Кэтрин Фишер - Sapphique

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.

The track branched off and she saw how the troupe’s waggons had crushed snow here, how wisps of straw and a few feathers had fallen at the turn. Walking cautiously on she peered round the ice wall and saw that the road ended in a barrier of wood. On one side of it a plump woman sat knitting before a brazier of hot coals.

Was this their security?

Attia bit her lip. Tugging her hood closer down on her face, she trudged through the snow and saw the woman look up, hands knitting rhythmically.

‘Got any ket?’ Surprised, Attia shook her head.

Good. Need to see your weapons.’ She took out her knife and held it up. The woman dumped the knitting and took it, opened a chest and shoved it in. ‘Any more?’

‘No. So what do I defend myself with?’

‘No weapons in Frostia. Rules of the town. Need to search you now.’ Attia watched her bag being rummaged. Then she spread her arms and the woman frisked her efficiently and stepped away. ‘Fine. Go ahead.’ She picked up the knitting and clacked away.

Bewildered, Attia climbed over the frail barrier. Then she said, ‘Will I be safe?’

‘Plenty of empty rooms now’ The woman glanced up. ‘You can get a room at the second dome, if you ask.’ Attia turned away. She wanted to know if just one old woman had searched all of Rix’s waggons, but couldn’t ask, since she wasn’t supposed to know them. Still, just before she ducked into the dome entrance, she said, ‘Do I get the knife back when I leave?’ No one answered. She gazed back.

And stood still in astonishment.

The stool was empty. A pair of knitting needles clattered by themselves in midair. If one is lost, another will take his place.

Red wool trailed on the snow, like a bloodstain. ‘No one The Clan will endure until Protocol dies. leaves,' it said.