Текст книги "Sapphique"

Автор книги: Kathryn Fisher

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4

We have been most careful in setting the locks of the Prison. No one can break in or out. The Warden will hold the sole Key. Should he die without passing on his knowledge the Esoterica must be opened. But only by his successor. For these things are forbidden now .

PROJECT REPORT; MARTOR SAPLENS

‘Jared?’ Breathless, Claudia burst through the door into her tutor’s room and stared round.

It was empty.

The bed was neatly made, the spartan shelves lined with a few books. On the wooden floor sweet rushes were scattered, and a tray on the table had a plate with crumbs on it and an empty wineglass.

As she whirled to go the draught of her skirt lifted a paper.

She stared at it. It looked like a letter, on thick vellum, tucked under the glass. Even from here she could see the royal insignia on the back, the crowned Havaarna eagle, its raised talon holding the world. And the Queen’s white rose.

She was in a hurry. She wanted to find Jared, but still she stared at it. It had been opened, and read. He had left it lying around. It couldn’t be a secret.

Still she hesitated. She would have read anyone else’s letters without a scrap of remorse; in the Court everyone was a stranger, perhaps an enemy. They were part of the game. But Jared was her only friend. More than that. Her love for him was old and strong.

So when she crossed the room and opened the letter she told herself that it didn’t matter, that he would only tell her about it anyway. They shared everything.

It was from the Queen. Claudia read it, her eyes widening.

My dear Master Jared, I write to you because I feel I need to make things clear between us. You and I have been enemies in the past; that really no longer need be the case. I know you are busy with your work of trying to reactivate the Portal. Claudia must be desperate to have news of her dear father. But I wonder f you might find time to wait on me? I will expect you in my private rooms, at seven.

Sia, Regina.

And in small letters underneath: We could be of great help to each other.

Claudia frowned. She folded the note, jammed it back under the glass, and hurried out. The Queen was always plotting. But what did she want with Jared?

He had to be at the Portal.

As she grabbed a candle and shook it into life she tried not to feel so agitated. She opened the door in the panelling of the lavish corridor and pattered down the spiral staircase that led to the cellars, ducking cobwebs that regenerated themselves with irritating speed. The deep vaults were damp and chilly. Squeezing between the barrels and winecasks she hurried to the darkest corner where the high bronze doors reared to the roof and found to her horror that they were shut. The great snails that seemed to infest this place clung to the icy metal; their trails crisscrossed the damp surface.

‘Master!’ Claudia slammed her fist against the door.

‘Let me in!’ Silence.

For a moment she knew for sure that he couldn’t, that he was lying unconscious, that the slow illness that had been consuming him for years had crumpled him in pam. Then another fear stabbed her even harder; that he had finally got the Portal to work and had trapped himself in Incarceron.

The door sprang open with a click.

She slipped in and stared.

And then she laughed.

On his hands and knees, trying to pick up hundreds and hundreds of glistening blue feathers, Jared glanced up at her irritably. ‘This is not funny, Claudia.’ She couldn’t stop. She was silly with relief. She sat down in the single chair and let the giggles rise to a sort of hysteria that left her wiping her eyes with the silk of her skirt. Jared leant back on his hands in the blue ocean of plumage and watched her. He wore a dark green shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His Sapient coat, flung over the chair, was buried in feathers. His long hair was tangled. But his smile, when it came, was rueful and real. ‘Well, all right. Perhaps it is.’ The room that had always been so pure and white looked as if a thousand kingfishers had been plucked in it. Feathers lay on the metal desk and coated the sleek silver shelves with their unknowable devices. The floor was ankle deep. Clouds of them rose and settled at every movement.

‘Be careful. I knocked a flask over trying to grab them.’

‘Why feathers?’ she managed to say at last.

Jared sighed. ‘One feather. I picked it up from the lawn.

Small. Organic. Perfect for experimentation.’ She stared at him. ‘One? Then...'

