Tribute (3 page)

Gerontius's disappearance is fast becoming a legend in the Academy. The students talk of nothing else, making wild guesses as to what happened to the tutor who seemed as much a part of the building as the stones themselves. His room has vanished as though it was never there. My father's people must have taken the wall down and found the old man's body. Did they take him away or simply wall him up again? I'll never know and it doesn't matter. Gerontius is dead. One by one, Benedict has stolen away the people I love. I swear by all the gods I'll make him pay for each of them. In blood.

The street winding uphill to the Academy is sprinkled with students, the ones who are habitually late, like me. I shrink away from them. I feel as translucent and fragile as old glass. Snatches of gossip drift to me on the cold wind:
Gerontius found a doorway through Time. Gerontius found a way to defeat Death and his secret is hidden somewhere in the Academy for anyone clever enough to find it.

So predictable! The old man would laugh if he could hear them. I reach the steps and dart up, trying to block out the voices bubbling over with conspiratorial excitement, wanting to be away from them and their stupid fantasies.

As I mount the last step, I glimpse my father's Guardian standing in the portico. He's a tall man with a broad face, blunt nose and dark hair pulled into a heavy plait. His brown eyes hold the blank look of all Guardians. His name is Otter and he spooks me. Guardians always do. Because of the emptiness in their eyes and how it comes to be there. Otter's eyes latch onto me and fear knots in my stomach. What business does Benedict's Guardian have at the Academy? Is he keeping an eye on me? Did my father find something incriminating in Gerontius's belongings after all?

I've been balancing on the edge of control for days. Now something inside me snaps. I stride across the portico, my eyes locked on Otter's face. He watches me approach with the stillness of a Guardian – a stillness that comes from supreme physical confidence – and as I draw near I'm uncomfortably aware of the size and strength of the man, of his muscular arms emerging from the sleeveless tunic, of the bronze Guardian bands encircling each wrist and the shiny white scar on his right shoulder where he was branded with my father's mage mark.

I come to a halt in front of him. He looks me in the eye, which is unnerving. Most kine won't look directly at you. Guardians are not normal kine, though. They are not even normal Tributes. Their minds have been invaded so much they lack free will. Brain-cleansing, it's called. A version of what my father will do to me if ever he finds out I'm a heretic like my mother. A chill crawls down my spine.

‘Why are you here?' I demand. ‘Are you following me? Did my father tell you to spy on me?'

‘Everything I do, Lady, is on Lord Benedict's orders.' His voice is low and pleasant, and totally without emotion.

Leave it! Leave him and pretend he doesn't exist.
I ignore the sensible voice nagging in my head. I don't want to be sensible. ‘Why did my father tell you to follow me?'

‘Perhaps His Lordship is worried for your safety.'

This is useless. Worse: talking to this man is dangerous. I feel the gaze of the straggling students who pause to watch, curiosity outweighing the fear of a demerit for tardiness. And then, something odd happens – the Guardian speaks unbidden: ‘Her Ladyship would be wise to return to the palazzo immediately after lessons today. These are perilous times in Asphodel and it pays to be careful where one goes and what one says. To anyone. Including me.'

He bows and withdraws without quite turning his back. But I have been dismissed. Or have I been warned? What in the name of the seven gods is going on?

When I get back to the palazzo that afternoon, the atmosphere is fizzing. My skin prickles as I walk through the courtyard. The cold sun of late winter is low in the sky. My shadow snakes ahead of me over the limestone pavement. Mages, courtiers, guards – everyone I pass is tense with anticipation. Something is happening. But what? And then, as if in answer to my question, the evening breeze gusts through the courtyard, bringing a sudden chill and the distant clatter of horses' hooves. Riders, approaching from the north.

I stop mid-stride and turn my head to listen. Messengers and emissaries from the other city-states come and go from the palazzo like nesting swallows, but this ringing of iron on stone is made by more than one or two horses. The feeling of excitement in the courtyard flares. A pair of mages I recognise as low-level administrative officers burst into a sprint and disappear into the palazzo. Guards run to the main gate and begin to unbar the massive wooden carriage doors.

I draw back into the half-dark of the peristyle. The tension in the air has infected me and my breath comes shallow and fast. The cavalcade marches closer, moving with the quickening steps of tired animals sensing rest.

North. Nothing lies north of Asphodel but the ancient ruins and scattered farms of the plains  …  until the Wall. A party of horsemen travelling from the Wall makes no sense. Tribute soldiers march on foot. Military messenger-mages journey alone and at a rapid trot. So who are my father's visitors?

