Tribute (6 page)

‘How dare you!' My outrage is only partly feigned. It is a capital offence for a kine to assault a mage. Physical contact without permission costs a hand. Otter's daring is more frightening even than the look in his eyes. There's only one explanation: my father has given his Guardian permission to touch me! My heart is racing and I feel sick. The need to get away from this man is overwhelming. I can't bear his closeness. ‘
Let go!
'

‘Not yet.' The light brown eyes staring into mine are cloaked once more but he's holding me too close. It's unnerving: his strength, the size of him. My blood pounds, my knees go weak. The sense of physical danger is overwhelming. Desperate, I reach for my magic.

‘I wouldn't, Zara.' His voice is as quiet and controlled as ever. ‘Not unless you want the Archmage involved.' His eyes are still locked on mine.

Unless  … 
? ‘Let go of me! You have no right –'

He pulls me inside the workroom. Kicks the door closed with his heel. Anger. I can't feel it – Otter's emotions remain as blocked off as ever, but there's no mistaking the body language. I've never seen the Guardian angry before. I didn't think it was possible. That alone keeps me from blasting him across the room. Just.

I glimpse Aidan's startled face. And the child, eyes wide in surprise and fear as he stares at me. Alarm grows in the Maker's eyes. I look away. I've compromised him. I'm supposed to save him, and now  … 

Otter releases one of my arms. It throbs. He's hurt me. I try to pull the other away, but he shakes his head. ‘Not until you tell me why you're here, Zara. Idle curiosity? Would you like to explain to your father why you're spying on us instead of attending your lessons at the Academy? I know you were forbidden to see the Maker. I don't think the Archmage would –'

‘
Father?
'

Oh gods. I look over Otter's shoulder and see understanding grow in Aidan's eyes. He stares at me. I see it in his face and feel it in his emotions: mistrust. Betrayal. My heart contracts with fear.

No, Aidan! Don't say anything! Please trust me! Don't  … 

‘Your father is the
Archmage
? You're Benedict's daughter?' Aidan shakes his head in outraged disbelief. Anger blazes across the room; I wince. But feeling his pain is far worse – he's hurting.

‘He
did
send you that night.' The Maker's voice drips contempt. I feel his anger slide into loathing. ‘I was right all along. Was it funny? Did you go tell Daddy and laugh about it afterwards? About how you fooled the stupid Maker? Is that how you demons get your jollies? Was it fun, tricking me into trusting you?
You lying, conniving bitch!
'

Aidan is physically shaking with the desire to hurt me in return. But he can't. He turns his back, goes to stand at the workbench arrayed with tools and a shrine clock awaiting his clever hands. If only he knew how much I am hurting already, he would be pleased. I open my mouth  … 

‘You broke into the
prison
?' The Guardian's voice isn't controlled anymore. His grip on my arm tightens painfully. ‘For a sweet little chat with a Maker? You
idiot
! Do you have any idea of the risk you took? How did you get in?'

I look from him to Aidan. The Maker stands with his back to us both. But he's listening. I feel his sense of betrayal. Of outrage. Worse: of hope sliding away and despair gathering.

‘My father didn't send me, Aidan. You can believe that or not.'

I look up into the Guardian's face.

The worst has happened. My father will find out about my night-time visit to the Maker's prison cell and the interrogation will begin. He invaded my mind once in order to catch me in a lie; I don't doubt he will do it again if I can't convince him that today's spying on the Maker – and my visit to his cell – were motivated by simple curiosity.

If.

I close my eyes as nausea sweeps over me at the memory of what he did to me that night. Sweat beads on my forehead, my upper lip. I swallow hard, struggling not to be sick.

Even if my father believes me to be merely disobedient, even if the secret of my heresy is safe for a while longer, the punishment for disobedience will be severe. At the very least I will be kept under constant watch for weeks and months. My usefulness to the Knowledge Seekers is finished.

‘Zara?'

I draw myself up. Lift my chin to look into the Guardian's face. ‘I'm sorry.' I choose my words with care. I have a slender chance. Do I?

Otter watches me, his face once more unreadable.

‘I was stupid,' I say. ‘I've heard about the Makers my entire life. I just wanted to see one. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Please  … '

This is so hard. I'm not used to pleading. And it's useless anyway. I don't know why I'm bothering – Otter belongs to my father, mind and soul. But I ask anyway: ‘Please, don't bother my father with this stupidity. He has important work to do and doesn't need to be distracted with this.'

