  Besides, I still have to come back. I could leave Nereith and Charn without thinking twice. But I can't leave Feyn. Not if I want to get out of here with my humanity intact.

  There has to be a way, but I'm not sure I'll have time to find it. And if I don't go soon, it'll be too late. The Overseer will return, and they'll catch me on the stairs.

  I pull the door closed, search the desk and cupboards, looking for a spare key. Not happening.

  I have to decide now. Turn back, or commit myself. And while I'm deciding, I notice again the annoying cold draught that chills the back of my neck.

  The door to the corridor. There's light at the top. It doesn't sit well in its frame. I can fit my fingers in the gap between the stone and the top of the door.

  I've got an idea. But I have to move fast.

  I pick out a thread from the hem of my shirt, pulling it to a good length before snapping it off. Next I hurry to one of the lanterns, take off the glass bulb and soak the thread in lantern oil. I found candles when I searched through his desk; I steal one. He won't notice. As I'm tying the thread to the hollow O of the key's bow I move over to the windows and look through. Nobody can see me; I've spent enough time on the other side trying to peer through the shifting layers of smoke and grime to know.

  The Overseer has finished his rounds. He's walking back towards the stairs.

  I'm calm. Now my course is set, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm used to close scrapes, and I don't panic. You move quicker when you're composed.

  Time is really short now. If this doesn't work, I'm finished.

  I light the candle from one of the lanterns and then dart into the corridor, where I shut and lock the door. Holding one end of the thread, I push the key over the top of the door, in the centre: directly over the peg. Gently, I begin to lower it.

  The smell of lantern oil hangs in the air. I can feel through the thread when the key touches the peg, but touching the peg and getting the fiddly fucking thing to snag are two different matters. The key is lying flat against the door, and the peg is protruding. The key needs to swing outwards, but I don't have any leverage. I grit my teeth, regretting the noise this is going to make; then I shoulder-barge the door. It sends the key swinging away from the rootwood. It clatters against the door on the backswing. An experimental slackening reveals that it's not caught on anything; I'm still holding its weight.

  I try again. Align the key so that its bow is brushing against the peg; barge the door. Still it fails to catch. I could do this for hours and never get a result, or it could happen next try.

  Again. The Overseer must be near the top of the stairs now. The noise of the forge will drown out the racket, but as soon as he's inside, he'll hear.

  Again. Come on, you whorespawn.

  Again.

  I almost barge it a sixth time before I realise that there's no weight on the thread any more. I let it out a bit, and the key stays where it is. It's on the hook. I've got it.

  Yes!

  No. A soft tread in the corridor, a rustle of clothes. Someone's heard me. In the office, there is the rattle of a key in the lock. I'm trapped.

  But not caught. Not yet. I touch the candle flame to the end of the thread. The flame races up its length and goes out as quickly, burning it to nothing in a flash. It runs over the top of the door and turns the evidence of my achievement into floating motes of carbon. If any shreds of blackened thread still cling to the key, they'll be destroyed when Arachi picks it up.

  I hear the door to the forge close and lock, the Overseer's groan as he stretches. The tread comes along the corridor with purpose now; somebody light, walking softly. They must have heard me barge the door. I have nowhere to go. So I snuff out the candle with wet fingers, stuff it into my belt, and I go up.

  The corridor is just bi
g enough for two people to pass each other. If I brace my feet and hands against the wall, if I stretch, I can climb up. But I need to be flat up against the ceiling to stand any chance of evading whoever's coming.

  I brace my hands against the wall and throw my feet out, catching the opposite wall with one, then the other, until I'm precariously balanced above the ground. The rough brick bites into my palms as I walk myself, muscles straining, backwards up the wall until my heels touch the ceiling.

  I'm spread-eagled at the top of the corridor, the walls just a fraction too far apart to make this easy. I'm undernourished and out of training. Not sure how long I can hold this.

  The source of the footfalls appears just as I've stilled myself, locking my joints as best I can. It's a slave girl. An Eskaran. She's wearing a white dress, embroidered at the sleeves and hem with Gurtan devotional mantras: hymns to the wisdom of the Laws. Sixteen, seventeen at most. Willowy and pretty, her blonde hair tied in a complex bundle behind her head. She passes beneath me without looking up – it's amazing how people never look up – and knocks softly on the door. Four times, slowly, to announce herself as a slave.