Otter appears, jogging down the palazzo's wide steps, striding across the courtyard towards the gate, a brace of guards at either shoulder. I withdraw further into the shade of the peristyle. There's a secret here; one which might prove useful to the Knowledge Seekers.

The massive carriage doors creak wide, hinges squealing in protest. The guards just have time to secure them in place before the horses clatter in, hooves ringing, bridles jangling. For a moment, the movement and sound, the sudden stink of well-travelled humans and animals, stuns me into stupidity. My confusion thickens as I see who the riders are: a handful are military mages – low-level magic users who have chosen the army as an alternative route to some degree of status. The remaining riders are Tribute guards. And there is one other: slender, dust-spattered; and exotic as a rare bird in close-fitting woollen trousers, a shirt that might once have been white, and a jerkin of scarlet leather fastened with silver buckles. His hands are tied to the pommel of his saddle.

As I take in his cropped blond hair, the gold hoops in his ears, the boots he wears in the northern style, reaching halfway up the thigh – as I see the sword scabbard flapping empty and useless at his hip – shock runs a chill finger up my spine. The books in my father's library have taught me well. I know what manner of being I am gawping at, open-mouthed. A Maker! My father has captured a Maker and brought him to Asphodel!

This has never happened before. Mages don't collect Makers – they kill them. And while I have long dreamed of meeting one, in my fantasies this happens in a distant future. A future when I have settled my debts with my father. A future when I will be free to make Swift's journey for her – to visit the land where she would have become who she was meant to be. I never imagined that I would see my first Maker here, in the courtyard of my father's palazzo.

As I peer through the milling animals, my heart catches in my throat. The Maker can't be more than sixteen or seventeen. He sits easily on his horse, head thrown back in defiance. His cropped hair should be the flaxen yellow of the North but it's dun-coloured with dust and sweat. Restless eyes scowl, brightly blue, from an angular face smeared with dirt. The left side of his mouth is cut and swollen, and a bruise blooms between purple and yellow on his cheek. The boy glares at the buildings lining the courtyard, unable to conceal a mixture of wonder and fear.

I stare at him, and the breath leaves my body. There is nothing beautiful about this boy, with his dirt-bristled hair, glittering eyes and bruised face, but I feel his soul, fierce and free. He reminds me of the merlin.

I watch, unable to drag my eyes away, as Otter unties the boy and reaches up to help him from his horse. The Maker ignores the proffered hand, swings a leg over his mount's neck and leaps to the ground. He staggers as he lands and his face flushes red. The boy stares straight ahead as Otter takes his arm and propels him towards the palazzo.

My last glimpse is of a dirty blond head and scarlet jerkin bobbing amid leather-clad guards as they march him up the steps. I carry on gazing at the courtyard, at the stable hands leading away the horses, seeing none of it, my heart twisting strangely inside my chest.

All my excitement at having news for the Knowledge Seekers has died. I can't think about anything other than the boy. Whatever my father has planned for the Maker, it will be unpleasant and probably fatal. I want to save him. Stupid. I can't save myself.

The last of the horses is led away and I am alone. The sun drops behind the mountains; light and warmth vanish in an eyeblink. The north wind prowls the courtyard, bringing faint sounds of the city. I stand, motionless as one of the mossy old statues in the wall-niches, watching the palazzo windows blink into life. My eyes are trained on a particular one. When candlelight flickers behind its glass, I take a deep slow breath and wonder if I am brave enough to chance it.

A spy should always think through problems carefully and logically. I should stop myself right now. Instead, I lunge across the courtyard and sprint up the main stairs and inside. The door guard allows herself a brief look of surprise. But it's well known that Benedict's daughter is odd. Several of my classmates have told me that the betting shops have put the odds at my being declared mad, like my mother, at eight to one. They are probably right. I've been spying on my father for seven years, but never before have I attempted to eavesdrop on him. I may be too impulsive to make a good spy, but I'm not stupid. Usually.

Right now Otter is taking the Maker to Benedict and I need to hear what happens. I want to know why my father has brought this boy here. And what he intends to do with him.

I'm out of breath – and absolutely terrified – so I can't be totally mad. I race for the back stairs and slip up them so quickly that I arrive at the second floor in time to hear the Maker and his guards stamping down the corridor towards my father's library. I sprint up another flight of stairs and push through the door to the third floor, where I stand for a few precious seconds, panting and waiting for sanity to return.