‘Yes, Claudia. I finally managed to get something to happen. But not the right thing.’ Amazed, she gazed around. The Portal was the way into Incarceron, but only her father knew its secrets and he had sabotaged it in his escape inside. He had sat in this very chair and disappeared, and she knew that he was lost somewhere within the miniaturized world that was the Prison. And since then nothing here had worked. Jared had spent months studying the controls of the desk, infuriating Finn with his care and delicate probing, but no switch or circuit had even lit.

‘What happened?’ She jumped up from the chair, suddenly afraid she might disappear.

Jared pulled a blue feather from his hair. ‘I placed it on the chair. For the last few days I’ve been experimenting with replacing broken components with various substitutes; the last was an illicit plastic I acquired from a trader in the market.’ Claudia said immediately, ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘I was well cloaked, so I trust not.’ But they both knew that he had probably been followed.

‘Well?’

‘It must have worked. Because there was a flash and a . . . shiver. But the feather did not disappear, nor did it miniaturize. It multiplied. They’re all perfectly identical.’ He looked round with a wan helplessness that suddenly struck Claudia; the smile went from her face. Quietly she said, ‘You mustn’t work yourself too hard, Master.’ He glanced up at her, his voice gentle. ‘I am aware of that.’

‘I know Finn is always prowling here, bothering you.’

‘You should call him Prince Giles.’ He stood, wincing slightly. ‘Soon to be King’ They looked at each other. Claudia nodded. Glancing round, she found a sack that held tools; she emptied them out and began to stuff the feathers in, handful by handful.

Jared sat on the chair and leant forward. ‘Can Finn cope with such a pressure?’ he asked quietly.

She paused. He saw how her hand stayed in the sack; when it came out she worked harder and faster.

‘He’ll have to. We brought him out of Incarceron to be King. We need him.’ She looked up. ‘It’s strange. All I cared about when this started was not marrying Caspar. And getting the better of my father. All my life I’ve plotted and planned, been obsessed with those things...’

‘And now you’ve achieved them you are not satisfied.’ He nodded. ‘Life is a series of stairs up which we climb, Claudia.

You’ve read Zelon’s Philosophies. Your horizons have moved.’

‘Yes, but Master, I don’t know. .

‘You do.’ He reached out his delicate hand and gripped hers, stopping her. ‘What do you want of Finn, when he becomes King?’ For a long moment she was still, as if thinking. But she said exactly what he knew she would. ‘I want him to overturn the Protocol. Not the way the Steel Wolves want, by killing the Queen. I want to find a way peacefully, so we can start time again, live naturally without this stagnation, this stifling false history’

‘Is that possible? We have few reserves of energy.’

‘Yes and they’re all wasted on palaces for the rich, and keeping the sky blue, and trapping the poor and forgotten in a Prison run by a tyrannical machine.’ Savagely she swept up the last feathers and stood. ‘Master, my father is gone. I never thought it possible, but I feel like half of me is gone with him. But I am his successor, and if anyone is Warden of Incarceron now, it’s me. So I’m going to the Academy. I’m going to read the Esoterica.' She turned, not wanting to see the alarm on his face.

Jared said nothing. He gathered up his coat and followed her out, and as they crossed the threshold of the door they both felt again that strange shift; as if the room straightened itself out behind them. Turning, Claudia stared at its white purity; the place that existed both here and at home, as her father’s study.

Jared swung the gates closed and fastened the chains across. He clipped a small device to the bronze. ‘This is just a safeguard. Medlicote was down here this morning.’ Claudia was surprised. ‘My father’s secretary?’ Jared nodded, preoccupied.

‘What did he want?’

‘He had a message for me. He took a good look round. I think he’s as curious as everyone else in the Court Claudia had always disliked the tall, silent man who worked for her father. But now she said, quietly.

‘What message?’ They had reached the stairs. She dumped the sack of feathers for some servant to clear; Jared stepped back with perfect Protocol to let her go first. For a moment, as she swished up under the cobwebs, a silver of fear came to her, a fear that he would lie, or evade her question. But his voice was normal. ‘A message from the Queen. I’m not sure what it’s about. She wants to meet with me.’ Claudia smiled sweetly into the dimness. ‘Well you should go. We need to know what she’s up to.’