‘I promise nothing, Lady.' Inscrutable formality. His hand relents at last and releases my arm. I feel another bruise throb into life and rub at it vaguely as I peer up at him, trying to read my fate. There is nothing in his face to give me hope.

‘A warning, Lady.' The Guardian's voice is cold certainty. ‘If you dare visit the prison at night again your father will find out. He will not be pleased. I suggest you hurry to attend your remaining lessons and think very long and carefully before you do anything quite so stupid again.'

I back away, slowly; unsteady on my feet. I don't know what, if anything, the Guardian has just offered, but every fibre of my being screams to be out of here, away from him. In the corner of my eye, I see Aidan turn around, surprise and confusion on his face. His eyes catch mine, then widen as he realises how close he came to betraying us both. Then, as that shock lessens, I feel his hope return.

I turn my back and run. Out of the attics, down the servants' stairs and out of the palazzo, my robes flapping behind me like broken wings. Terror of Benedict nips at my heels. But even in my fear, the image of the Maker comforting the Tribute boy is branded in my mind.

Don't hope, Maker! I'm useless now. I've failed you. Failed Swift. Failed the Tribute child who stood beside you, his huge grey eyes mournful as he gazed up at you, but still full of the hope that children never quite relinquish.

Nearly a week later and no summons has come. I've been a model student: arriving promptly at the Academy each morning, attending every lesson, paying attention to my tutors. Nights are spent half-awake, dread flaring at every noise or shift of light.

I haven't seen Otter since that day in the attics. I shudder at the thought of him. But he can't have told my father. If he had  …  but why has the Guardian kept silent? Unless Benedict knows. And is waiting. Waiting to catch me out. Waiting for me to visit the prison again.

Another week passes. I see Otter in the distance. Once, I catch a glimpse of Aidan being ferried to his workroom by a trio of guards, his apprentice trotting at his heels. I'm still too frightened to attempt to contact the Knowledge Seekers.

A third week and, as the spring sun grows warmer, my courage returns. No one seems to be watching me. I must act or give up on all my hopes and accept that I will never keep the promises I made to Swift and Aidan, or to myself. I visit the market, speak with Bruin. And am given my orders: I am to find a way to talk again with the Maker. But how? I can't risk another night-time trip to the prison. And Aidan is guarded in his workroom. And then I remember: there is one clock too big to be taken to the attics.

It's the time of the famine moon – a friendly time for spies. I sneak through pitch-dark corridors to my father's library and inspect his diary. Swift was right: Benedict notes down everything. In a few days' time, Aidan will start work on the Great Clock.

On the appointed day, I rise early and slip into the Council Chamber before dawn. The throne of the Archmage – made of ancient oak the colour of tar – sits in the base of the clock itself. Marble pillars either side soar upwards to support the round face of Time, golden and unsmiling. A single, enormous wrought iron hand marks the hours. The mechanism is powered by a bronze pendulum that hasn't moved for more than a generation.

The twelve seats of the Council face the throne, raised upon a semicircular dais. In between dais and throne, piercing the centre of the stone floor, is a circle of oak. I slide the oaken lid away and stare down into a pit, three feet wide and six deep, its curved walls lined with black marble.

The prisoner pit. Where unwise or unlucky mages end their days. Where those accused of sedition, treason or heresy stand as their crimes are read out and judgement passed. My mother must have stood down there, craning her neck to see the man she once loved condemn her to death.

How many decided to die fighting rather than submit to the inevitable? No mage, however powerful, has left this room alive after the sentence of death was passed upon them. My mother? Did she fight, or submit? I'll never know.

My stomach churns at the thought of what I must do now. I crouch down quickly, before I can change my mind, and lower myself inside. When my skin touches the cold marble, I cringe. Once I'm standing, heart banging against my ribs, staring up at the circle of light above me, I want to jump out at once. Instead, I reach up and drag the lid into place.

It clunks home and I feel a wave of panic sweep through my blood. I hate the dark as much as ever I did. But I'm not a child of nine any more. I need to speak to Aidan and find out if Benedict has talked to him again; told him the true purpose of the truce. My father would enjoy tormenting any hostage, but most especially a Maker.

The oak lid is cracked with age and, as my eyes adjust to the dark, I see thin lines of light raying overhead. It's cold in the pit and I'm shivering by the time I hear the door open and the murmur of voices. Feet tramp over the wooden cover and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stop a nervous squeak. I sense Aidan's presence, and the boy. No one else.