It doesn't. I'm going to do this thing. The inside of my mouth goes thick and dry. This floor is given over to staff offices but the administrative mages should all have left for the day. The steward's office is directly over my father's library. It's locked, of course, but it takes very little concentration to insert a careful thought into the keyhole and convince the lock to open.

I slip inside, grateful for the chilly moonlight. There's no fireplace in this room – that would be an extravagance for clerical staff – but the library's chimney takes up nearly the whole of one wall.

I choose a large stone bedded into the chimney breast with a generous layer of mortar. Taking great care to build my concentration gradually so there is no sudden surge of magic to attract my father's attention, I soften the mortar with moisture from the air and ease the chunk of limestone out.

Trickles of sweat are running down my back when the stone finally comes to rest on the floor. I step onto it, push my head through the hole, and something soft, horribly sticky and full of soot wraps itself over my face. I gasp in a mouthful of clogging muck and begin to choke.

Stupid!
I forgot there would be cobwebs. Centuries-worth of them. I jerk away and crack the back of my head on the opening. Then I'm leaning against the chimney breast, clawing at my face. Smothering  …  choking  …  all my best nightmares. I dig and spit the gunk out of my mouth.
Pestilence, pestilence, pestilence!
I curse silently, wishing I knew better swear words. It takes several deep breaths before I calm down enough to try again.

This time I use the sleeve of my robe to wipe the opening clear before easing my head inside. A column of smoky air drifts up the centre of the cavernous chimney. Heat laps against my face. Occasional sparks fly up, rising like tiny shooting stars searching for a way back into the sky. With them comes the sound of voices. Fire carries my father's words to me.

‘ …  refusal will not serve you or your people. Your leaders gave you to me to hold as hostage against the peace, and I expect you to mend our clocks and train the apprentice I will provide. I have been promised that, despite your age, you are the best clocksmith in your city. I won't accept failure. If you persist in being stubborn you will be punished. You have one day and night to rest from the journey and adjust to your situation. Then I will expect you to mend our shrine clocks. You have the chance to make history, Maker! To bring a halt to centuries of war. Think on that in your cell. Otter, take him out of my sight. I lose patience!'

There's a scuffling sound, the closing of a door. Smoke rises, bringing silence. My father will be at his desk, thinking, planning, listening. I don't dare risk repairing the chimney. I ease down onto my bottom and rest my back against the slightly warm stone.

Peace.
If I hadn't heard it myself, I wouldn't believe it. My father has bartered a truce with the Makers! And to guarantee the peace, they've given a clocksmith as hostage – a boy who will repair our shrine clocks. Clocks that have been dying since the Clockmakers' Guild rebelled nearly half a century ago, mistakenly believing they were too valuable to mage-kind to be killed.

If the Maker does repair the shrine clocks, Benedict's hold on the loyalty of every mage in the city will be strengthened. But  …  a truce?
Peace?
I don't believe it. Benedict doesn't want peace. My father's greatest ambition is to wipe Maker-kind from the earth and exterminate the race who, five generations ago, killed every mage on their side of the Wall in the Kine Rebellion. To stop the infection spreading to our side of the Wall. I know I'm right. The curling smoke carried my father's dark emotions along with his words.

It's well past midnight when at last the flames in the chimney die down and I hear Benedict's footsteps pacing away towards his bedchamber. I replace the stone and re-harden the mortar, clumsy with exhaustion and distracted by the question ringing over and over in my head: what does my father
really
want with this Maker, with this boy whose fearful, angry face I can't forget?

I sleep badly and wake late. Cold water rinses away some of the tiredness. Ignoring the grumbling emptiness in my belly, I throw on my robes. No time for breakfast. I stumble across courtyard, blinking in the morning sunlight. Did last night happen? Did I dream the Maker boy with his sharp blue eyes and scarlet jerkin?

The lump on the back of my head aches in reply. Not a dream. But I don't have time to worry about Benedict's plans for the Maker now. I'm late for the Academy. First lesson is with Aluid. That's another demerit at the very least. I force myself into a trot. But before I've gone three strides I notice a Tribute, a small girl in a faded black tunic, pattering across the pavement. She runs up to me and makes her obeisance.

‘Please, Lady,' she pants, stumbling over the words in her nervousness. She can't be more than seven. Her hair is short and blonde, not long and dark, but still I feel my heart flinch. I draw myself up tall. I must look even more forbidding to the child, but I can't do anything about it. It hurts to look at her.