‘I have to say I find her terrifying. But yes, you’re right.’ She waited for him at the top; as he emerged from the doorway he caught the frame and breathed in sharply for a moment, as if a spark of pain had stung him. Then he caught her eye and straightened. They walked along the panelled corridor in silence, turning into a long hallway lined with hundreds of blue and white vases each as high as a man, filled with ancient potpourri that mouldered mustily. Under their feet the wooden boards creaked.

‘The Esoterica are kept at the Academy,’ Jared said.

‘Then I’ll have to go there.’

‘You’ll need the Queen’s permission. And we both know she does not really want the Portal reopened.’

‘Master, I’ll go, whatever she says. And you’ll have to come with me, because I won’t understand any of what I find.’

‘That will mean leaving Finn here on his own.’ She knew that. She had been thinking about that for days.

‘We’ll need to find a bodyguard for him.’ They had reached the Honeysuckle Court. The sweet scent of its tangling flowers was like a wave of summer, it made her feel happier. As they walked out into the maze of formal paths the evening sun lit the cloisters of twisted crystal and gold; tiny mosaic pieces glittered, and a few bees hummed in the clipped rosemary and lavender.

Far off, the clock on the high tower began to chime a quarter to seven. Claudia frowned. ‘You’d better go. Sia doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ Jared took out the watch from his pocket and checked it.

Claudia said, ‘You always carry that now.’

‘Your father gave it to me. I think of myself as its guardian.’ The timepiece was digital and accurate. Inside its gold case it was purely non-Era, and that had always amazed her, because her father had been meticulous about detail. Gazing now at the fine silver chain, the tiny cube that hung from it, she wondered how the Warden was coping with the filth and poverty of the Prison. But then he knew it well enough. He had been there many times.

Jared clicked the watch shut. He held it still a moment.

Then, his voice very soft, he said, ‘Claudia, how did you know I was to meet the Queen at seven?’ She froze.

For a moment she couldn’t say anything. Then she glanced at him. She knew her face was flushed.

‘I see,’ he said.

‘Master, I . . . I’m sorry. The note was lying there. I picked it up and read it.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry!’ She felt ashamed. And somewhere, annoyed at her slip.

‘I won’t say I’m not a little hurt,’ he said, buttoning his coat. Then he looked up and his green eyes were fixed on her. Urgently he said, ‘We must never doubt each other, Claudia. They will try to divide us, try to turn us against each other, you and me and Finn. Never let them do that.’

‘I never will.’ She was fierce. ‘Jared, are you angry with me?’

‘No.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘I have long known you are your father’s daughter. Now, I’ll ask the Queen to let us ride to the Academy. Come to the tower later, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ She nodded, and watched him walk away, bowing as he passed two ladies-in-waiting who curtsied and watched his slim dark shape appreciatively. They turned, and saw Claudia. She fixed them with a cold stare; they hurried away.

Jared was hers. But however much he tried to hide it, she knew she had hurt him.

At the corner of the cloister Jared waved back at Claudia and turned into the archway. As soon as he was out of her sight, he stopped. Leaning his hand on the wall he took deep breaths. Before seeing the Queen he would need his medication. He took a handkerchief out and wiped his forehead, letting the sharp spasm subside, quietly counting the pulse rate under his finger.

He should not be so upset. Claudia was right to be inquisitive. And after all, he had one secret even from her.

He took out the watch and held it till the metal grew warm in his hand. For a moment back there, he had been about to tell her, until she had given herself away about the Queen.

And what had stopped him? Why shouldn’t she know that he held between his fingers the tiny cube that was Incarceron, the place where her father, and Keiro, and Attia were imprisoned?

