Sapphique - Incarceron 02 (9 page)

He shook his head. 'Very little. The Portal is badly damaged. I fear it may be beyond repair.' He did not say anything about the Warden's study at home, nor did she ask. Only he and Claudia knew that the Portal was identical in both places. He had ridden there weeks ago to check it. It was exac
tly the same as here. 'However,
something happened today that I did not expect.' 'Oh?'

He told her about the feather. 'The replication was extraordinary. But I have no way of knowing whether anything happened in the Prison. Since the Warden took both Keys with him we have no communication with the Inmates.'

'I see. And have you come any closer to finding Incarceron's actual location?'

He moved slightly, feeling the watch's heavy tick against his chest. 'I'm afraid not.'

'Such a pity! We know so little.'

What would she do if she knew he carried it in his pocket? Stamp on it with her white-heeled shoes?

'Lady Claudia and I have decided we must visit the Academy.' He surprised himself by his assured tone. 'The records of the making of the Prison may be there among the Esoterica. Perhaps there will be diagrams, equations.' He paused, aware that he was perilously close to infringing Protocol. But Sia's gaze was on her neat fingernails.

'You will go,' she said. 'But not Claudia.'

Jared frowned. 'But
..’

She lifted her eyes and smiled at him sweetly, full in his face. 'Master, how many more years does your physician think you will live?'

He breathed in sharply. He felt as if she had stabbed him, a bitter resentment that she could ask him, a cold dread of answering. His hands shook.

Glancing down, he tried to speak steadily, but his voice sounded strange to himself.

'Two years. At most.'

'I am so very sorry.' She did not take her eyes off him. 'And you agree with him?'

He shrugged, hating her pity. 'I think he is a little optimistic.'

She made a small pout with her red lips. Then she said, 'Of course, we are all the victims of fate and destiny. For example, if there had never been the Years of Rage, the great war, the Protocol, a cure for even your rare condition would certainly have been available years ago. Research then was extensive. Or so I gather.'

He stared at her, his skin prickling, sensing danger.

The Queen sighed. She poured out wine into a crystal cup and settled back with it, curling her legs under her up on to the sofa. 'And you are so young, Master Jared. Barely thirty I understand?'

He managed to nod.

'And a brilliant scholar. Such a loss to the Realm. And dear Claudia! How will she bear it?'

Her cruelty astounded him. Her voice was silken and sad; she ran one long finger thoughtfully round the rim of the cup. 'And the pain you will have to bear,' she said softly. 'Knowing that soon no medicine will help, that you will lie helpless and ill, day after long day sinking further f
rom
what you were, until not even Claudia will be able to bring herself to see you. Until death will be welcome.' He stood, abruptly. 'Madam, I don't know what—' 'You do know. Sit down, Jared.'

He wanted to walk to the door, open it, storm out, away from the horror she faced him with. Instead, he sat. His forehead was damp with sweat. He felt defeated.

She eyed him calmly. Then she said, 'You will go and examine the Esoterica. The collection is vast, the remnants of a world's wisdom. I'm sure you will find some medical research that can help you. The rest will be up to you. You will need to experiment, to test, to do whatever it is you Sapienti do. I suggest you remain at the Academy; the medical facilities there are the best we have. A blind eye will be turned to any infringements of Protocol; you can do as you wish. You can spend your remaining time as it should be spent, in the research that will cure you.' She leant forward, her skirts rustling. 'I offer it to you, Jared. The forbidden knowledge. The chance of life.'

He swallowed.

In the stuffy room every sound seemed magnified, the voices outside worlds away.

'What do you want in return?' he said, hoarse. She leant back, smiling. As if she had won. 'I want nothing. Literally, nothing. The Portal must never open again. The gates of Incercero
n, wherever that place is, must
be found to be impassable. All attempts must fail.' Over the top of the crystal glass, her eyes met his.

'And Claudia need never know.'

8

Sapphique leapt up, overjoyed.
'If
you cannot answer, then I've won. Show me a way Out.'

Incarceron laughed in its million halls. It raised a claw and the skin of the claw split and the dragonskin Glove curled off and lay on the ground.

Sapphique was alone. He picked the shining thing up and cursed the Prison.

But when he put his hand into Incarceron's he knew its plans. He dreamed its dreams.

SAPPHIQUE IN THE TUNNELS OF MADNESS

That evening's show was packed.

The troupe had erected their creaking wooden stage in the central space of one of the snow-domes, a smoky hollow of hewn iceblocks, melted and refrozen over so many years that the roof was twisted and seamed, gnarled with gloops and pinnacles of ice, black with soot.

Watching Rix stand before the two chosen volunteers next to her Attia
tried to keep her face rapt and
wondering, but she knew he was very tense. The crowd here had been quiet all evening. Too quiet. Nothing seemed to impress them.

And things hadn't gone well. Perhaps it was the bitter cold, but the bear had refused to dance, crouching mournfully on the stage, despite all prodding. The jugglers had dropped their plates twice, and even Gigantia had only managed to draw a few spatters of applause by lifting a man on a chair with one of her huge hands.

But when the Dark Enchanter had appeared, the silence had grown deeper, more intense. The people stood in attentive rows, their eyes fixed in fascination on Rix as he faced them, young and dark, the black glove on his right hand, its forefinger pinned back to show the maiming.

It was more than fascination. It was hunger. From this close, Attia saw the sweat on his forehead.

