The Mortal Knife (15 page)

That's what it wants.
He realised this quite suddenly – that this Hunter, whatever it was, relied on speed and terror like any other predator. If he ran he would be running in blind panic and whatever it was would engulf him. It was getting closer now and was very hard to ignore – still far away but like watching the swift approach of a tornado. There was the same sense of a great swirling, dark, consuming energy. The dim grey light that seemed to permeate the Hinterland was fading, becoming something deeper and more opaque.

Deliberately now Adam turned his back on it once again. It was hard when every nerve cell in his body was screaming that he should run and hide and lie down and cry and maybe it would leave him alone. He clenched his fist around the stone, feeling the smooth, hard coolness of it beneath his fingertips. The doorway was out there. He knew it was. He was going to find it and go through it.

He walked, steady and deliberate, holding the stone in front of him like a talisman and all the time behind him the hissing, rattling was turning to a dull roar. He could feel something now, as though a thousand tiny hands were plucking at the fine hairs on the back of his neck and the fear was enough to make him forget about everything else – apart from the stone. He clutched the stone and sent out one thought:
Clotho. The doorway. Help me.

And there, ahead of him, was a thin gold line, racing like fire against the deepening gloom. It rippled out and curved and cut through the darkness until there was the outline of the door. The roaring sound behind him was deafening and something else came out of it: an awful, howling scream of rage.

There was no more time. Adam ran.

Adam had no time to worry about what was waiting on the other side of the doorway. As his fingers grasped the handle he had a second to wonder where he would emerge on the other side: the amphitheatre? Morta's den? The Tapestry room? He could feel the louring presence of the Hunter close behind, blocking his capacity for rational thought. He shoved the door open and threw himself inside.

‘Hello, Adam Mortson,' Clotho said. She was standing a couple of metres away from him, holding a teapot, and didn't seem at all surprised by his sudden entrance.

Adam turned without greeting her, desperate to close the door behind him and keep the Hunter at bay – only to find it closed already. There was just smooth wall and polished wood, where seconds earlier there had been the grey light of the Hinterland.

‘You are safe, Adam. Sit down and be at rest. Let me take your coat.'

Adam peeled off his school blazer and blinked around him, feeling like someone in a particularly vivid dream. Whatever he'd expected it hadn't been this.

He was in what looked like a cottage from a fairy story. The room was a small parlour, with a chintz-covered sofa and armchair. One half of the sofa was occupied by an enormous cat the colour of charcoal. The floor was polished wood, covered with tasselled rugs in places. A walnut piano gleamed darkly in one corner, reflecting the mellow light from two lamps and the cheerful flames licking wood in the fireplace. A bookcase filled a whole wall, crammed with a mixture of leather-bound classics and some fairly heavy-looking medical books. A few of the titles seemed to be about genetics. The doorway he had come through was gone but there was a normal wooden door on the other side of the room. The window beside it revealed a damp green landscape beyond. Raindrops pelted against the window – raindrops that definitely hadn't been falling on Adam in the Hinterland.

‘I love the rain,' Clotho said softly. ‘It always makes me feel so cosy sitting by the fire, listening to it falling.' As if in response to her words there was a sudden howling gust of wind outside and a fresh spatter of drops hit the glass.

Adam sank gingerly onto the other end of the chintz sofa, keeping a careful eye on the cat. Its ears twitched and it opened one piercing green eye, before deciding Adam was no threat and going back to sleep.

Clotho was fetching brightly patterned plates and cups. ‘I should not have worried about you getting here. With Mortson blood you were never going to be in peril!' She smiled at him.

Adam thought about the huge, engulfing presence of the Hunter racing up behind him. ‘I wouldn't bet on that,' he muttered. He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like a hand with anything?'

‘No need. Everything is ready now.' Clotho placed a tray on a low walnut table and poured out the tea. She seemed shy all of a sudden, handing him a cup and saucer without making eye contact. It was only when she sat down again that she sneaked a peek in his direction. ‘I rarely have visitors.'

Adam resisted the urge to snort. Having to dodge a monster probably put most people off knocking on the door and dropping in for a cuppa. ‘Your house is very nice.' He hesitated, looking through the window at the darkening landscape outside. ‘Where are we exactly?'

Clotho smiled but there was a hint of sadness. ‘The Hinterland is a barren place. We each make our own landscape.' She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Lachesis always keeps hers the same – a sort of apartment block. I change mine around a lot. Sometimes I like the countryside and sometimes I like the sea. I find the waves very soothing.'