‘What is it?' I ask, smothering my impatience to be gone and trying to make my voice, at least, gentle.

‘Please, Lady, his Lordship the Archmage Benedict requires to see you.'

Panic.
‘Now? But I have lessons  … ' My voice trails away. At least Aluid won't be able to punish me for tardiness. But I would much much rather face him. Does Benedict know I was eavesdropping? Has he been waiting since last evening, allowing me to grow confident until he pounces? Is it even worse? Did Gerontius leave something incriminating behind after all?

I'm a spy. Fear is part of the air I breathe, but now I'm scared breathless.

‘Where is His Lordship?'

‘In his library, Lady.' She bends knee again and is off like a rabbit.

I stand staring at nothing for a full minute, until my mind unkinks and offers forth a thought:
If Benedict knew about your heresy, he would send adepts and guards, not a Tribute.

By the time I've climbed the stairs and paced down the corridor to the library, I'm breathing normally and my hands are steady. The guard opens the door as I approach and I enter the room without breaking stride. My father is alone, seated at his desk, looking through a sheaf of papers. He waves a hand at me, ordering me to wait. I stand as far away as I dare, my eyes – as always – searching out the paperweight.

‘Zara?'

I force my gaze up. Benedict is watching me. It takes all my control to keep my face blank.

‘Yes, Father?'

‘Gerontius.' His eyes never leave me.

I manage to stop my expression changing. Not the Maker then. Is that good or bad? My face feels like a leather mask. ‘Yes?' I ask.

‘He was one of your tutors?'

‘He taught most of us. I expect he taught you when you were my age.'
Careful!

Benedict ignores this with his typical single-mindedness. ‘What are the students saying about his disappearance?'

‘Just what you would expect.' I hear the contempt in my voice. Another mistake, but I can't seem to stop making them. My loss is still too raw. Anger beats back fear, making me reckless. ‘The gossip is that the old man found the path to eternal life.'

‘And you don't believe that Gerontius found the path?' He's paying attention now. ‘Or is it the existence of the path itself you doubt?' I'm skirting on the edge of heresy and we both know it. Sanity prevails and I choose my words carefully.

‘Gerontius was old and odd. Everyone knew he was eccentric. No – I don't believe he found anything other than Death.' I load my voice with so much scorn my father must surely notice my overacting. But he relaxes, leans back.

‘And that's all? Nothing more? No rumours of unusual  …  philosophies?'

I shake my head, frowning as though puzzled.

‘Did he have any special acolytes? Any students he seemed to favour?'

So this is it. My father sometimes questions me about my fellow students. He knows that the inevitable challenge, when it comes, will come from youth. A shiver runs through me, and a crazy desire to laugh. My father holds me in contempt – still thinks of me as the nine-year-old child who didn't have the strength to resist him. I wish I could see Benedict's face as I tell him
I
am Gerontius's acolyte – that someday I'll destroy him and avenge those he's taken from me.

‘No, Father,' I reply calmly. ‘Everyone made fun of Gerontius. It was disrespectful but hardly surprising. The old man was a bit of a joke. He should have retired years ago.'

Forgive me, old friend!

My father rises from his desk and walks to the shrine cupboard. He opens the door of pierced rosewood and studies the clock inside. It has been broken ever since I can remember. Every night I give thanks to Time that the shrine in my bedchamber still works. A shrine with a dead clock is uncanny.

‘This will soon be mended.'

‘I don't understand.' I've had years of practice at being a good liar.

‘I have brought a Maker to the city.'

‘A Maker!' Surprise is easy to pretend. Last night I saw the boy with my own eyes. This morning his presence in the palazzo seems as fantastic as if my father has announced that he has purchased a dragon and is keeping it in the courtyard to catch cockroaches.

‘He will repair all the shrines in the palazzo.'

‘But  …  a
Maker?
Did you capture him? What about –'

‘While he's here you are forbidden to be in his company or talk with him.'

‘Oh  … ' I feel my mouth fall open in dismay. Benedict never answers my questions. I'm lucky not to be reprimanded for insolent curiosity. I snap my mouth shut and shrug as though my father's command is of little interest to me. Again, I sense a dark current in Benedict's emotions. He hasn't told me the real reason the boy is here.

‘Yes, Father. As you say.'

‘That's all.' He bends over his work and I am dismissed.

I escape, but instead of continuing on to the Academy, I return to my room. I will have to risk playing truant for the rest of the morning. I need to get to the market and find the thief. I have news for Twiss. News for the Knowledge Seekers.