The things he had said to the two women had been greeted with silence too. Neither of them had wept or clasped his hands with joy or given any indication of recognizing anything, even though he had managed to pretend they had. Their rheumy eyes just gazed imploringly at him. Attia had had to do the sobbing and cries of amazement; she thought she hadn't overplayed it, but the stillness had cowed her. The applause had been a mere ripple.

What was wrong with them all?

As she gazed out she
saw they were dirty and sallow,
their mouths and noses muffled and scarved against the cold, their eyes sunken with hunger. But that was nothing new. There seemed to be few old people, hardly any children. They stank of smoke and sweat and some sweet herbal tang. And they stood apart; they did not crowd together. Some sort of commotion caught her eye; to one side a woman swayed and fell. Those nearby stepped away. No one touched her, or bent over her. They left a space around her.

Maybe Rix had seen it too.

As he turned Attia caught a flash of panic under his make-up, but his voice was as smooth as ever.

'You search for an Enchanter of power, a Sapient who will show y
ou the way out of Incarceron. All
of you search for that!' He swung on them, c
hallenging, daring them to deny
it.

'I am that man! The way that Sapphique took lies through the Door of Death. I will take this girl through that door. And I will bring her back!'

She didn't have to pretend. Her heart was thudding hard.

There was no roar from the crowd, but the silence was different now. It had become a threat, a force of such desire it scared her. As Rix led her to the couch she glanced out at the muffled faces and knew that this was no audience happy to be fooled. They wanted Escape like a starving man craves food. Rix was playing with fire here.

'Pull out,' she breathed.

'Can't.' His lips barely moved. 'Show must go on.'

Faces pressed forward to see. Someone fell, and was trampled. A soft ice-thaw dripped from the roof, on Rix's make-up, on her hands gripping the couch, on the black glove. The crowd's breath was a frosted contagion.

'Death,' he said. 'We fear it. We would do anything to avoid it. And yet Death is a doorway that opens both ways. Before your eyes, you will see the dead live!'

He drew the sword out of the air. It was real. It gleamed with ice as he held it up.

This time there was no rumble, no lightning from the roof. Maybe Incarceron had seen the act too often. The crowd stared at the steel blade greedily. In the front row a man scratched endlessly, muttering under his breath.

Rix turned. He fastened the links around Attia's hands. 'We may have to leave fast. Be ready.'

The loops went round her neck and waist. They were false, she realized, and was glad.

He turned to the crowd and held up the sword. 'Behold! I will release her. And I will bring her back!'

He'd switched it. It was fake too. She only had seconds to notice, before he plunged it into her heart.

This time there was no vision of Outside.

She lay rigid, unbreathing, feeling the blade retract, the cold damp of fake blood spread on her skin.

Rix was facing the Silent mob; now he turned, she sensed him come near, his warmth bending over her.

He tugged the sword away. 'Now,' he breathed.

She opened her eyes. She felt unsteady, but not like the first time. As he helped her stand and the blood shrivelled miraculously on her coat she felt a strange release; she took his hand and was shown to the crowd and she bowed and smiled in relief, forgetting for a moment that she was not supposed to be part of the act.

Rix bowed too, but quickly. And as her euphoria drained away, she saw why.

No one was applauding.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on Rix. As if they waited for more.

Even he was thrown. He bowed again, lifted the black glove, stepped backwards on the creaking boards of the stage.

The crowd was agitated; someone shouted. A man shoved himself forward, a thin gangly man muffled up to the eyes; he tore himself out from the crowd and they saw he held one end of a thick chain. And a knife.

Rix swore briefly; out of the corner of her eye Attia saw the seven jugglers scurrying for weapons backstage.

The man climbed up on the boards. 'So Sapphique's Glove brings men back to life.'

Rix drew himself up. 'Sir, I assure you...'

'Then prove it again. Because we need it.' He hauled on the chain, and a slave fell forward on to the boards, an iron collar aro
und his neck, his skin raw with
hideous sores. Whatever the disease was, it looked terrible. 'Can you bring him back? I've already lost...' 'He's not dead,' Rix said.

The slaveowner shrugged. Then quickly, before anyone could move, he cut the man's throat. 'He is now.'

Attia gasped; her hands over her mouth.

The red slash overflowed; the slave fell choking and writhing. All the crowd murmured. Rix did not move. For a moment Attia had the sense he was frozen with horror, but when he spoke his voice had not a tremor. 'Put him on the couch.'

'I'm not touching him. You touch him. You bring him back.'

The people were shouting. Now they were crying out and crawling up the sides of the stage, all around, closing in. 'I've lost my children,' one cried. 'My son is dead,' another screamed. Attia looked round, backing away, but there was nowhere to go. Rix grabbed her hand with his black-gloved fingers. 'Hold tight,' he hissed. Aloud he said, 'Stand well back, sir.'

He raised his hand, clicked his fingers. And the floor collapsed.

Attia fell through the trapdoor with a suddenness that knocked the breath out of her; crashed on a mat stuffed with horsehair.

'Move!' Rix yelled. He was already on his feet; hauling her up he ran, crouched under the planking of the stage.

The noise above them was a fury; running footsteps, shouts and wails, a clash of blades. Attia scrambled over the joists; there was a curtain at the back and Rix dived under it, tugging off wig and make-up, false nose, fake sword. Gasping he whipped his coat off, turned it inside out and put it back on, tied it with string, became a bent, hunched beggar before her eyes.