‘I see,' Adam said, even though he didn't. He didn't understand any of this. What did she want with him? The fact he wasn't dead yet was encouraging. ‘I thought I was going to come out in the amphitheatre. You know, where we were the last time?'

‘I did not give you the token for the amphitheatre. That is only a meeting place. I gave you something of mine, so it would lead you to my own realm.' She paused with an expectant look on her face and after a moment Adam realised that she wanted her token back. He scrabbled through his pocket and pulled the stone out, wiping trouser fluff off it before handing it over. ‘I realise this is strange for you. I mean you no harm, be sure of that. It is wonderful to spend time with someone so young and so mortal. Now, would you like some cake?' She lifted a silver dome from a plate. ‘I made it myself from scratch. I used to like baking in my old life so I thought I would do things properly.'

Adam blinked at the sudden change of direction. He eyed the sad-looking sponge with dismay. It was the only thing in the room that didn't look as if it had fallen from the pages of a fairy story. Still, he didn't want to hurt her feelings, so he nodded meekly. Her face lit up and she cut him a generous chunk. It landed on the patterned plate with a heavy splat, oozing cream and jam. She watched him expectantly as he chomped through a half-cooked mouthful. He managed to swallow it and smile. ‘Very nice.' He decided to try and distract her. ‘It was very kind of you to invite me but  …  you said you had something to tell me. Something about me being in danger.'

Clotho sighed and leaned back in her armchair, nursing her cup and saucer. ‘I should not have returned to the physical realm but it
was
exciting. I wish I could have come down to see the ball. It's many, many years since I've danced at a ball.' Her face was wistful.

Adam studied her. What did she mean many, many years? She didn't look much older than Elise but there was something about the way she said it that made it sound like a long time. ‘Have you been a Fate for long?'

‘Oh, a few hundred years now I expect,' Clotho said dreamily. ‘After the first century the months and years all start to merge together.'

Adam stared at her speechless. A few
centuries
? How could she be so casual about it? She was the oldest creature he'd ever come across. How on earth was she still alive? Of course she wasn't technically on the earth – she was in the Hinterland.

As if reading his mind she said, ‘Time moves differently here, Adam. Or maybe we are outside time. I have never really understood. Atropos was always better at that kind of thing.'

‘You mean Morta?' Adam said carefully.

Clotho's face tightened. ‘No, not the newcomer. The last thread-cutter. We were friends, good friends.' She paused. ‘She really
was
a sister to me. I miss her.'

‘What happened to her?'

Clotho shrugged. ‘What happens to all of us in the end. She grew weary. It was time to stop. She was here a hundred years before I came along, so I think she had earned her retirement.' She gave Adam a wry smile. ‘Sometimes I can understand the appeal of a nice long rest!' She sprang to her feet with a sudden burst of energy, taking Adam by surprise. ‘Would you like to see my work? What I do?'

Adam nodded, his head whirling. All right, Auntie Jo had said the Fates stayed in their roles for a long time but he hadn't realised just how long. Clotho still looked like she had years ahead of her. She moved calmly around the room, setting things right and retrieving his blazer. Adam shrugged it on and only hesitated a moment when she opened the cottage door and ushered him out into the rain.

He found himself outside a thatched cottage, perched on top of a hill. A sea of grass lay below them, sweeping down to a dark mass of forest at the bottom. The forest seemed to circle the entire base of the hill. It was like standing on an atoll in the centre of an ocean. Adam tried to see what lay beyond the forest but it blurred and faded into the falling dusk.

Clotho raised her hand and the rain ceased in a moment. A split second later sunlight – or something very like it – bathed the countryside. ‘Rain isn't so nice outside.' She led him along a stony path, running behind the house.

Adam stopped in surprise as they came to a vast wooden barn. ‘What is this?'

Clotho smiled. ‘This is where I make things.' She unlatched a huge wooden door and stepped inside. Adam followed, peering into the gloom. ‘Let there be light,' Clotho said softly and from nowhere a warm, golden glow filled the air around. He was looking at the world's biggest sewing room.

It was staggering. Inside the barn there were endless aisles of wooden shelves, stacked with spools and spools of thread. Some threads were fine and some were thick; some were pastel coloured while others almost burned with their own brightness in the dim light. One thing was for sure – the barn was deceptive. From the outside it looked big but inside it looked like this place went on forever.