He let it rest on his palm, remembering the Warden’s voice, mocking his horror. ‘You are like a god, Jared. You hold Incarceron in your hands.’ Beads of sweat smeared it; he wiped them away. He shut the watch up and plunged it in his pocket, and hurried to his room.

Claudia stared gloomily at her feet. For a moment she had almost hated herself; now she told herself not to be stupid.

She had to get back to Finn. The news of the proclamation would be hard for him. As she walked quickly through the cloister she sighed. Sometimes in these last few weeks, when they had been out hunting, or riding in the woods, she had had the feeling that he was on the brink of fleeing, of turning his horse’s head and galloping away into the woods of the Realm, away from the Court and the burden of being the Prince who had come back from the dead. He had wanted so hard to Escape, to find the stars. And all he had found was a new prison.

Beyond the cloister were the mews; on a sudden impulse Claudia ducked under the low archway into the dusty hail.

She needed time to think and this was her favourite place in the crowded Court. Sunlight fell through a high window at the far end of the building; the air smelt of old straw and dust, and the birds.

They sat, tethered to posts, all the noble hawks and falcons of the Court. Some wore tiny red hoods that covered their eyes; as they tossed their heads or preened small bells rang, a miniature plume rippled. Others stared at Claudia as she passed down the aisle between their enclosures, the great owls with their wide eyes twisting their necks soundlessly, the sparrowhawks with a fierce tawny gaze, the merlin sleepily. At the far end, tethered by Leather jesses, a great eagle glared arrogantly at her, its beak yellow and cruel as gold.

She took a gauntlet down and pulled it on; tugging a fragment of meat from a hanging bag, she held it out. The eagle turned its head. For a moment it was as still as a statue, watching her intently. Then its beak snatched; it tore the sinewy flesh between its talons.

‘A true symbol of the Royal house.’ Claudia jumped.

Someone was standing in the shadows behind a stone screen. She could see his hand and arm in the slant of sunlight, where dust motes floated. For a moment she almost thought it was her father, and a stab of feeling she couldn’t guess at jerked her hand into a fist.

Then she said, ‘Who is that?’ A rustle of straw.

She had no weapon. No one was here. She took one step back.

The man came forward, slowly. The sunlight slashed on his tall, thin shape, his greasy hair hanging scraggily, the small half-moons of his glasses.

She breathed out, angrily. Then she said, ‘Medlicote.’

‘Lady Claudia. I hope I didn’t startle you.’ Her father’s secretary made a stiff bow and she dropped a brief cold curtsy. It struck her that though she had seen the man nearly every day of her life when her father was home, she had probably hardly ever spoken to him before.

He was gaunt and had a slightly hunched look, as if the hours spent labouring over a desk had begun to bend him.

‘Not at all she lied. Then, hesitantly, ‘Actually, I’m glad to have the chance to speak to you. My father’s affairs...'

‘Are in perfect order.’ The interruption astounded her; she stared at him. He stepped closer. ‘Lady Claudia, forgive my discourtesy, but we have little time. Perhaps you may recognize this.’ He held out ink-stained fingers and dropped something small and cold into the gauntlet she wore. The slash of sunlight fell across it. She saw a small metal token; a running beast, its mouth open and snarling. She had never seen it before. But she knew what it meant.

It was a steel wolf.

5

‘I could breathe fire on you,’ the wirewolf growled.

‘Do it,’ said Sapphique. ‘Just don’t throw me into the water.’

‘I could gnaw your shadow away.’

‘That’s nothing, compared with the black water.’

‘I could crush your bones and sinews.’

‘I fear the terrible water more than you.’ The wirewof flung him angrily into the lake.

So he swam away, laughing.

THE WIREWOLF RETURNS

The Glove was too small.

Horrified, Attia watched how the material stretched, how small tears opened at its seams. She glanced at Rix; his eyes were fixed in fascination on the Winglord’s fingers.

And he was smiling.

Attia breathed in; suddenly she understood. All that pleading for them not to touch the props – he had wanted this all along!

She glanced at Quintus. The juggler held a red ball and a blue ball, alert. Behind, in the gloom, the troupe waited.