Ordinary Tributes keep watch over Aidan now – not Otter. Otherwise I wouldn't risk it. The Tributes will stay outside, guarding the door to the Council Chamber. The Maker must be the first kine in a generation to be allowed in this room.

I don't want to use magic and risk attracting the attention of a passing adept, so I slide the oak lid off inch by inch, grab the edge of the pit and struggle to haul myself up and out. Only my arms aren't strong enough and I slip and fall. The breath slams out of my body with an
oooff!
and I lie at the bottom of the pit gasping like a stranded fish.

When air returns to my lungs I wriggle upright, aware of a painful bump hatching on the back of my head. I give it a rub and look up to see Aidan standing over the pit, a large wooden mallet in one hand, ready to give me another lump on the head. He's frowning, mistrust battling hope in his face. I watch him make up his mind.

‘Want a hand?' He drops the mallet, grabs my wrist and pulls me out before I can answer. The toe of my boot catches on the lip of the pit and the Maker grabs my arms to keep me from falling. We stand face to face, our noses nearly touching, and I lose my breath for the second time in less than a minute. Then Aidan releases my shoulders and steps back.

‘I thought you were never coming again.' His whisper is harsh with accusation. ‘Or that you were just playing with me and you didn't mean it after all – promising to help me escape. You might not be working for your father, but you could still be having a bit of fun with the stupid Maker.'

‘I wouldn't do that.' I look at him until he drops his eyes. ‘It's almost impossible to get near you!' I'm still angry. ‘Especially after Otter found me in the attic. If you had said one more word – told him that I promised to help you escape  …  that I've talked to people in the city about you  … '

‘Sorry. But how was I to know? It looked bad and  … ' He frowns with embarrassment. Then gives me a sideways look and slow smile. His eyes are ridiculously blue. Aidan steps towards me, eyes holding mine, still smiling. He slowly raises his hand and runs a finger down the side of my face. My legs seem to melt. ‘Forgive me?' The smile warms. Everything warms. I start to step back, remember the pit just in time and lurch sideways.

‘It doesn't matter now!' I snap. ‘Forget it. But I have to be careful. If I get caught I'm no use to you or anyone else. I know it's hard, but you have to trust me!'

‘I don't trust anyone. You should have told me who you were when we first met.' His face grows stony again, almost sullen.

‘Oh!' I stare at him. I've never met anyone so obstinate! ‘I tell you I'm Benedict's daughter, and you instantly trust me. Right! That was never going to happen. And try to realise that the more I tell you, the more we're both at risk. I don't even know that you're worth any of it, Aidan of Gengst!'

‘Want to find out?' His eyes sparkle wickedly. They travel over my face, my hair, my body. I feel myself blushing. ‘You look different in daylight. Prettier.' The corners of his mouth lift in another beguiling smile.

I give him look for look, noticing the soft-straw colour of his clean hair, the shape of his mouth without the blood and swelling, the thin white scar that runs from under his fringe and divides a sandy eyebrow, a scar previously hidden beneath a layer of dirt. I raise my chin, pleased I'm as tall as he is. ‘And you don't stink any more.'

Aidan's eyes grow light; he laughs.

‘I have news,' I say. ‘The people I told you about – the ones who can help. They've agreed to try and get you out of here.'

‘When?'

‘I can't tell you that. We're working on a plan. Be patient. Keep doing your work and don't attract the Archmage's attention!'

The shutters come down again. His face is thundery. ‘I'm doing the work. For the kid's sake. But as little as I can get away with. Look, Zara, I don't know how long I can keep this up. You need to get me out of here quick or I'll find my own way!' It's a threat. An empty one, but he doesn't know that. I can feel his outraged pride. His frustration. He's bubbling away like a pot about to boil over.

And I finally lose patience. ‘Look!' I reach out and grab his arm, shake it. ‘I'm risking
everything
to help you! And what's the point, if after all this you're going to do something stupid and get yourself killed? You might spare a thought for the people who've agreed to help you. They're gambling their lives and those of their families.'

He frowns, but he doesn't draw away. ‘That's fair,' he says slowly. The frown fades. Aidan carries on peering into my face as though someone has given him a problem to solve and he's determined to find the solution.

I can't pull my gaze away. Something stirs in the depths of his eyes – surprise. A growing wonder. A strange feeling warms the pit of my stomach. I jerk my hand away from his arm and step back, heart thudding.