  There's a short delay, then I hear the key being taken from the peg and slipped into the lock. He hasn't suspected anything, but feeling relief is difficult as my arms are beginning to burn. I begin to run my chants through my head, settling into a light trance state, helping me ignore the demands of my muscles, hardening them in place.

  The door opens.

  ~ I offer to you the apologies of my heart ~ says the slave in flawless Gurtan, making a quick gesture with her hand and ducking slightly. ~ Through my parents and my parents' parents, I am imperfect ~

  It's ritual language. The Overseer dismisses it patiently. ~ The kitchens do not have any rock-bat, then? ~

  ~ Overseer Arachi, it has been retained for the honoured Elder's visit. I pleaded on your behalf, but they would allow me none ~

  He smiles indulgently and cups her face with his hand. She's plainly distressed. All her life, she's been taught to serve a master race that she genuinely believes is superior. It's not punishment that scares her, it's the shame of failing.

  Her servility makes me furious. Not at her; she doesn't know any better. I'm mad at them, the enemy, the people who made her this way. She's young and beautiful and she should be in Veya, or dancing with the boys of her village, anything but this living death. The hate is suddenly overwhelming, boiling through me, unstoppable. A feeling pent up for a lifetime that can flood endlessly but never run dry. It washes away my trance, and I can feel the hurt gathered in my joints, in my shoulders and lower back and all through my limbs. If it wasn't for the time spent working the screens on the slurry-trough, I don't think I'd have had the strength to make it this far. But I can't hold it… I can't…

  ~ What else do they have? ~ the Overseer is saying.

  ~ They have many cuts of lizard, Overseer Arachi. A supply cart arrived recently from the lava plains ~

  ~ Do they have fintail? ~

  ~ Master, they are preparing a stew of fintail and wrack-cap as we speak ~

  ~ That sounds delicious. Bring some to me ~

  ~ For the love of Maal, I obey ~

  She draws another gesture in the air with her hand, then bows and puts her palms over her face as if veiling herself. She leaves, pauses, looks back.

  ~ Yes? ~ the Overseer asks.

  ~ Master, I heard noises. As if someone was knocking at your door ~

  ~ Well, there is no one here now ~ he replies.

  ~ Of course. It is my mistake. Many apologies ~

  With that, she departs. The Overseer stands in the doorway, watching her go. Maybe something lascivious there, maybe the affection of a man for a pet. I can't think. My arms and legs are trembling. Agony digs jagged claws into my shoulders, buttocks, thighs. My fingers are going numb and my hands feel like they're going to rip from my wrists.

  Go inside, you bitch-fed catamite, or I'll come down there and kill you!

  It's an empty threat. He dies, our escape is ruined. But it gives me the strength to hang on for the grinding, vast moments until he steps back and closes the door behind him.

  I swing my legs under me and drop soundlessly to the floor. A dozen monstrous cramps hit me simultaneously, and it's all I can do not to groan as my tortured muscles howl at their abuse. But all pain passes, and this is no exception. I'm left panting and sore on the floor of the corridor, but I'm alive, and I'm out.

  When I'm capable, I get to my feet and touch the folded package of servants' clothes, bound flat against my back, checking it's still there.

  So far, so good. But we're a long way from freedom yet.

  23

  I forgot the most cardinal of rules in the spy game. Never underestimate anybody. Nereith was staring at us across the food hall the whole time I was talking to Charn. I thought he was seething with suspicion. The reality was much simpler. He was lip-reading.

  The four of us sit in the shadows of our cell, facing each other, our hunched backs excluding the others. Faint light spills from above, casting shadows down the hollows of our faces. The rough walls of the cave drip with moisture. Everything smells of sweat and shit.

  Charn holds out his hand, concealing what's inside. I take it. The cold weight of a key. I study it surreptitiously, keeping it shielded from sight. It's rough, but it looks like it'll work. A simple skeleton-key arrangement. There's no design on the bow and the blade is the tiniest bit out of alignment, but as long as the teeth are accurate it should be fine. And it's a pretty good job, given the circumstances.