Thar held up his hand. In the darkness the black glove was almost invisible, as if his limb had been severed at the wrist.

He barked a harsh laugh. ’So now. If I snap my fingers do gold coins tumble from them? If I point at a man does he fall dead?’ Before anyone could answer he had tried it, turning and jabbing his forefinger at one of the bulky men behind him.

The thug’s face went white. ‘Why me, chief?’

‘Scared, Mart?’

‘I just don’t like it, that’s all.’

‘More fool you .’ Thar swung back and stared at Rix contemptuously. ‘I’ve seen better props under a waggon wheel. You must be some showman to make anyone believe in this junky Rix nodded. ‘So I am. The greatest showman in Incarceron.’ He raised his hand. lnstantly, Thar’s scorn flicked off; he glanced down at his gloved fingers.

Then he howled in agony.

Attia jumped. The echo of the cry rang in the tunnel; the Winglord was yelping and clutching the glove. ‘Get it off me!

It’s burning me!’

‘How very unfortunate,’ Rix murmured.

Thar’s face was red with fury. ‘Kill him,’ he roared.

His men moved but Rix said, ‘Do that and you’ll never get it off.’ He folded his arms, his thin face unmoved. If it was a performance, Attia thought, it was masterly. Slowly, so no one noticed, she slipped over into the driver’s seat.

Thar was swearing, tearing desperately at the Glove.

‘Acid! It’s eating into my skin!’

‘If you will misuse the things of Sapphique, what can you expect?’ There was an edge in Rix’s voice that made Attia glance at him. The gap-toothed grin was gone; he had that hard look of obsession that had alarmed her before. Behind her the juggler, Quintus, made a nervous click with his tongue.

‘Kill the others then!’ Thar was gasping now.

‘No one will be hurt.’ Rix fixed the gang with a level stare.

‘You will allow us to pass, right out of the Dice hills, and then I take the spell off. Any treachery; and the anger of Sapphique will burn him for all eternity.’ Their eyes flickered at each other.

‘Do it,’ Thar howled.

It was a moment of danger. Attia knew that everything depended on the fear the Bandits had of their leader. If one of them ignored him or killed him or took command, Rix was finished. But they looked cowed, and uneasy. First one, then the rest, shuffled back.

Rix jerked his head.

‘Move,’ Quintus hissed.

Attia grabbed the reins.

‘Wait!’ Thar screamed. His gloved fingers twitched, as if electric sparks were jerking through them. ‘Stop it. Stop it doing that.’

‘I’m not making it do anything,’ Rix said, interested.

The black fingers clutched, convulsed. The halfman lurched forward, snatched a brush from the bucket of gilt paint hanging under the waggon. Gold drips splatted the tunnel floor.

‘What now?’ Quintus muttered.

Thar staggered to the wall. With a huge splashing movement, his gloved hand drew five shining letters on the curved metal.

ATTIA.

Everyone stared in astonishment. Rix looked at her. Then he swung to Thar. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m not doing it!’ The man was almost choking with terror and fury. ‘The filthy glove is alive!’

‘You can write?’

‘Of course I can’t write. I don’t know what it says!’ Attia was breathless with awe. She scrambled down from the waggon and ran to the wall. The letters dripped and ran, long spindly streaks of gold.

‘What?’ she gasped. ‘What next?’ With a jerk, as if it dragged him, Thar’s hand whipped the brush up and wrote.

THE STARS EXIST, ATTIA. FiNN SEES THEM.

‘Finn,’ she breathed.

SOON, SO WILL I. BEYOND SNOW AND STORM.

Something brushed her skin. She caught it; a small, soft object, it drifted down from the dark roof.

A blue feather.

And then they were falling all around, soft as laughter, a snow of tiny blue feathers, each identical, falling on the waggons and the warband and the road, a muffling, impossible storm, feathers hissing and crackling in the flames, snuffled away and trampled by the oxen, falling in eyes and on shoulders, on the canvas roofs, on the blades of axes, sticking in the clots of paint.