Clotho reached into her skirts and her silver spindle appeared. She led Adam down one of the endless aisles, through the towering rows of shelves. Adam had never seen so many colours and types of thread. It was like the biggest sewing supplier in the world. He was fascinated by the sheer variety. He couldn't help stopping to look at some of the colours – then hurried to catch up with Clotho.

What felt like hours later they emerged near the back of the barn in front of a series of vast pieces of spinning equipment. Some looked like they had been borrowed from a folk museum; others like they had been liberated from a high-tech factory churning out millions of metres of thread a day.

Clotho gestured at the machinery. ‘I spend most of my time here. This is where I make my souls. And when they are made Lachesis measures them for the Tapestry of Lights.'

Adam felt a vague disquiet that something as individual as a soul could be mass produced. ‘How many do you have to make every day?'

‘A few hundred thousand most days,' Clotho said. She smiled at Adam's stunned expression. ‘Remember, time moves differently here. A day in your world is a long, long time here. The first Fates spun every single soul by hand but with modern medicine there are so many mortals born that it is no longer possible. I still spin as many as I can with my spindle.'

‘But can't you have a helper?'

Clotho shrugged. ‘There are no helpers. We are what we are. This is just how things are done.'

There it was again, that phrase – the favourite phrase in the Luman world.
This is just how things are done
. This was why only men were Lumen; why Chloe would marry a stranger and be sent to the far side of the world; why Morta could murder as many souls as she liked just because she had a quota. Adam thought about his father's exhaustion and tried not to scowl. Was he the only one to ever think about changing
anything
? For all their swooping and keystones and balls, most of the Lumen he knew were like sheep, blindly following orders. ‘I see.'

Clotho was studying him. ‘You are different from most of our kind, Adam Mortson. I have watched you for some time now.'

A prickling sense of danger slid down Adam's spine. ‘I'm not very interesting to watch.' He tried to make a joke of it. ‘Now if you saw what my brother Luc gets up to you'd find him much more entertaining.'

‘Oh, but you
are
interesting. The things you do  … ' Clotho tailed off and tilted her head to one side, birdlike. ‘The thoughts you must think to act as you do. To put yourself in so much danger for strangers.'

Adam stared at her, feeling sick. His mind was a black hole. There was nothing helpful in there right now; no smart comeback or brilliant explanation. How much did she know? He hadn't planned for this. Stupidly he'd assumed that bringing him here meant she wouldn't hurt him. Now he realised that it didn't mean
anything
. He was just one soul, breaking laws that had been there for thousands of years, and Clotho could make a billion more souls in his place. Maybe he was a curiosity. She was probably going to kill him now.

But as Clotho looked at him her eyes were shining. ‘I know why you save them,' she said and her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘You see them as I see them. Every thread is precious. I weave this knowledge into as many threads as I can, as many souls as I can. The knowledge that every single human soul is precious.'

Adam's heart was thumping. So she
did
know what he was doing – and yet somehow she didn't seem angry. ‘I just want to help people,' he said slowly. ‘I don't want to break the laws or get anyone into trouble. It's just  …  I know when some of them are going to die. Not all the time but – sometimes I can stop it. I want to give them longer.'

Clotho nodded but her face was sad. ‘She knows.'

His heart kicked up a gear. He didn't have to ask who Clotho was talking about. ‘Right.'

‘As they are mine to spin they are hers to sever.' There was a bitterness creeping into her voice that Adam hadn't heard before. ‘Atropos took as wisely and carefully as she could, bound though she was by the actions of mortals. Her successor has not yet learned wisdom. Maybe it will come in time.' Clotho didn't sound convinced.

Adam hardly dared to ask the question but there would never be another chance. ‘Who made Morta a Fate? And you?'

Clotho looked at him for a long moment. ‘We are
all
threads, Adam. Even the Lady Fates.' She fell silent and Adam thought she wouldn't say anything more but she sighed and shook her head. ‘We all have our freedom, within limits. Morta knows that someone is cheating her of souls and when she finds you she will kill you. She is free to do this, as I am free to try and save you. I have warned you but I can do no more. You are free to act as you choose but there are consequences. Tread carefully, precious soul.'

Warmth filled Adam. When she called him ‘precious soul' she meant it. All his life he'd felt like a failure, as if he was walking a tightrope, one step from disaster. Every other Mortson seemed to know their place in the world but he never had. He had been a disappointment to everyone – but not to Clotho. She was looking at him with something like love. It wasn't favouritism; he had a feeling that she looked at every soul that way.