  'How did you get it out?'

  'They hardly bother checking me. I'm trusted. I put it in my mouth.'

  I flinch inwardly. That was a risk we didn't need to take. All it took was for someone to speak to him and we'd have been spitted. I'd told him to hide it in his buttocks. He found the idea offensive. Interesting how the idea of raping me seemed acceptable enough but even the suggestion of something tubular near his arse makes him get squeamish.

  I let it drop. No point arguing about it. He got the key. I stash it in a secret pocket inside my trouser belt, designed for the purpose. Someone doing a casual pat-down wouldn't even feel it there. Besides, they don't bother searching lowly slurry-trough workers.

  Feyn is a little weak, but his arm has been stitched up. I feel uneasy about exposing Feyn to the attention of one of those Gurta butchers. I don't want them to start getting ideas about seeing the insides of a SunChild.

  'What we just did wasn't easy,' I tell them. 'If we keep our heads, we can all get out of here.'

  'I'd like to know what you plan to do now,' says Nereith. His voice is very low, the chesty growl of a threatened animal.

  'You'll know soon enough,' I reply. 'Before we go any further, I'd like to be sure who I can trust. The more people in on this thing, the more likely someone's going to screw it up.'

  He takes the point. I'm deeply uncertain about him. He's got me in an awkward position: I owe him for saving the last operation, and he can make things very difficult for us if I refuse to include him. Some prisoners make bargains with the guards, trading information for favours. Anyone caught doing it tends not to survive very long, but desperation can make traitors of the most honourable men. I'm not sure about the Khaadu. I'm not sure what he'd do.

  'I know about you, Massima Leithka Orna,' he says. 'And I know you've heard of Silverfish.'

  That interests me. 'I've heard of Silverfish.'

  'I haven't,' says Charn. He doesn't like to be left in the dark. Nereith makes a gesture to me, inviting me to tell him.

  'He operates out of Veya, as far as I know, but he's got tendrils in all kinds of places. Very secretive. Nobody has seen him, to my knowledge. The only contact is through his lieutenants.'

  'This man is a criminal?' Feyn asks, in his naively charming sort of way.

  'Criminal, businessman; it's the same thing where I come from,' I reply. 'He's kind of a figure of legend in the Veyan underw
orld.' I look back at Nereith. 'Certainly a name you don't want to conjure with unless you mean it.'

  'It's true that bandying his name around is unwise,' the Khaadu says. 'But I'm sure he would consider it worthwhile, if it helped one of his people escape from Farakza.'

  'You work for him?'

  'I gather information,' he said. 'Rather like you, Orna, though my methods are more passive than yours. I'm a spy, of sorts, in that I'm paid to keep my eyes and ears open. Silverfish needs to know what is happening in Khaad, as in the other regions of Callespa. I'm the one who finds out.'

  'Then how did you end up here?'

  'I was captured by a Gurta scouting patrol on my way to Veya. The information I carried was too sensitive to trust to a messenger.' He bares his teeth in what I assume is wistful regret. It's hard to tell. 'My news is useless now. I've been here too long.'

  'What were Gurta patrols doing between Khaad and Veya? That's hardly near their battle lines.'

  'They were a scouting patrol,' he repeats, deadpan. 'They were scouting.'

  I study him for a moment. Deciding what to do about him. He takes the advantage.

  'The way I see it, we have several problems. First is breaking out of the immediate prison section, within the fort. You've taken care of that one. I assume you intend to sneak up to the Overseer's office when he is on his rounds, and make your way from there?'

  I nod. That much is obvious. 'We never see him arrive or leave except on inspections, even though our shifts change all the time, so we can assume there's another way out of there. From what I know of the floor plan, I'm fairly certain that it leads out of the prisoners' area.'

  'Agreed,' he says. 'Then you face the next task. Moving around the fort without being caught. Even as renowned a thief as yourself could not manage that without foreknowledge of the layout or a disguise. Your skin and eyes would give you away. The only disguise that might work is that of an Eskaran slave.'

  'One of their scholars told me they keep some here.' I almost say I've heard the guards talking about them too, but I stop myself. Habit keeps me from revealing unnecessary information. They don't need to know I speak Gurtan.