I sense someone watching us and turn to see Aidan's apprentice. The child stares at me, huge grey eyes solemn beneath his shock of white-blond hair. He's reed-thin and his hair so bushy that he looks like a dandelion clock waiting for its seeds to be scattered on the wind. He suddenly smiles and shyly tilts his head. It's like he's waiting for me to say something amazing.

‘Hello.' Hardly amazing, but all I can manage. ‘What's your name?'

‘He can't tell you.' Aidan goes to the child, smiles down at him and ruffles his hair. ‘He's my little chick. He's a good boy, but he can't talk. Or won't.' The Maker glances up at me, his face suddenly serious. ‘Something's happened to him.'

‘What? Worse than being a Tribute?'

Aidan shrugs. ‘I only know I'm to train him up as my apprentice. And he's a clever little chicken, this one. Here, lad.' The Maker tugs a slender tube of wood out of his pocket – a simple flute. The child takes it with careful fingers, obviously delighted. ‘Go on. Sit over there and practise the song I taught you. I'll come join you in a minute. I need to talk some more to this lady.'

The boy gives me an enquiring look. I sense he expects something more from me, so I smile and nod in encouragement. His gaze lingers a moment longer, then he scurries over to sit on one of the wooden scaffolding planks, puts the flute to his mouth and begins to blow. Soft, reedy notes – almost a tune – rise into the air.

‘I made it for him,' Aidan says, turning back to me. ‘I thought, if he could make music then at least he'd have some way of expressing how he's feeling. Poor little sod. I don't know what your people have done to him but  … ' He breaks off and watches the child. ‘You know. There was something that bastard Otter said  …  I never thought about them before. The Tribute army, I mean. All those kids dying on the Wall. We kill them. Have done for generations. And  …  I just never thought about who they were.'

The flute's voice floats on the chill air, higher and higher, until it touches the stone roof arches. I think of my mother. This room has heard weeping, pleading, screams, the silence of dumbstruck horror. But never music. It feels like a splinter of black marble from the pit is pushing into my heart. Something is happening to me.

I feel Aidan's desire to save the boy  …  his anger. Anger at Otter, at Benedict, at himself. And I remember two small girls, each sworn to protect the other. One dead; one alive but forsworn.

Aidan looks up and catches my eye.

I know what he wants, and the heavy pain grows in my chest. Suddenly, I'm afraid. It's an old, familiar enemy, this fear – one I thought I'd never face again after Gerontius died. But it seems I am beyond stupid. I have allowed myself to care for the Maker.
What have I done?
I don't want this again – this fear of loss. But it's too late.

‘You all right?' The Maker frowns at me. ‘You look a bit off. Did you bump your head bad?'

‘No  …  no, I'm fine.'

‘I
am
grateful.' His voice is hesitant – I don't think he's used to apologising. A few minutes ago I would have found the pained expression on his face funny. ‘And I'm very grateful to you and these mysterious people who are going to get me out of here. But I can't leave without the boy.' The Maker's eyes fasten on the child.

‘Yes  …  I know. He'll go with you. I promise.'

He reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers wrap round my palm, warm, callused, strong. He leads me to the scaffold plank and we down sit side by side, looking at each other.
Time's grace!
I don't need this now – this emotion and the fear it brings.
I don't want it!

Aidan smiles. His eyes grow warm, almost gentle, and I forget to be afraid. I reach up a finger and trace the scar that slices through his left eyebrow. ‘How did you get that?'

‘Fighting.' He shrugs. ‘You know  …  you get a bit drunk and stuff happens. Someone hit me in the face with a beer bottle.'

‘That's not a new scar. Weren't you a bit young to go drinking and fighting? Don't your parents mind?'

‘My father doesn't care what I want, so why should I care about what he wants?' An old anger, an old hurt.

‘And your mother?'

His face softens. ‘She tries to understand. But it's hard on her, yeah. And now  … ' His eyes darken with misery. ‘When they came for me they gave her poppy juice. Locked her in her room. I never even got to say goodbye.
Bastards!
'

‘I'm sorry.'

He nods. ‘It'll be all right. You're going to get me back home.'

Reluctantly, I say: ‘I need to hide again. But we must find out why Benedict has pretended to make peace with your people. Have you seen him again?'

The Maker nods. He swallows twice, quickly. ‘Three days ago.' For the first time ever I see real fear in his eyes. The sight of it makes me feel ill.

‘Did he say anything  …  give any hint about what he's planning?'

Aidan shakes his head. His lips are pressed together.

‘Then all you can do is to keep your ears open and wait. The Knowledge Seekers will find a way to get you out of here.'