‘The Prison is doing this!’ Rix’s voice was a whisper of awe.

He caught her arm. ‘Quickly. Before—’ But it was too late.

With a roar the tempest came out of the dark and flattened him against her; she staggered, but he hauled her up. The wrath of Incarceron raged; a scream of hurricane that scoured the tunnel and smashed down the gates. The warband were scattered; as Rix dragged Attia away she saw how Thar crumpled, how the black glove shrivelled and split on his hand, dissolving to a network of holes, skeins of raw, bloody skin.

Then she was scrambling aboard; Rix yelled and whipped at the oxen and they were moving, rumbling on blindly through the blizzard. Attia covered her head with her arms as the feathers gusted at her, and above them she saw the thrown spheres of the jugglers light the eerie storm with green and red and purple.

It was hard going. The oxen were tough, but even they staggered with the force of the wind, putting their heads down and plodding on. Beside her, Attia heard a faint, windsnatched hysteria; glancing up she saw that Rix was laughing softly to himself, blue feathers snagged in his hair and clothes.

It was too hard to talk, but Attia managed a look back.

There was no sign of the Bandits. After twenty minutes the tunnel became lighter; the wagon came round a long bend and she saw light ahead, a jagged entrance through the feather—storm.

As they plodded towards it the storm died, as suddenly as it had come.

Slowly, Attia took her arms down and drew breath. At the tunnel entrance Rix said, ‘Anyone following?’ She tried to see. ‘No. Quintus and his brothers are at the back.’

‘Excellent. A few stunballs will stop pursuit.’ Her ears stung from the icy wind. Huddling her coat around her she picked feathers from her sleeves, spat out blue fluff. Then she said, appalled, ‘The Glove was destroyed!’ He shrugged. ‘What a pity.’ The deadpan words, the smug grin made her stare. Then she looked past him at the landscape.

It was a frozen world.

Below them the road ran down between great banks of ice, head high, and she could see that this whole Wing was an open tundra, abandoned and windswept, stretching far into the gloom of the Prison. There was a great moat blocking their way, with a bridge fortified with a portcullis of black metal worn thin by the abrasions of sleet. An entrance had been jaggedly cut through it; the ends of steel bars bent back.

Oily slush showed where traffic had passed, but to Attia the sudden cold seared like fear.

‘I’ve heard of this place she whispered. ‘This is the Ice Wing.’

‘How clever of you, sweetkin. So it is: As the oxen slipped and clattered down the slope she was silent. Then she said, ‘So it wasn’t the real Glove?’ Rix spat to one side. ‘Attia, if he’d opened any box or hidden compartment on this waggon he’d have found a glove. A small black glove. I never said it was Sapphique’s.

None of them are, in fact. Sapphique’s Glove is too close to my heart to be stolen.’

‘But . . . it burned him.’

‘Well, he was right about the acid. As for not being able to take it off, he was perfectly able to. But I made him believe he could not. That is magic, Attia. To take a man’s mind and twist it to believe the impossible.’ For a moment he concentrated on guiding the ox round a jutting girder. ‘Once he had let us go he would have believed the spell to be ended’ She watched him sideways. ‘And the writing?’ Rix’s eyes slid to hers. ‘I was going to ask you about that.’

‘Me?’

‘Even I can’t make an illiterate man write. The message was for you. Odd things have been happening, Attia, since we met you.’ She realized she was biting her nails. She wrapped her hands hastily in her sleeves. ‘It’s Finn. It must be Finn. He’s trying to speak to me. From Outside.’ Rix’s voice was quiet. ‘And you think the Glove will help?’

‘I don’t know! Perhaps . . . if you let me just see it...’ He stopped the waggon so abruptly that she almost fell off.

‘NO. It’s dangerous, Attia. Illusions are one thing, but this is a real object of power. Even I wouldn’t dare wear it.’

‘You’ve never even been tempted?’

‘Maybe. But I’m crazy not stupid.’

‘But you wear it in the act.’

‘Do I?’ he grinned.

‘You’re infuriating she said.

‘My life’s ambition. Now. This is where you get down.’ She stared round. ‘Here?’

‘The settlement is about two hours ahead. Remember, you don’t know us, we don’t know you.’ He fished in his pocket and put three brass coins into her hand.

‘Get yourself something to eat. And tonight, sweetkin, remember to tremble a bit more when I raise the sword.

Look scared stiff.’

‘I don’t need to act.’ She climbed down, then stopped, halfway. ‘How do I know that you’re not just dumping me here and heading on?’ Rix winked and whipped up the ox. ‘I wouldn’t dream of such a thing: She watched them all pass. The bear was hunched in misery, its cage floor blue with feathers. One of the jugglers waved at her, but no one else even put their heads out.

Slowly, the troupe rolled into the distance.

Attia tugged her pack on to her back and stamped life into her cold feet. She walked quickly at first, but the track was treacherous, a frozen metalway greasy with oil. As she descended into the plain the walls of ice slowly rose on each side; soon they were higher than her head, and as she picked her way past them she saw objects and dust embedded deep inside. A dead dog, its jaws wide. A Beetle. In one place, small round black stones and grit. In another, so deep among blue bubbles she could barely see it, the bones of a child.

It grew bitterly cold. Her breath began to cloud around her.

She hurried, because the waggons were already out of sight, and only by walking fast could she keep warm.

Finally, at the bottom of the slope, she reached the bridge.

It was stone, and it arched over the moat, but as she slipped along in the cart ruts she saw that the moat was frozen solid, and leaning over the side made her shadow darken its dirty surface. Debris was strewn across it. Chains led from the cutwaters, disappearing deep into the ice.

The portcullis, when she came to it, was black and ancient.

The ends of the bent bars glittered with icicles, and on the very top a solitary long-necked bird perched, white as snow.

For a moment she thought it was a carving, until suddenly it spread its wings and flew, with a mournful cark, high into the iron-grey sky.

Then she saw the Eyes.

There were two, one on each side of the iron gate. Tiny and red, they stared down at her. Icicles hung from them like frozen tears.

Attia stopped, breathless, holding her side.

She stared up. ‘I know you’re watching me. Was it you that sent the message?’ Silence. Only the low cold whisper of snow.

‘What did you mean, that you would see the stars soon?

You’re the Prison. How can you see Outside?’ The Eyes were steady points of fire. Did she imagine that one had winked?

She waited until she was too cold to stand there any longer.

Then she climbed through the gap in the portcullis and trudged on.

Incarceron was cruel, they all knew that. Claudia had said that it wasn’t meant to be, that the Sapienti had nude the Prison as a great experiment, a place of light and warmth and safety. Attia laughed aloud, bitterly. If so, it had failed. The Prison kept it own council. It rearranged its landscapes and struck down troublemakers with laserfire, if it felt like it. Or it let its inmates fight and prey on each other and laughed to see them struggle. It knew nothing of mercy.

And only Sapphique – and Finn – had ever Escaped it.

She stopped and raised her head. ‘I suppose that makes you angry,’ she said. ‘I suppose that makes you jealous, doesn’t it?’ There was no answer. Instead the snow became real. It fell gently and relentlessly, and she shouldered her pack and walked wearily through it, a noiseless cold that chilled her fingers and toes, chapped her lips and cheeks, made her breath a frosted cloud that did not disperse.

Her coat was threadbare, her gloves had holes. She cursed Rix as she stumbled in frozen potholes, tripped over broken mesh.

The track was covered already, the ruts of the waggons hidden. A pile of ox-dung was a frozen mound.

But when she looked up, her lips blue with cold, she saw the settlement.

It seemed to be a collection of low round mounds, as white as their surroundings. They rose out of the tundra, all but invisible except for the smoke escaping from vents and chimneys. Tall poles soared above them; she saw a man at the top of each, as if they were lookouts.